tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71553523407456148162024-03-21T12:15:54.163-06:00To See in All Directions at the Same TimeKatie Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09580217005694958080noreply@blogger.comBlogger69125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7155352340745614816.post-89878142470318752302015-10-04T20:18:00.000-06:002015-10-04T20:28:28.424-06:00Three Years<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1OXDkf0e8MJN6QrVGkE7dhOSckCMxEA0U1RaEs2BHDRCpcZoZ4_u15Rq2mdtHXPwII1n3lMwS652SbiSP3gaMoOmBlMOBAtsiDRJVA5Lt7HXKTUv5E3H06orj9PIsf4TU6l7eTGHeEnOc/s1600/Kodak+Gold+100+Canon+%25280%2529+%2523B-167.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1OXDkf0e8MJN6QrVGkE7dhOSckCMxEA0U1RaEs2BHDRCpcZoZ4_u15Rq2mdtHXPwII1n3lMwS652SbiSP3gaMoOmBlMOBAtsiDRJVA5Lt7HXKTUv5E3H06orj9PIsf4TU6l7eTGHeEnOc/s640/Kodak+Gold+100+Canon+%25280%2529+%2523B-167.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo By <a href="http://carolinalindsay.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Carolina Lindsay Photography</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
There is something between us:<br />
A weighty thing; palpable—drawing on our center like gravity<br />
into the loop of an orbit.<br />
Orbits look lazy from afar, but they are manic—the threat of being flung off,<br />
into eternity—boundless vast.<br />
<br />
But I am not afraid.<br />
I have seen eternity, darling; and it looks like you.Katie Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09580217005694958080noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7155352340745614816.post-45572764949593764702013-10-06T22:41:00.002-06:002013-10-06T22:46:18.681-06:00Thoughts on Anniversary WeekendI've been thinking a lot lately, about life--the diversity, depth, transcendence and oftentimes meaninglessness of the every-day. The heart-rending, and the yawn-drawing and the soul-destroying and the sleep-inducing-ness of it all, and I'm humbled, and in an awe near desperation for deeper understanding.<br />
<br />
Somewhere in the world, someone has just won a contest, and someone has lost an earring. Somewhere in the world, someone's home has just burned to the ground because of a lazy mistake, and someone else has just been handed the keys to their first real grown-up apartment. Somewhere in the world, someone has just found out that they were expecting after years of trying and trying, and someone else has lost their favorite dog to a careless driver. <br />
<br />
There is someone, out there, right now who is wondering why they can't seem to find anyone who shares their values, and someone whose friends have just surprised them with a birthday lunch. Somewhere someone is writing a letter of gratitude to a friend, while another is receiving a medical bill they'll never be able to pay.<br />
<br />
Somewhere in the world is Manhattan, and there are people in the streets, and people in the penthouses, and people in the taxis and the shopping malls and the fire and police stations. Many people are working, and some are just thinking, and some are trying not to think. They're doing the same thing in Tulsa Oklahoma, and in Thailand and Malaysia.<br />
<br />
Somewhere in the world are you and me, and we're ordering a pizza and watching Season 9 of The Office on Netflix, because they finally got it up there on October 1st, and we were too cheap to see it any other way. Somewhere in the world you're telling me that I'm perfect even though my hair is greasy, my jeans are too tight, and I'm wearing one of your T-shirts that you are supposed to wear to work, but you don't because it's hideous. Somewhere in the world you're good enough for me, and I'm good enough for you, and I'm asking you to find my wedding ring because I've (somewhat ironically) lost it, right here and now on our anniversary. We're at home instead of going out because somewhere in the world somewhere could be dying, and when they do, someone could call us and you'd have to leave. <br />
<br />
Thankfully that doesn't happen. <br />
<br />
Somewhere in the world someone is dying, but it's not here, and it's not now, and it's not us. <br />
<br />
No, we're not dying. We're living--living, breathing, eating pizza and watching Netflix, and it's more than OK. <br />
<br />
It's more or less perfect.Katie Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09580217005694958080noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7155352340745614816.post-68527357709908336902013-08-23T22:14:00.000-06:002013-08-23T22:14:00.406-06:00Writing ExercisesHusby suggested tonight that we play a game, aka: do our writing exercises. We do this sometimes, to pass the time while still feeling productive. We'll find writing prompts, and we each take a computer and write according to the prompt. <br />
<br />
I won't tell you what the prompt was for this four-part series, just enjoy if you like. I should practice writing fiction more often, I can just never get myself to form an actual coherent story. I'm much better at snippets; therefore, I rather like how these turned out. . .<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 18pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She had heard something once, about the difference between a single point and two points. The single point can have an infinite number of different lines stretching between that point and oblivion, but two points can have only one line drawn between them. Reading this was like living that principle in verbal motion; each of those words created a point, and between them, only one line--one steady line, forming an idea. Someone else’s words, and the picture was so clear, almost painfully so. She felt the familiar discomfort that comes from clarity, because it’s infinitely easier to throw one's hands in the air and say, “I don’t know”. There is too much responsibility in knowing.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 18pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Funny, really, that the abstraction of poetry could ring so clearly in her mind as she read:</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 18pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I know that each one of us travels to love alone,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 18pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">alone to faith and to death.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 18pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I know it. I’ve tried it. It doesn’t help.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 18pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Let me come with you.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 18pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was no longer a matter of whether or not she would go, or even why she would go, only how. How to make someone else understand what is so clear to your own mind, to your own intellect, and how to make yourself understand how that part of you, that belongs so solely to you, how it can be carved so deeply by the hand of someone else. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 18pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 18pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The dishes clattered as each course was passed, ceremoniously, around the oblong table. Even the baby knew better than to make a mess, or a sound. The only sound could be, then, the television. I guess we left it on for comfort, to remember the old idiom that there is always someone out there who has it worse than you. Always. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 18pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dead words, about the dead, came from dead lips, painted the deadest kind of pink--one that could not commit to being red, </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 18pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After months of investigating, police are beginning to acknowledge that the shooting may have been nothing more than a random act of violence, without the political motivations previously suspected . . .</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 18pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Strange that there was any comfort in those words, anything to take our minds off of the clattering of the dishes, and the nothingness that otherwise filled the spaces devoid of metal on porcelain and crystal glass. Someone always had it </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">better</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> than us, because somethingess had to be better than nothingness. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 18pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 18pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You don’t have to sound so bitter about it!” Emery scoffed. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 18pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She scoffs. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 18pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I’m . . . not bitter. I’m just saying, she could do things . . ” and I had to pause, because it’s one of those moments where you know you’re about to say something that shows your hand, and the only thing you can do is laugh at yourself before you get laughed at. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 18pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I’m just saying she could do things more like I do them.” Though it took me a while to get the words out between the grins and the giggles, plastered there to cover up the disappointment in myself; the disappointment that I couldn’t see past this strange sense of competition I felt whenever I thought of her. I turn away, effectively ending the conversation, but I do so out of a different motivation, so that Emery couldn’t see the flash of, “well she started it” that was about to cross my eyes. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 18pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 18pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Political motivations! Everything in life is personally motivated; everything else is just a coverup! When will people ever learn that?!”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 18pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The drunken man’s declaration was unwarranted, and filled the entire bar without difficulty. The handful of people who </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">had</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> been watching the T.V. now seemed ashamed of being even referentially associated with the loud-mouth, and looked down instinctively. The evening was a competition, to see who could be the most silent, the most unemployed, and I sat and watched it all with interest.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 18pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The man whose eyes darted about, as though sure of encountering a bar-room swindler in any one of the dark corners; the short blonde who’d obviously had enough, surreptitiously scribbling her number on a stained napkin for the benefit of the man who was seeking no benefit; the couple with their backs to everyone, wondering what brings them here when they could be at home; and the man in the doorway, deciding whether or not to step out for another light. </span></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid--c2c276b-ae8f-6d42-f75a-75000024714f"></span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 18pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It wasn’t merely a question of whether or not someone would connect the dots, drawing us all together, but who? And it might as well be me. Somehow, I could see it all for what it was: a parade of the absurdists, each of us trying to avoid the eyes of one another, not because of the television, not because of the loud-mouth, not even because of the alcohol on everyone’s breath, only because we should not be there--we </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">could</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> not be there. Each of us had something we were supposed to be doing, and taking on the additional burden of anyone else’s failed dreams was too great a task, so we drank alone. Even those who were with someone drank alone, because in so many ways, it was the only option, considering the current state of affairs. It had to be done. </span></div>
Katie Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09580217005694958080noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7155352340745614816.post-16924544959597436802013-06-18T22:43:00.001-06:002013-06-18T22:43:22.538-06:00Food For Thought . . . Because We ALL Need to EatOk. Here goes. It has been a great deal of time since I last wrote, and for that, I apologize. <br />
<br />
Now that I've got that over with, time for the soap box. I will not beat around the bush, I will come right out and say it: skinny women have feelings too.<br />
<br />
I know, it's hard to believe. I know that it will come as a shock to many, but it is the truth. Pure and simple, and I will not lie about it. *winking frantically (seizure emmenant)*<br />
<br />
This is honestly something I've been planning on writing about for awhile, not because I think my thoughts are going to change the world, or ensure that people stop making inappropriate comments about weight; because, well, frankly, they won't (we're all just human, anyway). I just think it's an interesting phenomenon, and I want to write about it.<br />
<br />
That being said, I don't feel like I need an explanation from anyone about "why" people think that they can say whatever they want to a person about their body, as long as they're "skinny" (if this is somehow news to you, society pretty much tells us a lot of weird things and gives us very strange criteria for judging others--yep, got it. That conversation is OLD news) but isn't it weird, just how hard it can be to see how easily we can hurt others by saying things without thinking them through first?<br />
<br />
I have always been thin. It's just ME, a part of the way my body works and runs. Capisce?<br />
<br />
But here's a scenario (one that has happened to me countless times).<br />
<br />
I am in a group of women, talking, and somehow weight gets brought up. I immediately fall as dead silent as possible and do everything I can to avoid brining attention to myself. It does no good. Inevitably, no matter how quiet and unobtrusive I am, someone turns to me and says, "Well, you don't even know what we're talking about. You don't even need to watch what you eat, or exercise."<br />
<br />
Say WHAT?!?!?!!!???!! My doctor has TOTALLY been lying to me! He keeps saying I need to watch what I eat an exercise, but it turns out-- I DON'T?!?! Gee, aren't I lucky? (Someone should be whistling the tune to The Andy Griffith Show in the background of this paragraph.)<br />
<br />
Ok, how dumb is that? Of COURSE I need to watch what I eat an exercise. I am a PERSON! People need to do those things in order to be healthy physically and mentally. End of story.<br />
<br />
I will say that I'm not necessarily OFFENDED by these comments (I don't really consider myself to be one that offends easily--if you know me and disagree, sorry?) as much as they just . . . make me feel awkward, and not good enough, and like I don't fit in. Sound like someone else? Oh yeah, everyone. Human beings will always find a way to make others feel that they don't fit in, the method can just be more subtle sometimes.<br />
<br />
I was recently at an event with other women when the conversation arose concerning a relative of one of the women (the conversation got started because someone was telling me that I needed to eat more than I was, for whatever reason) who is thin but eats a lot. The words, "It's disgusting" were worked into the conversation, as well as the phrase, "She's one of those people where you just want to say, 'Do you even exist?'"<br />
<br />
Weeeerrrrrrrgggggggghhhhh KRNK! *car crash-type noises* <i>"Do you even <b>exist</b>?"</i><br />
<br />
Cue me awkwardly laughing and looking down, hoping the subject will change (though actually being kind of glad that those words were said when the issue was on my mind, because it was an interesting specimen of a conversation for this post.)<br />
<br />
The conversation didn't offend me. It just made me feel sad, and awkward, and like I didn't fit in, or needed to change somehow to be more like others. That's really lame that people have been taught over and over again that it's OK to say things like that, as long as it's a reference to someone being skinny.<br />
<br />
I have a dream . . . that one day it won't even be necessary to make any social-setting comments whatsoever on weight because we'll all just be OK with who we are personally, and we won't really have the time or energy to worry about how other people look or what they do or eat. Maybe one day. <br />
<br />Katie Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09580217005694958080noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7155352340745614816.post-22193898953891464372013-01-26T18:26:00.001-07:002013-01-26T18:28:12.685-07:00IntermentI was just going through my "drafts" folder on Blogger, and found this old gem. It never quite made its way to being posted. Better late than never.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
We knew there'd be ups and downs, working at a mortuary. The moment the idea came up, we thought, "cool!" . . . the next moment, "really?". "Why not?" . . . and "Why should we?". We took it. <br />
<br />
Fast forward to this morning at 5:30, phone rings. Again at, I don't know, maybe 7:00. Again at 9:00-- I take the call, you are still out. You barely get back in time for church, or so we think. The phone rings again. That call shouldn't take long, only there's been some confusion, so we miss half of the primary program we'd so been looking forward to.<br />
<br />
Church is over, but because there is a viewing in the mortuary, we have to cut our usual Sunday Afternoon snack-time routine short, and you head over there. Fast forward an hour or so and I am on the couch, eating a tub of pre-prepared cookie dough, and watching <em>Sabrina, </em>the one with Audrey Hepburn in it. We both love Audrey dearly, but agree that the newer version is better film-making overall. What difference? You're not there anyway. <br />
<br />
Time trips on. You call toward the end of my second Hepburn film to say that you have to drive down to Salt Lake after everyone leaves the viewing. You've not eaten in many hours, and ask me to bring you something. So I trudge out into the rain, toting a sandwhich in a honey-smudged plastic baggie. It was the best I could do, I reason. You're just grateful for something other than a bowl of mints to snack on.<br />
<br />
On the desk in the office is a clipped-out article about the rush on Hostess products as soon as the bankrupcy and bakery shut-down was announced. You sit across from me, wearing an ill-fitting suit, and eating the sandwhich.<br />
<br />
"We'll have to tell our kids one day. . . about Twinkies."<br />
<br />
You laugh. You think I'm joking.<br />
<br />
"I mean it. I don't know why, but we'll have to tell them." <em>It will have to mean </em>something, I finish saying in my mind. <br />
<br />
"Twinkies. They've just always been there. Ubiquitious, gratuitous, there in our lunch boxes. Well, I never had a lunch box, and therefore, never had a Twinkie in one. But had I had a lunchbox, I'm sure there'd have been a Twinkie."<br />
<br />
You're still eating your sandwhich.<br />
<br />
"And we should have bought <em>Wonder</em> bread while we had the chance. Stone-Ground Hazlenut?! What were we thinking?!" I'm staring now at your sanwhich. I think you're agreeing. <br />
<br />
It was that Modernism. The belief in the man-made. Had they made an organic Twinkie, they probably could have survived. But people are losing faith in the man-made. Call it post-modernism, call it a swinging pendullum, call it common-sense, I don't care. There's been a death in the human family, and I can't let it go. I know I should have bought a box while I had the chance, and now they're going for $100.00 on Ebay, or so reads the paper. <br />
<br />
I don't have 100 CENTS to put toward it. I set the paper down. <br />
<br />
You've since walked out to help the family start to clean up, it is past 8:00 and you're anxious to go down to Salt Lake so that you can get back at a decent hour. <br />
<br />
I sit and stare, stare at that paper and the recently published obituary and a death certificate. This woman had not been old. Out in the hallway, another group of women are huddling together. They're crying, mourning a loss. A loss I can't begin to understand.<br />
<br />
I'm thinking about the Twinkies. I think I can understand that.<br />
<br />
I think.Katie Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09580217005694958080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7155352340745614816.post-26844495908528068752012-10-16T13:44:00.000-06:002012-10-16T13:44:10.191-06:00"Reader, I Married Him""Reader, I married him."<br />
<br />
And so, it begins. This beautiful little journey of ours. <br />
<br />
Out of the first 10 days of our marriage, I was sick for about 7 of them. But all I can feel for that is grateful, because I have someone there to take care of me and rub my tummy and scoldingly tell it to "be-have".<br />
<br />
Last night I spent several hours making dinner, cleaning the kitchen, grocery shopping, cleaning our bedroom, vacuuming the carpet... and it was the most win-win situation ever, because I thought it was a domestic blast, and JD thought I was the best wife in the history of wives, which, he is more than welcome to think that if he wants, even if he's wrong. <br />
<br />
Our wedding day was... blurry. I was sick, of course, and could hardly walk, I ended up with more to do right at the end than I'd planned on, and wanted to kick myself for that. Then I was late to the temple, when I'd promised myself I would not be. JD was pacing when I got there, later, he said not because he was worried that I was late, but just because "I was getting married." Every groom needs a few minutes to do an I'm-getting-married pace. I completely respect that. <br />
<br />
The ceremony blew my mind. If you have never been to a temple sealing, just trust me on it. I was completely blown away, and further evidenced in the sealer's having told JD just after "take her to a sealing soon. She was so into you, I don't think she heard a thing I said there at the end." <br />
<br />
Guilty as charged.<br />
<br />
JD ended up with a bloody nose just as I was ready to exit those doors with him, so I had to wait. I think that was the most nervous I felt all day. We were already married, but I was waiting, and hoping that he was OK. And does a woman ever forget the look on his face when he first sees her in her wedding dress? I hope I never do. There should be a natural safeguard against that, a special spot in my heart where that is written, not to be soon set aside.<br />
<br />
Taking photographs in the late afternoon sun, over at "Walden", trying to take it all in, even though I know that is not even possible.<br />
<br />
The reception was a dream. It was perfect. Having so many people who have touched your life, walking into that room, and the feeling of overwhelming gratitude. It is indescribable. Other things went wrong, but they ironed out. Things always work out. That is what I told JD's Stake President the Sunday before the wedding. He said that if I really believed and lived that, then I pretty much had life figured out.<br />
<br />
And I've been thinking about that lately. Having things figured out. It is a cliche that brand-spanking-newly weds always think they have it all figured out. <br />
<br />
But don't they, in a way? That pull that the newness gives us to be tender, to be kind and loving and understanding always. That pull doesn't last forever, but if we listen to it, it is teaching us something. If we listen to it, it is saying,<br />
<br />
<i>Being kind and loving and understanding always will not come easy for long, at some point it will become a decision, no longer automatic. Until you have decided long enough that it becomes automatic again. Be kind. Be loving. Be understanding always. Things will work out.</i><br />
<br />
So, with an eye looking forward to many more mornings of "I know it's way out of your way, but I left those important assignments on the table, can you bring them by the store for me on your way to work?" and evenings of "I had to leave the staff meeting early, because my wife was sick" I will get back to life. Real life, though it doesn't feel completely real yet. I will make it so. It will be so, and I will live every last drop.Katie Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09580217005694958080noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7155352340745614816.post-7878184601729743772012-09-20T21:56:00.002-06:002012-09-20T22:00:47.325-06:00Because I'll Want to Read This LaterStart.<br />
<br />
Stop.<br />
<br />
Start again.<br />
<br />
Always starting again.<br />
<br />
I told JD tonight that this was not the time to be bothering to change our lives. Our lives are going to change themselves two weeks from today. Exactly two weeks.<br />
<br />
The mental list:<br />
<br />
Clean room<br />
Pack stuff<br />
Paint apartment (more and more)<br />
Find more furniture<br />
Make more money<br />
Eat more healthy (aka eat less carbs)<br />
Write in my journal<br />
Read my scriptures more intently<br />
Pray more intently<br />
Do pretty much everything in my life more intently<br />
Finish the video projects I am WAY overdue on<br />
Renew my driver's license that expired over 2 months ago (don't read if you're a cop) <br />
Be a good employee again who isn't constantly stressing about outside-of-work things<br />
Get the car repaired<br />
<br />
This list doesn't even include anything from the wedding to-dos (callcaterer.visitreceptioncenterandsetuparrangement.meetwithdecorator.findstaffandcrewfordecorator.<br />
finishdecorations.gotofamilyshower.gotofriendshower.gothroughthetemple.buygarments.<br />
buyamillionmorethingswithnomoney.finishdressandveil....blahblahblahblahblah...) That is an entirely different story.<br />
<br />
But the one thing on my list that has finally boiled to the top? Writing. Writing anything. Why? Because I'll want to read it later. Two years from now, I'll look back and wonder, "why can't I remember anything about the weeks leading up to my wedding?" And then I'll say to myself, "oh yeah. I was a total stress-case and never took the time to just sit. Just breath. Just be."<br />
<br />
So here I am. Sitting. Breathing. Being.<br />
<br />
Being.<br />
<br />
This may not be the time to change my life. I may be in "bare survival mode" for a reason. Perhaps it comes with the territory. Rephrase. Perhaps, for people like me, it comes with the territory.<br />
<br />
But I want to write this to my future self, to remember myself by.<br />
<br />
<i>Self, </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I want you to remember that the weeks leading up to the wedding got really hard. There was a lot to do and no time or money. You felt like you spent all of your time at work, and when you weren't there, you were at home wishing that you had the money and energy to do everything you needed to do to get ready. JD was hard at work with school, the store, and the mortuary. You were crying one the phone to him on a regular basis because of the daily mental break-downs. But remember this:</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Remember the time JD held you for hours, massaging your back at intervals because your stomach hurt so bad you couldn't think straight.</i><br />
<i><br />Remember the time Mr. and Mrs. Clean *wink* came to your apartment all the way from Spanish Fork to help you paint.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Remember the time the CFO at work reminded you that "family is first" and told you to stop feeling bad that you'd had a lot of wedding stuff to attend to; then gave you a dinosaur chewable-vitamin out of his desk and told you that you should ask for a raise sometime. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Remember the time that "Ambs" and you struck up the inside joke about "Despi" who "drives to Layton from anywhere in the world." and you couldn't stop laughing about it even though no one understood what you were talking about.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Remember the time that JD got sick, and you were able to hold his head in your lap and play with his hair, watching episodes of "The Andy Griffith Show" to help you both get through.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Remember Mom driving perilously in the middle of the night to come help with the invites that were way more complicated than you should have ever let them get. But you still don't regret them, because you love how they turned out.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Remember Cinni's beautiful photography, and how you were in love with her creative "butt-picture" with the picnic basket and almost used it in the announcements, until you remembered that everyone would judge you if you did that, and probably rightly-so. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Remember everyone who came together to throw and attend bridal showers, and how JD's grandmother gave you cut-glass dishes that had belonged to her mother.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Remember everyone. Remember everything. Somehow save all of these little memories away: the melted wedding veil, the overnight shipping charge for the announcement envelopes, the beautiful ring sitting in the box waiting for JD's hand (and the time that you proposed to him with it, in the kitchen, just to be silly, and he jumped up and down and begged for a closer look), the small bunch of dishes by the door that needs to make its way downstairs for a washing, the feeling of pure euphoria when your best friend sent you her flight itinerary that meant that she was going to be able to make it to the wedding from OH, the piles of antiques and vintage items (collected on date-nights and random DI outings with sister) stacked on the table in the corner of the bedroom, the plethora of scaffolding on the Timpanogos temple (and how the two of you decided to pretend that the temple was being built especially for your wedding, and somehow wasn't going to be complete, but you're so in love you're moving forward anyway), the lunches on Fridays stolen away at Taste of India with Will and anyone else who wants to come and the waitresses there who practically are your best friends by now, the feeling of anticipation, the fear of blowing everything but wanting to move forward anyway, the knowledge that you and JD have everything you need to be brilliant, to make life into what you want it to be.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Remember all of these things. </i><br />
<br />
<i>This is real life.</i><i> </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>This is water. </i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>This is love.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i> ~Me.</i><br />
<br />Katie Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09580217005694958080noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7155352340745614816.post-86009220999489834952012-08-03T00:37:00.002-06:002012-08-03T00:37:38.353-06:00"It Will Be Different Once We Paint"First comes the uncertainty of knowing whether or not to move forward. Then the euphoria hits, the type that comes revved with a sense of progression once you've decide to take the plunge. Then comes my favorite part: the rock bottom of the decision. You know what I mean, the part where you're staring blankly at an almost-empty 2 bedroom apartment, surrounded by a few boxes and an old wooden rocking chair left by the previous tenants (along with some sticky walls and more than a few dust bunnies), praying the phone doesn't ring, and muttering to yourself, "what were we thinking? Really. What were we thinking?"<br />
<br />
It's times like those that bring me back to writing publicly. It's feelings like that which have to find a published voice, even if only to a handful or two of readers. <br />
<br />
Neither of us could get the stove to light, so we ordered in sandwiches, Jimmy Johns. You even said "that was fast" when they rang the doorbell, just like in the commercials. But the whole time I felt like we were playing a really bad game of "house". Like, the kind where, were I a child and at liberty to say such things, I would say, <br />
<br />
"No, no, no. Forget all of that. I don't like that. Let's pretend that we're already married, and we live in a studio apartment in Seattle, and we both have artsy, work-from-home jobs that let us be together a lot, but we're also both working on graduate work so that we can both be professors. Whose idea was it that we live in a too-big-for-us/million-year-old/half-corroding apartment right next to a mortuary at which we're employed? That was the worst 'house' set-up ever. Oh, and the part where we don't get married for two more months? Yeah, that's GOT to go."<br />
<br />
Of course, changing the set-up isn't quite so easy as all that. So, I find solace in someone's else's experiences (fictional though they may be) and repeat to myself some wise words from David Levithan's <i>Lover's Dictionary: </i>"It will be different once we paint. It will be different once we put things on the walls."<br />
<br />
Then the phone rings. It's the hospital. Someone's died and you have to go. <br />
<br />
<i>Is this really going to be our lives for the next two years?</i><br />
<br />
<i>"It will be different once we paint. It will be different once we put things on the walls."</i><i> </i><br />
<br />
<br />Katie Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09580217005694958080noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7155352340745614816.post-23724895730001396722012-05-16T21:56:00.003-06:002013-03-09T11:06:44.291-07:00Earthen<style>
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<b><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Earthen, </span></b><i><span style="font-size: 10pt;">adj.</span></i><b><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">To the flight and fancy,
there is nothing more offensive than the earthen. They pale at one glimpse of reality. The flight and the fancy cannot be
grounded—their refusal to exist outside of a corruptible moment makes them incongruent
with daily living. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">To
live, to love, one has to embrace the earth: the wooded, the hilled—the mottled
and the pockmarked. One has to glory in
the reality, in the substantiated, the frailty, the strength, the balance. To love in mortality is to know the earth, in
all that it is. Not in spite, but
because. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">“</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Glory be to God for dappled things,</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">” the poet said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">I
will echo.</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 0px; padding-bottom: 2px;">
</div>
Katie Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09580217005694958080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7155352340745614816.post-35771442969148472302012-05-03T22:08:00.002-06:002012-06-08T10:04:52.059-06:00Beauty and TruthMy dear friend over at <a href="http://www.loragradyphotography.com/blog/">Lora Grady Photography</a> recently mentioned that she wanted my help in starting a Facebook group for women photographers/videographers/artists/business owners to support one another, throw around ideas, and share our work.<br />
<br />
I want to say right up front that I have hardly done a thing, and that Lora has spear-headed this project from its inception. I did, however, help her to think of a name for the group. It wasn't until we were at the bridal fair a few weeks back, connecting with brides in the area, and speaking with another photographer in the group, that I realized I had never really explained where I got the name "Beauty and Truth". I thought it would make an appropriate post on this blog, as it is something I think about on a regular basis.<br />
<br />
In fact, I've mentioned it before.<br />
But I'll mention it again, and be very clear.<br />
<br />
This earth is brimming with beauty. Exploding with beauty. Bursting at the seams and tumbling out with beauty. There is so much beauty, at times our souls cannot hold it all, so we pull some of it back out of ourselves, package it up as we like, and call it our art.<br />
In sharing it, we let something so personal (the way we perceive the beauty in the world) react with the perceptions of others, and something miraculous starts to happen... lights go on and the understanding is enlightened, even if it is in ways that no one can explain.<br />
<br />
The words "Beauty and Truth" belong to the typical vernacular. People know these words. Philosophers, in particular, those that take an interested in the topic of Art Philosophy, have often discussed at length if art is primarily a vehicle of truth, or a vehicle of beauty.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure why they never stopped to consider that the two are the same thing.<br />
<br />
John Keats, the English Romantic Poet, was a brilliant artist. That he died at the premature age of 25 is, in my opinion, one of the greatest tragedies in the history of the poetic world. But when he died, he left behind a small collection of works that have haunted me all of my adult life.<br />
<br />
One of my favorites, <i>Ode on a Grecian Urn </i>is written from the perspective of one who is examining a decorative urn, likely in a museum, and musing over its beauties. At the end of the poem, Keats issues the following, powerful statement:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Beauty is truth, truth beauty--that is all <br />
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I admit that in the years I have pondered these lines, they have become quasi-scriptural to me, taking on new meaning and facets each time I go over them in my mind. Every beauty has a Truth behind it, and every Truth is beautiful. I cannot explain how deeply I believe this to be true. Yet, there has to be another side to the coin. I cannot always see something that is beautiful and point to the exact Truth it mirrors, but why not? Why doesn't that bother me, or cause me to change my mind about the synonymous value of the subjects? </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Keats himself sets my mind at ease on this point with a phrase that he coined. That is, the phrase, <i>Negative Capability</i>. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
As far as scholars know, Keats only used the term once in his writing, in a letter, in which he said, "I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in
uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after
fact and reason . . . with a
great poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other consideration, or
rather obliterates all consideration."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
If he were here right now, I'm sure he and I could have quite the conversation, and perhaps I would come out realizing that I had completely mistook his meaning. But putting these two ideas together, I have formulated a belief system about art that is not to be easily shaken. Beauty and Truth are the same thing. They are merely perceived differently. Truth is understood intellectually, and beauty is felt. But everything beautiful is Truthful, and every Truth is beautiful. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
All beauty cannot be easily translated into a Truth that can be grasped by a finite mind. Sometimes, we as human beings, just have to admit that we do not understand entirely, and enjoy what we perceive: the beauty. No, not just enjoy it, but revel in it, breath it, love it, cherish it, rejoice in it, become a part of it, and let it become a part of us.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
When we do, we will see that we, somehow, in the back of our minds, in ways that we cannot explain (and usually only for moments at a time) understand. Everything. Perfectly.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
That is art. That is Beauty. That is Truth. That is Life. <br />
<br />
"A poem needs understanding through the senses. The point of diving in a lake is not immediately to swim to the shore, but to be in the lake, to luxuriate in the sensation of water. You do not 'work the lake out', it is an experience beyond thought. Poetry soothes and emboldens the soul to accept mystery." -Ben Whishaw as John Keats in <i>Bright Star</i> </div>Katie Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09580217005694958080noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7155352340745614816.post-51806253559047660312012-05-02T13:15:00.000-06:002012-05-02T13:15:28.733-06:00Like This, Right NowYou're sitting on the floor in front of my computer. In the next room we can hear the hum of the washing machine at its task on my piles of dirty laundry. I always let my laundry go too long. You do yours almost every week. I admire that.<br />
I am wearing a pair of light green lounge pants, a promo T-shirt from a previous employer, and your sweater. The grey one. The one that is way too big for me, but I wear it because you left it in my car and it smells like you. You don't mind that I'm wearing it, because you say I'll make it smell like me. I hope I don't. That would spoil it.<br />
I slip away downstairs and secure us two spoons from the drawer because you bought ice cream in celebration of having found some cheap gas at Maverick. I surpress the urge to make a comment about the Maverick gas eating out your engine, and just eat the ice cream. Bunny Tracks. We usually get Moose Tracks. I'm not sure what inspired the change, but no matter.<br />
It is funny, amidst a sea of <i>won't-it-be-great-when</i>s, I occasionally have a moment of "can we just go on forever like this, right now?"<br />
Because, like this, right now, we are perfect.<br />
Like this, right now, everything is perfect.<br />
I'm not interested in that one time when things didn't go right. I'm not interested in the fact that they may not go right again. <br />
Because like this, right now, the only thing that matters is being like this, right now, with you.Katie Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09580217005694958080noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7155352340745614816.post-11874602870636505072012-04-03T21:33:00.003-06:002012-04-18T22:39:04.907-06:00Spread ThinI know that the key to getting something out of life is to set one's sights high...<br /><br />But I think that I need to focus my gaze.<br /><br />Honestly, if I could I would be:<br />A full-time videographer (who would probably also take awesome still-photos, especially with Polaroids.)<br />A seamstress/costume designer (I've been known to dabble in this with grinch-like effects.)<br />A musician (Anyone want to start an indie band? I started one, once, but we only got 1/2 a song done.)<br />A writer of fiction and/or creative non-fiction. . . (Hello. . .blog)<br />A poet! (There is poetry on here, isn't there?)<br />A dancer (even though I have NO skill, aptitude, or history in doing this.)<br />An artist (Hey, I have an <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/justmekatiec?ref=si_shop">Etsy</a> store... this qualifies me, no?)<br />A boutique owner (Like Cherry Lane!)<br />An internet marketing specialist<br />A musical theatre actress<br />A movie actress (why not?)<br />An art curator...<br /><br />I know, I know.<br />I need to stop. I need to pick something, and do it.<br />Maybe two?<br />Three?<br />No?<br />Just one?<br />Oh dear.Katie Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09580217005694958080noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7155352340745614816.post-10443552650909372482012-03-26T20:34:00.000-06:002012-03-26T20:35:35.754-06:00A Short Piece of Fiction-- The Idealist [Part 7--The End]Ok, here is the end! Finally, I am such a slacker!<br /><br /> <style>@font-face { font-family: "MS 明朝"; }@font-face { font-family: "Cambria Math"; }@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: Cambria; }.MsoChpDefault { font-family: Cambria; }div.WordSection1 { page: WordSection1; }</style> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Jim continues to open, read, mentally catalogue, and destroy the garbage that encompasses his desk.<span style=""> </span>As he works and drinks, the vehemence of his thoughts gives way to a dull, numb, gnawing desire to be done for the night.<span style=""> </span>Still, he reads on, and as time drains and presses, he finds he has only one letter left for the night.<span style=""> </span>He never reads the return addresses on the envelopes, and this one is no exception.<span style=""> </span>He merely notes that it is addressed to Dr. James Bentley and rips open the top, (it having progressed far too late in the evening, and he having progressed far too deep into his open can to continue bothering with the letter-opener.) and reads:</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Dr. Bentley:</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>You may be surprised upon opening this letter to find that I, an old Chemistry student of yours, should spend time writing you a letter, especially one that has very little to do with the subject of Chemistry, or any other scientific pursuit.<span style=""> </span>I never would have pinned you down as a man of the arts, and so when I heard that you would be carrying out Rob's project in its entirety, I was surprised.<span style=""> </span>Pleasantly, of course, but surprised nonetheless.<span style=""> </span>Please excuse me if I address the remainder of my letter to Rob.<span style=""> </span>I know it seems strange, a boy I passed in the coffee shop a few times, and stranger that he is no longer with us. I'm not sure why, but I think I would feel better if I told </span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">him<i> how he changed me.<span style=""> </span>Please excuse this little indulgence.</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Rob:</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">People always talk about how they wish that they could talk to and thank those who have passed on.<span style=""> </span>I decided not to waste any time on wishes, and just talk to you.<span style=""> </span>Your project will be open to the public in a few days, but I have a confession to make: I have seen it!<span style=""> </span>Alone, not with one of the touring groups.<span style=""> </span>I snuck over the gate last night and wandered amidst the rocks, metal, mirrors, and the colors for four or five hours before coming back to and sneaking out unnoticed.<span style=""> </span>I'm not sure how many others have done the same, but I would assume others have wanted to.<span style=""> </span>I'm sure you can understand that we are all dying to "see what we've been missing."<span style=""> </span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I will admit that, at first, I felt nothing but disappointment.<span style=""> </span>I just stood there in the middle of the field, looking at all of the foreign objects, the numbers, the formulas, all so carefully placed and measured, and I thought, "wonderful!<span style=""> </span>Just like every other piece of art I've ever seen!<span style=""> </span>It is worthless and makes no sense."<span style=""> </span>I will admit that the only thing that kept me there was having known you.<span style=""> </span>I told myself, "You knew the artist.<span style=""> </span>Give him more of a chance than you've given everyone else!"<span style=""> </span>So I sat, and I waited, and waited, and waited.<span style=""> </span>It got cold, and I zipped my jacket tighter and waited some more.<span style=""> </span>I wish that I could say it was right at sunrise, when the first morning rays hit my eyes that some great illumination came to me, or in the witching hour when some fairy ring appeared, and revealed all that I had been lacking.<span style=""> </span>Honestly, I'm not sure what time it was when I realized what you had been getting at.<span style=""> </span>Or, I guess what I see in it.<span style=""> </span>If someone were to ask me right now what it "means" I would tell them: it means that it means.<span style=""> </span>There is meaning everywhere, if we want to look for it.<span style=""> </span>When we look hard, we are rewarded, and we come away better people.<span style=""> </span>If we dismiss, we are the ones who suffer.<span style=""> </span>Your work is a celebration of meaning, and of man's search for it, and his conquering of the unknown.<span style=""> </span>The unknown will always become known with enough determination--perhaps a lot of patience, and a good wind-breaker. <span style=""> </span>Shoot, it's probably a bit of faith as well.<span style=""> </span>To escape finding meaning is to deny our nature.</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Thank you for showing me that, I had definitely been missing it.<span style=""> </span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">-Sylvia (from the coffee shop)</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>The only outward indication that Jim hesitates over finishing this last letter the way that he has finished the others is a slight deviance in his normally impeccable timing.<span style=""> </span>He takes one long sip from his can before folding the letter again and inserting it back in its destroyed envelope.<span style=""> </span>He may also let it fall just a bit more slowly over the scorching heat.<span style=""> </span>The flame that follows, lying on top of the ashtray, has become a perfect lighter for one more piece of paper.<span style=""> </span>Jim snatches <i>The Professor in his Ideal</i> and drops it on top of the burning mess.<span style=""> </span>He knows he should have done it long ago.<span style=""> </span>There is no reason to hold on to yesterday, or to think about tomorrow.<span style=""> </span>All the days are the same, aren’t they?<span style=""> </span>He stares blankly on, not registering the irony that the paper, writhing and twisting over the smoke-stained metal, has become the perfect visual to accompany the sound of an ambulance, several streets away, rushing off to some new emergency.<span style=""> </span></span></p>Katie Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09580217005694958080noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7155352340745614816.post-7998020596452172032012-03-21T10:22:00.003-06:002012-03-21T10:24:25.151-06:00A Short Piece of Fiction-- The Idealist [Parts Five and Six]<style>@font-face { font-family: "MS 明朝"; }@font-face { font-family: "MS 明朝"; }@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: Cambria; }.MsoChpDefault { font-family: Cambria; }div.WordSection1 { page: WordSection1; }</style> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">Almost done! Here are parts Five and Six. Just one more part after this!<br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">It is interesting that the two of them had become friends at all.<span style=""> </span>No.<span style=""> </span>“Friends” isn’t even the appropriate word; more like colleagues.<span style=""> </span>Though Jim was nearly thirty-five years Rob's senior, the young artist had been convinced that he could change the old professor's views.<span style=""> </span>Jim, likewise, wanted to change Rob's views.<span style=""> </span>Not for Rob's sake, for his own.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>"If I could just convince one more wide-eyed dreamer that the only 'reason' or 'meaning' in things are chemical processes, I could retire a happy man." He had once said to his housekeeper, whose name may or may not have been Nancy.<span style=""> </span>He had started calling her that on the first day she had begun working for him, and had never bothered to ask if her name was, in fact, Nancy.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>“Nancy” never seems to mind.<span style=""> </span>She never asks questions, or responds to his tirades.<span style=""> </span>She simply looks at her employer when he talks, as though out of some vocational obligation, and then she turns around when he finishes talking and continues on with her duties.<span style=""> </span>He loves her for it, and never asks her to respond, somehow sensing that he will be severely disappointed if she were ever to answer.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>Jim knows that he never made any progress with the boy just as well as Rob knew that he never made a dent in the belief system of his elder.<span style=""> </span>During their almost weekly meetings in Jim's office, the two of them would take turns speaking.<span style=""> </span>One week Jim would talk at Rob who would nod over and over without responding.<span style=""> </span>When Jim was through discussing chemical processes, natural selection, and the chaos of the world, Rob would nod more solemnly.<span style=""> </span>After Jim had been through talking for thirty seconds or more, Rob would rise from his chair, shake Jim's hand, and exit the room, always turning back when Jim asked, "where are you going?" to reply with something like, "out there, to see if anyone needs anything."<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>The first time he had said it, Jim had scoffed, and asked, "Out where?<span style=""> </span>And who needs anything?"<span style=""> </span>Rob had just replied, "I don't know.<span style=""> </span>I guess I might just end up over at the library going over some notes.<span style=""> </span>I just want to feel like I made a difference somewhere today, you know?"<span style=""> </span>The chemist had shrugged.<span style=""> </span>He didn’t know.<span style=""> </span>And then, the artist had walked out.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>On the other weeks, it was unofficially Rob's turn to talk, and his speeches were (to Jim) endless.<span style=""> </span>Rob talked about how things were "meant to be" and how the world was infused with meaning just waiting to be discovered by an inquisitive mind.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>"What is it that you want, Rob" he had asked one such afternoon.<span style=""> </span>It wasn't like him to ask questions after Rob took his informal turn.<span style=""> </span>He would usually say something along the lines of, “you'd better run along kid, I've got exams to grade.” And if Rob was lucky he would add, "Good luck to you this week."<span style=""> </span>But on this particular occasion, for no particular reason, he could not help asking it.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>The response was annoyingly familiar.<span style=""> </span>"I want to show people what they have been missing."<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>"That's what he would always say!" Jim roars aloud to the hungry flame of the candle.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>"He wanted to show people what they had been missing.<span style=""> </span>I'll be hanged if I ever knew exactly how he was hoping to accomplish this task."<span style=""> </span>Jim closes his lips in thought, and switches his audible, yet one-sided conversation to the inside of his head.<span style=""> </span>He had known about Rob's project from the moment it was conceived.<span style=""> </span>He had occasionally patted himself on the back for having been the first to hear about it.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>Rob had come practically running into Jim's office, had sat down in his usual chair, opened his notebook and shoved it under the other man's nose.<span style=""> </span>In black ballpoint ink, Rob had amassed a million chicken-scratches, and above them scrawled the words "MY MAGNUM OPUS!"<span style=""> </span>From the look on his face, he must have been expecting a reaction out of his older mentor.<span style=""> </span>But Jim remained unmoved.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>"What does it mean, Rob?<span style=""> </span>I'm not an artist."<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>"This is it.<span style=""> </span>This is what people have been missing.<span style=""> </span>I have finally got all of my plans made."</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>"What plans?<span style=""> </span>Where are these plans?"</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>Rob signaled his forehead.<span style=""> </span>"Where they belong.<span style=""> </span>I will work strictly from my head."</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>"It's pretty convenient that he worked straight from his head.<span style=""> </span>His head was the only thing that didn't survive the crash."<span style=""> </span>Jim spits, now back to voicing his recollections. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>"Funny, when planes crash in movies, they always burn.<span style=""> </span>Not Rob's.<span style=""> </span>It almost looked as though nothing had gone awry, like the plane didn't fall far."</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>He never can remember, this late at night, what it was that the authorities had said about the accident.<span style=""> </span>Malfunction of something or other<i style="">.<span style=""> </span>Wasn't a malfunction of some piece of equipment the problem behind all failures?<span style=""> </span>Why do authorities need to make statements about such things?<span style=""> </span>Arbitrary, pointless, mundane, ordinary.</i><span style=""> </span>Exactly like the letters he spends his Sunday evenings reading.<span style=""> </span>He has heard it all by now.<span style=""> </span>As the press photos had begun to leak, the letters had started to come in by the dozens.<span style=""> </span>As special pre-release guided tours had sent hundreds into the prairies, the letters had come in by the bag-load.<span style=""> </span>They all vary in their opinions of the work, but it is all the same drivel to Jim.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>He now reviews some of the best ones in his mind, the center where he has stored quotes from these letters, like some catalogue of all that is ridiculous.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>"It is almost as if Smith was foretelling his own tragic death in this work." Or, “It is such a stark metaphor for his difficult childhood, illustrating the early death of his absentee father, and the humiliation at being put through school by his elderly mother.” Or, “It is clearly a commentary on current political unrest, calling for new unification between differing political parties.”<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>He knows others would scorn his entertainment, but it is not possible to suppress laughter when one regularly reads such tomfoolery as, </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span><i style="">I have seen pictures online of the project that is about to launch.<span style=""> </span>The juxtaposition of all of the red and blue in the rocks at the west end of the exhibit gives such a startling insight on what it means to be an American.<span style=""> </span>I was so inspired by the pictures; I hope to take my wife and kids to see it when it opens in a few weeks.<span style=""> </span>Thank you. </i><span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>Jim has a keen mind, and it doesn’t take him long to memorize the gist of these letters before he sets them to burn.<span style=""> </span>It is all so delicious.<span style=""> </span>It is all so close to what he had expected would happen.<span style=""> </span>It is justification, and he is angry that Rob no longer exists to see himself proved so utterly and entirely wrong.<span style=""> </span>If, when Rob was alive, Jim had ever worried that his belief system was being rocked by the stubborn enthusiasm of some snot-nosed 23-year-old kid, all of the worry is now eaten up as the flames climb to claim each sheet of worthless propaganda.<span style=""> </span>All of it goes up in smoke. All of the "I am profoundly inspired" "I am moved beyond expression" "I have begun looking at the world in a new way" "I went home and hugged my kids a little tighter" "It gave me the courage to go back to school" "The exhibit inspired me to start drafting a letter to a child who ran away from home twenty years ago, one I vowed to cut myself off from."—these all had burnt beautifully, even if the plane hadn't. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>Jim has hoarded Rob's notebooks.<span style=""> </span>Nobody must ever see those, those alleged blueprints.<span style=""> </span>No one must ever know that Jim works from no blueprint.<span style=""> </span>Guided instead by a twisted sense of vindication.<span style=""> </span>It is so easy to make a pretense at being a genius, especially with such a story.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>Jim is sorry that Rob is gone, isn’t he?<span style=""> </span>There are plenty of things he misses, of course.<span style=""> </span>He'd grown quite accustomed to their talks.<span style=""> </span>He had almost even become accustomed to never getting through.<span style=""> </span>Yes, Jim is sorry that Rob is gone; but it had happened.<span style=""> </span>It had worked out perfectly to allow for this little experiment. <span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>Jim catches his thought.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>“No, it didn't ‘work out perfectly’ it wasn't fated.<span style=""> </span>It just happened.<span style=""> </span>He died, and I took advantage of that. <span style=""> </span>'Show people what they're missing.' I'll show them what they're missing!<span style=""> </span>No, no I won't.<span style=""> </span>They'll never know that there were no blueprints.<span style=""> </span>They will never know that I worked, just as Rob did, from my head, and that I never put a thought into the placement of the boulders, the direction of the lines, the reflection of the mirrors.<span style=""> </span>They will never know that what they are missing is that there is nothing to miss!<span style=""> </span>The spectacle is in their heads, and they had better stick to the hard sciences; because, at the end of the day, if you crash a plane and hit your head hard enough, that is that.<span style=""> </span>That is what really matters." </span></p>Katie Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09580217005694958080noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7155352340745614816.post-66830222218448589172012-02-27T22:21:00.001-07:002012-02-27T22:23:08.313-07:00You {Me}-- A Study: SilenceI have not written an installment for this project in much too long, I hope everyone will forgive me. Here goes:<br /><br />Two words: cafe.rio.<br />Ok, three more words: barnes.and.noble.<br /><br />I mentally sort through my top ten favorite college memories, and this is one of them. I wonder if you remember it like I remember it. I wonder if you remember it at all.<br /><br />To be frank, I'm not entirely sure why it stands out so. <br /><br />Most of our other friends had gone out together to participate in a large group activity, so we stole away, and went to grab a bite to eat. In fact, maybe we'd been planning to go out that night for some time. Whatever the reason, we were together because we wanted to be. It wasn't one of those, 'no better offer' kind of Friday nights. Well, I guess it was. There was no better offer, because what could be better than what we were doing?<br /><br />I found myself a copy of Atlas Shrugged, because I felt I had to read it in order to be considered "well-read". You had brought your laptop with you, and sat at one of the cafe tables to do some journal writing. <br /><br />I joined you. It was perfect.<br />Literally. Perfect.<br /><br />You always listened to me and appreciated my ideas in ways almost no one else ever has. I do not say that just to say it. I mean it with all of the sincerity I have. While I still think we need to write a book of all of our philosophies and takes on life, and while I miss our chats immensely, it was this silence that stood out as I thought about our history<br /><br />Initially, I wasn't sure why. <br />Then, it came to me.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A comfortable silence is born of a mutual understanding one has with another person.</span> It is as though I knew what you'd say if you were talking, and you knew what I would say if I was talking. So, for those few hours, we didn't need to talk. We have always had a connection, you and I, that is enhanced by the conversations, and bolstered by the silences. <br /><br />The hallmark of our friendship has always been that you listen to what I say without ever patronizing or acting in a condescending way. You treat my ideas with a degree of importance that eradicates any need for me to be constantly explaining myself. <span style="font-size:130%;">I can stay silent and still be safe</span>. No need to justify, you are on my side, whether I deserve it or not.<br /><br />Thank you for that, and thank you for the negative space--the silence. It is every bit as important to the overall composition as the flourishes. It is the balance that one does not always find in every friendship, and I feel fortunate to have it in you.Katie Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09580217005694958080noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7155352340745614816.post-3811593579544714832012-02-27T21:37:00.002-07:002012-02-27T21:47:30.032-07:00A Short Piece of Fiction-- The Idealist [Parts Three and Four]I have been a total slacker on this as of late, so here are parts Three and Four. If you're behind, no worries. Here are parts <a href="http://mekatiec.blogspot.com/2012/02/short-piece-of-fiction-idealist-part.html">One</a> and <a href="http://mekatiec.blogspot.com/2012/02/short-piece-of-fiction-idealist-part_06.html">Two</a>.<br /><br />Thanks for reading!<br /><br /> <style>@font-face { font-family: "MS 明朝"; }@font-face { font-family: "Cambria Math"; }@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: Cambria; }.MsoChpDefault { font-family: Cambria; }div.WordSection1 { page: WordSection1; }</style> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Jim ends this recollection, letting the remembrance of his epithets serve as the triumphant cadence to this little memory.<span style=""> </span>Yet, he still finds himself unable to progress further in his routine.<span style=""> </span>His memory has made him intent on finding something—something that he put away several years ago, and has not seen since.<span style=""> </span>Standing, he draws near a grey metal filing cabinet in the corner of his home office.<span style=""> </span>He forces open the top drawer without deploying the release lever and riffles through the dog-earned folders until his fingers meet the one he has been looking for.<span style=""> </span>In opening it, a thin sheet of sketchbook paper slides noiselessly onto the thread-worn rug below.<span style=""> </span>Jim doesn't bother picking it up, he just looks at it from above.<span style=""> </span>It is another sketch, drawn by the same boy and of the same subject.<span style=""> </span>In the sketch, Jim stands at the front of a crowded classroom, one hand raised to the blackboard, indicating an equation, the other hand outstretched to the students, as if beckoning them to understand the relevance of the formula to the everyday.<span style=""> </span>Jim had merely laughed when Rob handed it to him three weeks after the coffee shop incident; laughed, and then filed it with other documents of mild interest.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>The art student had begun to attend the lectures on Thursday afternoons, as well as several others during the week.<span style=""> </span>At first Jim had been annoyed, and had approached him about it.<span style=""> </span>But Rob had merely said, </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>"Sylvia, the girl in the coffee shop, she really helped me see that day what I had been missing out on.<span style=""> </span>There is this whole other realm of knowledge, another level to the complexities and the interconnectedness of everything, just passing me by.<span style=""> </span>I don’t understand everything you're saying now, but I think it’s interesting, and important, and I want to learn it."</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>It wasn’t like Jim to consent to something of that nature, not only that it was against University policy to allow any student to regularly attend a lecture that he or she was not properly registered for, but it seemed an annoyance to have a smart-aleck art kid hovering over all of his lectures, sketching at random, and pretending to be interested in the material.<span style=""> </span>Perhaps Rob had decided that Sylvia was a girl he wouldn't mind buying a latte for more often, and was hoping to impress.<span style=""> </span>Why else would a busy art student be interested in learning Chemistry?<span style=""> </span>Jim didn’t have the answers.<span style=""> </span>He did not even know why he had nodded in consent to Rob's eager question, or why he had smiled to himself once he had turned away.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>Though at the time he had not known his motivations, now, standing in his office, looking down at the sketch, he instinctively knows why he had not been bothered by Rob's presence in the class.<span style=""> </span>One did not need to observe the boy for long, sitting in the back of the room, with a wide smile, and a ready pen, to realize that this art student was more interested in assigning Oxidation Numbers than many of the pre-med students were. <span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>What professor wouldn't be enthusiastic about an avid learner?<span style=""> </span>Besides, the good Dr. had had many years of experience in showing idealists how the world truly worked.<span style=""> </span>He lived for those moments when students came into him at the end of a semester and said, "I used to be religious until I took this class, and then I learned how things REALLY work.<span style=""> </span>Thanks, Dr!" </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>Now, back to that drawing.<span style=""> </span>Jim picks up the sketch and turns it over.<span style=""> </span><i style="">For: Dr. James Bentley, October 15 19-- <u><span style="">The Professor at his ideal</span></u>.<span style=""> </span>From: A (not so) Damned Idealist</i>.<span style=""> </span>Jim does not bother to suppress a smile when he reads it.<span style=""> </span>It is the first smile he has allowed himself over the incident in all the eight months.<span style=""> </span>Yet, the reader need not hope that Jim's smile is a sign of his acceptance of the tragedy.<span style=""> </span>As far as he is concerned, there is nothing to accept.<span style=""> </span>The news of the plane crash had come just as the news of rising gasoline prices, or the start of another construction project outside of the apartment window.<span style=""> </span>It wasn't good news, but it was nothing that could be helped, and one had to deal with it as one dealt with other annoyances.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>No, the smile is not acceptance; it is more of an outward indication that Jim has realized just how right he had been in his diagnosis of Rob.<span style=""> </span>He had been damned, from the very beginning, because he was always out looking for some meaning, some ideal that could not be found, because it was not there.<span style=""> </span>He'd died for it, and no one had been the wiser.<span style=""> </span><i style="">Men may die in battle</i>, Jim reasons, <i style="">but if the war is lost, the people simply adapt to a new way of life, and the dead soldiers are forgotten</i>.<span style=""> </span>As soon as he thinks it, he feels proud of some alleged literary ability.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span><i style="">A lost battle—interesting metaphor.</i><span style=""> </span><i style="">Art like this is good</i>.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>Jim shoves the sketch back in the envelope and tosses it onto the desk.<span style=""> </span>He then picks up the letter once again, and finishes scanning it without comprehension of its meaning.<span style=""> </span>Upon completion, he folds it, places it back and in the envelope, and holds it steadily over the raw, open flame of a candle set in the center of the cluttered desk.<span style=""> </span>The edge of the paper resists momentarily, as if asserting its right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.<span style=""> </span>And then, it gives way—wretches, folds, blackens, smokes, and crumbles.<span style=""> </span>He tosses it onto the ashtray and watches the flame shrivel and die on the scorched metal surface.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><i style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">One down, hundreds to go. </span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Jim opens the next letter.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""> <style>@font-face { font-family: "MS 明朝"; }@font-face { font-family: "Cambria Math"; }@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: Cambria; }.MsoChpDefault { font-family: Cambria; }div.WordSection1 { page: WordSection1; }</style> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><i style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Dear Robert: It feels strange to pen those words, I never met you, but I feel like I had.<span style=""> </span>The day I saw the interview on the television of the hikers who found your plane out in the desert, I cried for an hour.<span style=""> </span>I don't understand why I felt so sad that you were gone, but I feel the world was a better place because of your project, and I think it's delightful that you asked Dr. Bentley to continue it for you.</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>Jim is smart.<span style=""> </span>He knows that what is truly "delightful" is that so many of Rob's admirer's believe that he, James Bentley, had actually been asked to continue the project.<span style=""> </span>Even Rob's own ailing mother seemed to think it the most natural thing in the world.<span style=""> </span>It wasn't any great task to convince everyone that this was the way it was supposed to be.<span style=""> </span>Conveniently, Rob had mailed several notebooks back to the University, in the care of James Bentley, just two days before his accident.<span style=""> </span>It was almost too easy to pretend that the notebooks had been filled with notes, and sketches meant only for the eyes of the man who could finish the project, in the sad event that it became necessary for a successor.<span style=""> </span>In reality, the notebooks were little more than nomadic sketches of people Rob had met along his travels, flying about the United States, scouting out sites for his accursed project.<span style=""> </span>The boy had thought the notebooks cumbersome in his backpack, and had shipped them to the University in order to lighten his load.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>A professor with such a long-standing tenure had experienced little opposition to his sudden artistic tyranny, and had not had a moment’s trouble in getting the press to zero in on his story: a heartbroken mentor struggling to finish the project started by his protégée in the very flower of his youth, and so on and so forth.<span style=""> </span>Any sob story to make the people's hearts go pitter-patter and the donations for the project began pouring in by the hundreds of thousands.<span style=""> </span>Furthermore, it wasn't hard to hire men to go into the prairies of the mid-west for days at a time, laden with measuring tapes and clipboards making rounds, taking notes, talking in hushed tones while thousands gathered to watch the historic process.<span style=""> </span>People would stand back and cry, and talk about how “beautiful” it all was.<span style=""> </span>In his days serving the marines, Jim had learned that if you punch someone in the nose, it makes their eyes water.<span style=""> </span>These people thought that tears meant something deep, that they were an outer-manifestation of some inner secret that they all shared, that this 'project' would help everyone to see what they had never before seen.<span style=""> </span>Jim knew that they were just reacting to the punch. </span></p> <p></p> <br /><br />To be continued... :)Katie Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09580217005694958080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7155352340745614816.post-32575135509952478652012-02-15T22:12:00.004-07:002012-02-15T23:03:27.741-07:00Scrape<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnU6-gG1v_gnyF9D1SV5TaAL0yMMnqW9_7nb7iVO9fADjM540NQ3s_Eq80CR1lFroE4MoJB3zvXmODbV_39h7KhWpvg766Iox7-j0wdInudawb5W9lcxRnjV-1gD250kMSTIilytswLVOs/s1600/Photo+on+2012-02-15+at+21.56+%25232.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 276px; height: 207px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnU6-gG1v_gnyF9D1SV5TaAL0yMMnqW9_7nb7iVO9fADjM540NQ3s_Eq80CR1lFroE4MoJB3zvXmODbV_39h7KhWpvg766Iox7-j0wdInudawb5W9lcxRnjV-1gD250kMSTIilytswLVOs/s200/Photo+on+2012-02-15+at+21.56+%25232.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709607619499786370" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />I hate that scene in Anne of Avonlea, when she goes out to the milking pen, sees her cow still in it, and realizes that she has sold Rachael's cow to Mr. Blithe by mistake.<br />I hate it, because I know the feeling.<br /><br />There is nothing I loathe more than being in a scrape.<br />Loathe it.<br />Absolutely L-O-A-T-H-E<br /><br />I detest being embarrassed, and trying to save face, and trying not to cry in public...<br />I am not the "brush it off" type of girl. It will not be brushed. Believe me, I have tried. It will not be brushed.<br /><br />Every time I feel that, "I want to crawl under a rock and die" feeling... I keep feeling that feeling. (I started typing that sentence with the hope of it ending profoundly... no such. Alas!)<br /><br />I had that feeling today, and I suspect I'm not the only one who has ever felt this way.<br /><br />As I pondered about it tonight, I thought...<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">THESE ARE THE MOMENTS IN LIFE THAT I CANNOT STAND</span>.<br /><br />A friend, upon trying to help me feel better, said,<br /><br />"I have a saying, Katie. A saying for when I think life is super difficult or things look grim. I think to myself, 'At least I'm not being chased by mastodons'. And, next time you're in this situation, think of your ancestors who were being trampled by mastodons everyday... [problems like this are] not so life ruining then."<br /><br />He had a point. I won't argue with him.<br />But what is it about being trampled by mastodons that always seems appealing in "Crawl under a rock and die" moments?<br /><br />There is something about the little things that hurts the worst.<br /><br />My dear friend Joanna Newsom, in her song "Only Skin" probably puts it best. The song is 16 minutes long, but right in the middle, the music boils down for a moment, and she sings,<br /><br />"Scrape your knee: it is only skin."<br /><br />Now, I recently scraped my knees (funny story about that, ask me sometime) and it hurt. Bad. That's the thing about scrapes. They hurt like the devil. Maybe it's just a myth, but I've heard that many times when someone is stabbed (especially when they don't see the knife) they have no idea they have been stabbed. 30% of stab wound victims die. I am guessing 0% of knee-scrape victims die, though I think you'd be hard-pressed to find a knee-scrape victim who wasn't fully aware that their knee was scraped.<br /><br />It's as though human beings are equipped to deal with the hefty things (shock, for example, probably plays a huge role in the obliviousness of stab-victims) in life. The little things... they hurt. REALLY hurt . But, they won't kill you.<br /><br />Look at that. We were built for greatness. Who would have thought it? <br /><br />Everyone has scraped their knee before. There are literally billions of people on earth right now who should be walking around in T-shirts that say, "I Survived ~Knee-Scrape 20__". But they, like all of us, got up, brushed off, and got back to work.<br /><br />If you're reading this, and you need to hear it, I'm sure it's not helping. That's the thing about "Crawl under a rock and die" moments... if you're anything like me, they can't be brushed off in .2 or less.<br /><br />But hear this:<br />IT WILL GET BETTER.<br />IT WILL.<br /><br />Scrape your knee: it IS only skin. <br />And it has a way of healing up nicely, if you give it enough time.Katie Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09580217005694958080noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7155352340745614816.post-82950739847761016542012-02-06T20:24:00.001-07:002012-02-06T20:31:19.805-07:00A Short Piece of Fiction-- The Idealist [Part Two]<style>@font-face { font-family: "MS 明朝"; }@font-face { font-family: "Cambria Math"; }@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: Cambria; }.MsoChpDefault { font-family: Cambria; }div.WordSection1 { page: WordSection1; }</style> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Part two of the story I started posting <a href="http://www.mekatiec.blogspot.com/2012/02/short-piece-of-fiction-idealist-part.html">here.</a><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">"Art is the vehicle of truth that allows us to transcend the mundane of the everyday, and yet realize the beauty of the everyday all in the same moment."<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>Jim had turned instinctively when, three years before, he’d first heard the young voice unapologetically announcing its bold definition.<span style=""> </span>Even though it is now a worn memory, the opening line of the speech always makes Jim turn, and look.<span style=""> </span>Keep in mind the scene that the professor sets on the stage of his imagination changes slightly each time it is conjured again.<span style=""> </span>Today it is a dimly lit room, flooded with the garishly blue hues of a colorless sunrise.<span style=""> </span>The smell of last night's cigarette smoke lacks the fresh, artistic waft it had inherently possessed the previous evening and is, as morning breaks, reduced to a stale, perverse stench.<span style=""> </span>There are not many persons present, as it is too early an hour for the morning rush. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>On turning, Jim finds the source of the declaration in the form of two wide black eyes, staring confidently at a certain listener—a young girl of about eighteen—with unwavering determination.<span style=""> </span>The mass of short black curls that accompanies the eyes could neither be comfortably described as collected, or as unkempt, and so their description is, according Jim's inexpert perception, left at 'skillfully unruly'.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>Apparently unaware of the new and intent set of listening ears, the young man speaks again. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>"It would not be necessary to have art at all if we knew everything, so I like to think of it as a classroom, or a lens through which the world is revealed to us.<span style=""> </span>Revealed safely.<span style=""> </span>Think of it! A world where you can explore a range of possibilities, and all without really changing a thing.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>Acting on an impulse, one closely related to not wanting to be outdone, the girl responds.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>"Well.<span style=""> </span>I am studying with the hope of attending medical school. Take Biology, for instance, there are a million processes that go on in you and me everyday.<span style=""> </span>When I learn about them, I think, it's life changing!<span style=""> </span>The world should be different because of this process!<span style=""> </span>But then I realize that it was going on long before I knew about it.<span style=""> </span>Nothing has changed, but it seems it should have.<span style=""> </span>That's a cliché, I guess.<span style=""> </span>But it does make the everyday much more interesting.<span style=""> </span>Science is like art then.<span style=""> </span>Only more useful.<span style=""> </span>I am going to go to medical school, and save lives."</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>As he listens, Jim finds his principles aligning with the young woman's, so he wonders why he feels she is getting in over her head; and why, if it is indeed an argument he is observing, he feels that the young man is winning.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>The boy, being of an obvious better nature than Jim, simply laughs.<span style=""> </span>No reserve, no guile, no pretense—taking unfiltered joy in the conversation alone.<span style=""> </span>He doesn't seem to care that what he has said would have, under most other circumstances, paled in comparison to her trump card.<span style=""> </span>Sadly for the lover of sport, the lad lacks a certain sense of pride that makes one doggedly determined to be right, and Jim can see his mind mulling over what the girl has said.<span style=""> </span>In that moment, Jim knows why the girl is losing the argument.<span style=""> </span>She isn't listening to her opponent, but her opponent is listening to her. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>"You misunderstand me!" The boy says with a grin, as soon as his laughter has finished pouncing through the mostly-empty building.<span style=""> </span>"I do not think that art is the only means of finding meaning in the everyday.<span style=""> </span>Finding meaning, anywhere, is valid.<span style=""> </span>I would never discourage anyone from looking for that, no matter how he chose to carry on that search."</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>His clarification seems passable to her.<span style=""> </span>Still watching, even in his mind’s eye, even years later, Jim is angry at her inability to give a thorough rebuttal.<span style=""> </span>Instead of giving a thought-out answer, she resorts to the oldest trick in the book.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>"So what do you want to do with it?<span style=""> </span>Your art degree, I mean."<span style=""> </span>As she speaks, the girl unconsciously holds a Chemistry textbook close to her, challenging the boy with both her dialogue and her body language.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>The visual cue of the textbook signals to Jim that he has seen this girl before.<span style=""> </span>She is in his lecture, weekday afternoons.<span style=""> </span>He knows nothing else of her, except that now she appears to be a driveling idiot, but there is hardly an opportunity to dwell on that in the present moment.<span style=""> </span>There is barely enough time between the girl's question and the boy's answer for Jim to mutter quietly, “Ah, the art student's favorite question.<span style=""> </span>It will be interesting to see what this kid comes up with.” </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>The boy's answer is immediate and intentional.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>"I plan to help others see what they are missing."</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>The sincerity of his response leaves an odd flavor in the air, as if what he has said, and what she had expected him to say, have become opposing forces, wrestling above the table between them and effectively bringing an end to their conversation.<span style=""> </span>It would have been too perfect for someone to have actually coughed in that moment, but in Jim’s mind, in this little reminiscence, someone coughs, and the stalemate silence is broken.<span style=""> </span>In reality, the inciting sound was the bell on the hill, tolling the hour. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>"I have to go.” she explains, grabbing her bag, standing, and turning toward the door.<span style=""> </span>"But it was nice meeting you, Rob.<span style=""> </span>Thank you for the coffee, and… good luck, with… everything."<span style=""> </span>She blunders off carting a sort of saved-by-the-bell attitude, pausing only momentarily to acknowledge the un-invited spectator.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>"Good morning, Dr. Bentley, see you in class later." She mutters, inclining her head, and clutching her book tighter, as if to say, <i style="">I have been studying for your class, so give me good marks, no matter what my actual performance.</i><span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>In the matter of fairness, one must acknowledge that it is only in these re-creations that Jim has time to analyze the girl's body language.<span style=""> </span>At the time, he’d thought nothing of her book, or the way she held it.<span style=""> </span>Only in these moments of reflection does he realize that because she had lost the argument for science, she had left him with a bitter gnawing sensation that could only be interpreted to one end: he was ashamed to call himself her professor.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>It must have been her acknowledgement of him that made the younger man turn to appraise Jim as well.<span style=""> </span>Whatever the catalyst for the analysis, we must watch on to see how it plays out.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>Rob nods in an unfamiliar salute and then smiles openly.<span style=""> </span>The smile is all frankness, doling out understanding, not asking for it in return.<span style=""> </span>Jim finds it smug beyond all reason. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>"You must be a man of science yourself." the boy speaks, uninvited, but not necessarily unexpected, or (difficult as it is for Jim to acknowledge it) unwanted.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">"I am."</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">"And what did you think of my speech, or didn't you hear it?"</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">"I heard it."</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">"And..."</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">"What?"</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">"What do you think of me?"</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">"You want the truth?"<span style=""> </span>Jim spits, and then without waiting for an answer, delivers one of his self-termed 'blows'. "Good, because I always give it.<span style=""> </span>I think you're just another damned idealist."<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>So clever is he, he hardly has to think before speaking.<span style=""> </span>His opinions are quick to form and slow to waiver. Jim has turned around without waiting for, or wanting a response from the overly eager student.<span style=""> </span>Silence returns to the little room, as it is still too early for much of a rush.<span style=""> </span>The professor promptly finishes his coffee, reads three chapters of his book and gathers his things to leave before his spiteful adrenaline allows him to look again at the table where the younger man sits. Jim has begun to suspect that the lad has escaped out the back way to avoid walking past his table, but finds himself mistaken; for there Rob is, still sitting in his chair, scrawling in a black pocket notebook, pausing every few moments to glance in the direction of the older man and then back down again.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>"What are you doing, young man?" Jim snarls, already suspecting the answer.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>"Sketching you."</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>Were anyone walking behind Jim, just now, as he storms out of the cafe, they may be startled to hear him repeating the words "damned idealist" over and over, as though he can use his heated words to warm the raw air that claims him as he steps into an outside world—a world slavishly at its task, dressing itself in a cold, damp, dirty layer of autumn fog.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Again, to be continued... thanks for reading.<br /></span></p>Katie Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09580217005694958080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7155352340745614816.post-21748164363311232082012-02-01T20:41:00.003-07:002012-02-01T21:04:01.211-07:00A Short Piece of Fiction-- The Idealist [Part One]I have been meaning to post this story in sections for months now. I actually started writing it over a year ago, and I feel that the time has come. Not because it's ready, but because I want to post it. I guess nothing else really matters.<br />I guess the hesitance before now was born of the realization that I haven't written a completely fictional piece of prose since I was about 13, and that was... yeah.... not good.<br />Anyway, I have a lot of reservations and hesitations, but I feel the wait is over.<br /><br />Only 2 disclaimers (skimmed down from the 83 or so I had planned originally):<br />1. It is a bit of a darker piece. Not that there are rotting bodies, or psychopathic killers... nothing like that, but it's not exactly light-hearted. So, I warned you.<br />2. I decided, sort of last minute (aka 3 months ago) that I was going to change it from past tense into a present tense, third person, omniscient narrator. That was quite the task, and now I'm doing some research on google where many sources say not to do that.... oops? Too late?<br />Oh well, here goes nothing, more parts to follow:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">The Idealist<br />by Katie C. Nielson<br /></div><br /> <style>@font-face { font-family: "MS 明朝"; }@font-face { font-family: "MS 明朝"; }@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: Cambria; }.MsoChpDefault { font-family: Cambria; }div.WordSection1 { page: WordSection1; }</style> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>Jim grasps a can of something from the fridge, fumbles it open, and sits down to his Sunday evening ritual.<span style=""> </span><i style="">The stack is bigger tonight than usual</i>, he thinks.<span style=""> </span>Mind you, whether or not there are more letters than usual is entirely beside the point.<span style=""> </span>Jim always sees them grow exponentially, week after week.<span style=""> </span>Some would call it absurd, he thinks of it more as a—well—a labor of love.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>James Bentley can best be described as 'basically professorial' in his own right, which is all right and proper.<span style=""> </span>Neither of a portly, nor a gangly nature, he has a medium build, and hair that has long since past the point of only slightly gray.<span style=""> </span>Unlike most Americans, who weep into their pillows at night when they think of looking older, Jim has the blessing of seeing it for the chemical process that it is; a process that is not to be combated.<span style=""> </span>Besides, it makes no difference what he is beginning to look like; he still doles out nearly impossible exams, hoards good marks like a miser, and rarely gives praise.<span style=""> </span>One can do this, he occasionally reasons to himself, wrinkles or no wrinkles. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>Enough of Jim! he will not like this talk of his visual deficiencies .<span style=""> </span>He will not mind us, however, getting back to the letters.<span style=""> </span>It must be observed that Jim always takes special delight in reading the letters specifically addressed to Rob Smith.<span style=""> </span>The ones meant for Rob catch his attention because they are written either by those who have somehow not heard the news, or by those who refuse to acknowledge the news as irrevocably true.<span style=""> </span>Perhaps the two camps are born of the same kind of misinformation.<span style=""> </span>To Jim, at any rate, they represent an unhealthy dose of the insane—an insanity which is, naturally, always to be diverting. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>The professor shudders in a near-mirthful manner as he sets about his task.<span style=""> </span>Mind, this mirth is not sprung as much from a delight in the general stupidity of the human race (the only animal in the world that craves to ascribe meaning to the most meaningless of rituals), as it is from knowing that such an ascribing is the sort of thing that Rob would have delighted in, had he any opportunity to read the letters; which, of course, he hadn't.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span><i>Dear Mr. Smith,</i> the first one begins, <i>It may seem strange that I am writing you this letter, though I know you will never read it.</i> <span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>Wagging his head, Jim makes some comment to himself about the banality of the writer’s supposedly novel idea.<span style=""> </span>Keep in mind that our study has long-since smothered into submission that little twinge of uneasiness one usually experiences in speaking to oneself, and that we will find him commenting regularly on what he reads within the reams of paper that threatened to obscure his desk entirely.<span style=""> </span>For now, he adjusts his glasses and continues reading: </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span><i>But I feel I must congratulate you on all of the hurdles you have crossed in order to perpetuate your ideals through your art.</i> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>Jim slights as though bit by some small pest or another.<span style=""> </span>Why?<span style=""> </span>I will tell you. It is because the author of this letter has employed an interesting vocabulary: "art" and "ideals".<span style=""> </span>Jim is not capable of hearing those words neutrally, as much as he may wish to.<span style=""> </span>To him, the genesis of these terms can be traced back to an abnormally brisk September morning, a morning to which his mind leaps at intervals, irretrievably.<span style=""> </span>He has long-since learned that these memories have to be allowed to replay, whether he likes it or not.<span style=""> </span>For if aborted, they leave a dissonance behind that hangs heavy in his sparse apartment, like a deadweight threatening a mutiny, not to be dispelled until he has retraced and played them through.<span style=""> </span>You will have to excuse him then, as he attends this business.<span style=""> </span>For, you see, it cannot be helped.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style=""> </span>There he goes now!<span style=""> </span>In his mind he is gone back to that September morning, where in the university's oldest coffee shop, he had first met the boy whose mail he has now become so accustomed to reading.<br /></span></p><br />.......<br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">To be continued.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Thanks! Comments welcome, if you'd like!<br /></span></p>Katie Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09580217005694958080noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7155352340745614816.post-49730153801897443162011-12-11T11:39:00.006-07:002013-03-09T11:10:58.771-07:00The Beauty of the Season<br />
<br />
Last week, as I sat in church, I had a revelation.<br />
What better place for that?<br />
<br />
I'll admit that, as I sat, my mind wandered back to the Saturday night just before when I had sat in the living room of some dear friends, gaping at their Christmas tree as it slowly came together. I tied silver glittered ribbon to painted glass orbs and handed them off to find their way onto the artificial branches. The white lights set those orbs afire as they spun slowly, mindlessly, gently back and forth before coming to rest in the soft light.<br />
I was so entranced with the beauty of it, I was momentarily afraid to speak for fear of spoiling the beauty.<br />
<br />
I love white lights, and colored glass, and little stars, and white-glitter snowflakes, and garlands, and candles, and carols, and snow, and bundled people, mittens, scarves, hats, coats... I love it all so much sometimes I think my heart will burst...<br />
<br />
Yet, while sitting in church, thinking back on the tree, I suddenly feel a bit guilty... that stuff is not what Christmas is about. Christmas is about the Savior, about His birth, about His Atonement, death, and resurrection. It is about His love, and God's love and what they mean for me in my life...<br />
<br />
And then I hear Keats in my head saying "Beauty is Truth, Truth Beauty" and I think: I love those beautiful things because of the Truth that they represent. If Beauty is a sort of abstract Truth-- something you can't quite put your finger on, but can sense nonetheless-- then the lights, the garlands, the snow, the music, the glitter-- by their very nature all mean: He loves you, He wants you to be happy, He will help you to be happy, fear not, love your neighbor, love your family, rise above who you are now to become who you want to be.... and do all of this because over 2000 years ago, a beautiful woman gave birth to the beautiful son of a beautiful God who loved you enough to give up everything for you-- and I can't think of any Truth more beautiful than that.<br />
<br />
Merry Christmas, my friends.Katie Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09580217005694958080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7155352340745614816.post-83042044088770956472011-11-29T18:31:00.002-07:002011-11-29T19:25:40.902-07:00Comparison is a Tricky Standard: Righteous Judgment as I Currently See ItAnyone who knows me knows that I can be a bit of a broken record at times. That is to say, at any given stage in my life I have a small collection of words and phrases that are used and applied in almost any and all situations.<br />Annoying. I know. I would say I am working on it, because I am, but I don't want to get up any false hopes that the quirk will be eradicated overnight.<br />Well--because it won't.<br />Anyway, one of the classics during my University era was the word 'judging' and a few phrases containing the word.<br />"You're judging."<br />"You're judging, and you're jealous."<br />"You're such a judger!" (Not a word, I know)<br />Or, the ever classic *look-at-you-with-raised-eyebrows* "JUDGING."<br />etc.<br /><br />Oh dear. I must defend the ridiculousness of this in stating that none of these accusations were ever used in much seriousness, and though the hilarity of the jest quite wore off after a week or two I am sure, they inexplicably remained frequent members of my conversation bank for 2 or more years.<br />For those who felt the need to take me literally, Elder Oaks' talk "'<a href="http://lds.org/ensign/1999/08/judge-not-and-judging?lang=eng&query=judging+righteous+%28name%3a%22Dallin+H.+Oaks%22%29"><span>Judge Not' and Judging"</span></a> was frequently brought up, thereby attempting to turn a jest into a serious conversation. Served me right, I am sure, but I don't think I ever had it, and I do believe I offended people on occasion with my insensitivity. No one wants to be told that they are unrighteously judging (especially after reading and understanding Elder Oak's powerful testimony on the need for righteous judgment) and I should not have joked about such things. I am sorry.<br /><br />Lately, I have had many thoughts on the subject of judgment, the ways that we judge, etc. I am sure that there are plenty of scriptures on this topic that I have not found, but I have seen a few and learned a great deal in the last few weeks about how we judge. If you care to read Elder Oaks' talk linked above, please do. I am not going to discuss the whole thing here again. It has been done. However, I will include his brief summary so that you know what he was getting at if you are unfamiliar with the material:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">In the intermediate judgments we must make, we should take care to judge righteously. We should seek the guidance of the Spirit in our decisions. We should limit our judgments to our own stewardships. Whenever possible we should refrain from judging people until we have an adequate knowledge of the facts. So far as possible, we should judge circumstances rather than people. In all our judgments we should apply righteous standards. And, in all of this we must remember the command to forgive.</span><br /><br />Being interested in more than just circumstantial directions for judgment (not to discount Oaks, his talk is incredibly insightful and useful, I just wanted to switch gears) I have stumbled upon a few things that have enlightened my understanding on the topic of righteous judgment. I would simply like to add my voice to all of those others who have paved the way for further thought on the subject.<br /><br />I am normally a fan of mystery/surprises, but I am going to cut right to the chase on this one.<br /><br />RIGHTEOUS JUDGMENT SHOULD ALWAYS BE BASED ON SOMETHING <span style="font-weight: bold;">IN AND OF ITSELF</span>.<br /><br />Let me explain.<br />We live in a world of comparison. Comparing my job to yours, comparing my kids to yours, my husband to yours, my front yard to yours, my Christmas lights to yours (P.S. I don't have a husband, or children... you get the point) I am probably not going to stop comparing all of the time, because I am human. I wish I could stop doing it.<br /><br />Really, though. This is what it comes down to: Who cares?! Just because your kid is smart in Geometry, and mine has to go to a special class just to scrape through in math. What in the world of a difference does it make? It can go the other way. Maybe my child is a genius at the piano, and yours couldn't identify the difference between a piano and a tuba.<br />Again. Who cares? Who really cares?<br /><br />Well. The answer to that is probably "all involved parties". But the answer probably <span style="font-weight: bold;">should</span> be "no one".<br /><br />Let us say for the sake of the story that we don't care, (oh what a world it would be) and we decide that we're just going to look at our children and not pay attention to what the others children are doing. Now I see my child for what it is: a talent at the piano, who could use some help at math. He is no better, or no worse than your child. He just is.<br /><br />Liberating, isn't it?<br /><br />Driving analogy! Driving analogies are always good, right? The old, "road trip of life" bit. Ok, so you're driving on the Freeway (in SL county, so you're going 75 in a 65, not 65 in a construction zone 55) and you see this girl next to you in a sports car ROCKING out to some new album she just got at Graywhale and is pretty excited about. You have some options here:<br /><br />1. You can think to yourself, "Wow. That girl is a total idiot. She is not paying attention. She is going to crash and die."<br /><br />2. You can think to yourself, "Looks like a good time. I wonder what she's listening to. Good old Graywhale, that place is awesome. Maybe if I tilt my head this way I can see the album cover so that I can go to Graywhale later and pick it up for myself."<br /><br />OK. One of those thoughts is nice, the other isn't. Is either really all that helpful? I'm thinking not so much. Well, you might get some good music out of it later on. Truth be told, you're most likely just going to crash your own car because you're so fixated on what she is doing you're not paying enough attention to your own thing.<br /><br />Ok, so does that mean you just stare at your own lane, and never look over at all? I remember when I was learning to drive being told the skill of assertive driving (which, I'm actually not that great at). Assertive drivers are very aware of what is going on around them so that they can react accordingly to protect <span style="font-style: italic;">themselves</span>.<br /><br />We're getting to one of the hearts of my issue now. This life, despite what others may tell you, is about you. Before you think I'm an apostate, hear me out.<br /><br />You can only control yourself.<br />You have been told to "work out your own <span class="highlight">salvation</span> <span class="highlight">with</span> <span class="highlight">fear</span> and <span class="highlight">trembling</span> before [The Lord]."<br />Only you can determine if you are exalted or not.<br />You cannot have faith for other people, or use other people's faith.<br />You cannot use other people's oil.<br />You cannot save other people.<br />You cannot control other people/things, you can only control your reactions to other people/things.<br /><br />So, if this isn't about me, then how come all of these principles are true?<br /><br />Yeah. This is not the one where I talk about "losing yourself to find it" because... well, that is a story for another rainy day. For now, I am talking about judging, and the need for each of us to WORRY ABOUT OURSELVES.<br /><br />Back to the car thing. Two other options.<br />3). You can say "I do not care about what is going on in the car next to me, because I am just worrying about my own self and my own car. I am not going to look over there at all, or pay any mind to anything going on around me." (all the while, Graywhale girl is jamming recklessly away).<br /><br />4). OR, finally, you can think, "I see next to me a girl in a car who does not seem to be paying close attention to the road. Whatever her reasons, I need to make sure to steer clear of any potential danger. I will be especially cautious as I drive next to her. In fact, maybe I'll move lanes so that I won't be near her. I sure hope she's OK."<br /><br />Which of the 4 options is the most productive? Number 3 seems like a good plan at first glance. Don't worry about others, just worry about yourself. But, that option might also get you killed. I mean, she really isn't paying very close attention. If you chose option 4, you are protecting yourself without being unfair. You acknowledge that perhaps she has reasons you don't understand for driving recklessly. You aren't pronouncing impending death on her and those in her car. You are making an observation (as Elder Oaks would point out, one without all of the facts, because you do not have the time or the means necessary to get all of the facts) and you will most likely benefit yourself by this method of judgment. You are looking out for yourself, and judging a situation (as Elder Oaks also suggests), instead of a person.<br /><br />The dialogue goes from: "That girl is a total idiot, she's going to get us all killed." to "This car is probably not safe to be around indefinitely."<br /><br />Better yet if you have your children in the car, you are also making a judgment call with their safety in mind.<br /><br />Now, say you're driving and you see your own daughter driving recklessly? Ok, that is also a question for another day. Haha! (Sorry).<br /><br />Back to the very points at hand. How do we judge? I was saying earlier that we should judge things in and of themselves. Saying, "I'm a way better driver than that chick!" is NOT productive. How in the world is that going to help anything? Joke's on you if you end up rear-ending someone because you're sitting there thinking about how much of a better driver you are than Graywhale girl.<br />Saying, "I am going to be careful driving next to that car because for whatever reason, the car is not being handled in the best way. I wonder if I sometimes do the same thing? I know sometimes when a favorite song comes on I can be a little distracted. I should work on paying more attention while I'm driving." is a very productive way to judge. It is not a comparison call. It is judging something for what it is, in and of itself. It is not professing to know all of the facts, and giving room for the possibility (maybe even if it's not a probability) of there being other reasons why the young woman is not driving cautiously or carefully. This statement also brings it back to ME. Because this is about ME. "<span style="font-weight: bold;">I</span> need to work on things as well. <span style="font-weight: bold;">I</span> can learn from this. <span style="font-weight: bold;">I </span>will not drive distracted. <span style="font-weight: bold;"> I</span> will try to be more cautious on the road."<br /><br />Moroni 7: 16-17 gives valuable insight into judging things in and of themselves:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">...wherefore, I show unto you the way to judge; for every thing which inviteth to do good, and to persuade to believe in Christ, is sent forth by the power and gift of Christ; wherefore ye may know with a perfect knowledge it is of God.</span><p style="font-style: italic;" class=""><a class="bookmark-anchor dontHighlight" name="17"></a><span class="verse"></span>But whatsoever thing persuadeth men to do evil<a id="footnote32" class="footnote" href="http://lds.org/scriptures/bofm/moro/7.15?lang=eng#" rel="/scriptures/chapter/footnote/default.xqy?volumeUri=bofm&bookUri=moro&chapterUri=7&noteID=17a&lang=eng"></a>, and believe not in Christ, and deny him, and serve not God, then ye may know with a perfect knowledge it is of the devil; for after this manner doth the devil work, for he persuadeth no man to do good, no, not one; neither do his angels; neither do they who subject themselves unto him.</p><p class="">So we are to judge things based on what they entice us to do. Notice, the text does not say, "If it entices you to do better than something else does, then it is of God." There is no comparison involved.</p><p class="">Along the same vein, but slightly different, there is another reference. 3 Nephi 14: 20:</p><p style="font-style: italic;" class=""><a class="bookmark-anchor dontHighlight" name="20"></a><span class="verse"></span>Wherefore, by their fruits<a id="footnote17" class="footnote" href="http://lds.org/scriptures/bofm/3-ne/14.20?lang=eng#" rel="/scriptures/chapter/footnote/default.xqy?volumeUri=bofm&bookUri=3-ne&chapterUri=14&noteID=20a&lang=eng"></a> ye shall know them.</p><p class="">Ok. So we are told that if it produces good, then it is good. Again, no comparison needed. It is talking about something in and of itself.</p><p class="">The next point is one that I have heard from MANY sources, but have chosen here to draw from my favorite of all General Authority addresses: Jeffrey R. Holland's memorable BYU devotional address "Remember Lot's Wife".</p><p style="font-style: italic;" class="">Dismiss the destructive and keep dismissing it, until the beauty of the Atonement of Christ has revealed to you your bright future, and the bright future of your family and your friends and your neighbors. <span style="font-weight: bold;">God doesn't care nearly as much about where you have been as He does about where you are, and with His help, where you are willing to go. </span>(Emphasis added)<br /></p><p class="">Judging something against its past. Judging by progress. Judging something in and of itself. If I think that I am more righteous than so-and-so because I have not made the 'mistakes' they have made, I am not taking into account this important principle. If I have only progressed 1 step since I was 17, and so-and-so has progressed 25, how does that make me so great? That kind of makes me look like an idiot, truth be told. Maybe there are reasons I have not progressed, and God knows all, but comparison is a tricky standard. Do away with it. God doesn't use it, so why should we?</p><p class="">Elder Holland also brushed on the topic of comparison itself in his legendary talk "The Tongue of Angels". Of course, there he was talking specifically on how we treat our children, but I think it's useful here.</p><p style="font-style: italic;" class="">And try not to compare your children, even if you think you are skillful at it. You may say most positively that “Susan is pretty and Sandra is bright,” but all Susan will remember is that she isn’t bright and Sandra that she isn’t pretty. Praise each child individually <span style="font-weight: bold;">for what that child is</span>, and help him or her escape our culture’s obsession with comparing, competing, and never feeling we are “enough.” (Emphasis added).<br /></p><p class="">Perhaps there are instances when comparison is useful and Godly. I can't think of any, so for now I want to move away from it. For now, I want to eradicate it in my life. Compare only to say "this enticeth me to do good, produces good fruit, and invites a forward walking--this other thing does not. I choose light. I choose Truth. I choose good fruit, and progress, and Charity, and Hope, and Faith, and Life."<br /></p><p class="">I hope that I will be able to judge righteously as I move through life, and that all can be done in the spirit of faith, hope, and charity. As a great Mormon Theologists friend, and brother recently stated in the comments section of a guest blog post he composed,<br /></p><p style="font-style: italic;" class="">"Repentance is not simply the 4 step sequence of addressing individual acts or thoughts but the re-orientation and transformation of our entire being. Crucially, repentance is always without exception about me, about us, not about others. The moment we look outward to others as those in need of change is the moment that we have lost faith, hope, and charity. Repentance is about our own destabilization and constant re-adjustment of what we thought we knew and how we can more precisely love and forgive. Repentance requires that we constantly be broken down and made new. How soon before that which is new becomes old again? The process of beginning again with new eyes is relentless. If we cannot see others and the world around us with new, restored eyes we cannot give ourselves to them in those ways that are mutually redemptive. The Restoration, then, is decidedly not simply the restoration of original doctrines and practices, but the constant personal restoration of our souls through repentance." -Jacob Baker <a href="http://bycommonconsent.com/2011/11/27/sexual-transgression-and-dwelling-together-in-love/">"Sexual Transgression and Dwelling Together in Love"</a><br /></p>Katie Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09580217005694958080noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7155352340745614816.post-80676286939693585862011-11-22T19:58:00.005-07:002011-11-23T10:02:11.938-07:00You {Me}-- A Study: NarrationWe are storytellers, you and I.<br /><br />By storyteller, you must understand, I do not mean someone who relates falsehoods. I mean someone for whom stories are a part of life. I once read an essay written under the ideology that the only difference between the human brain and the computer is that the human brain knows and can apply the phrase, "that reminds me of a story." I think there is a lot of truth to that.<br /><br />I believe strongly in the power of stories, be they true or untrue, sad or silly, short or long, personal or public.<br />I love stories.<br /><br />So here I am again, back on BYU campus. You are there too, though I think that it is the first and last time I ever saw you there. Different events have brought us to be wandering about the Museum of Art on a Saturday evening, and it is there we meet by happenstance. It has been some time since I last saw you, which fuels my excitement.<br /><br />meant.to.be.<br /><br />You had nowhere to be, and neither did I. What else to do but join meanderings? We did, and we talked, and you told me your stories. I will not re-tell any of them here, for they are not mine to relate. I <span style="font-style: italic;">will</span> say that as you talked, it become apparent to me that your stories mean as much to you as mine do to me.<br /><br />We are kindred spirits that way.<br /><br />You talked, and in turn, let me talk. Yours were better than mine. All of my stories were so pathetic, I could swear I was liable to cry at intervals. You were calm, but the things you said were affecting: typical adventures, not-so-typical adventures--heartbreak, triumph, joy, incredulation (not a word), trepidation-- all broke over me like the cold wind of the early spring that surrounded us; surrounded us as we went around, and around. I was in<span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;">awe at the way </span>you were able to size-up life, put it in perspective; it all seemed so... un-graspable to me</span>. <span style="font-size:130%;">It was a lesson in narration. <span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" >Seeing life for what it was, and not being affected to the point of paralysis. It was looking back to turn anew to the future. </span><span style="font-size:100%;">My story-telling sessions are usually the beginning of a long chain of excuses as to why I do everything that I do, and why I do not believe I could possibly do better...<br /><br />Not yours. You <span style="font-style: italic;">own</span> your stories in a way I have never been able to replicate. </span></span><br /><br />Remember the young man with the glove? I think we told him we were siblings. Wicked of us, really.<br /><br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">I think if I find the woman that fits this glove, I will find my future wife.</span>"<br /><br />Oh, I could have killed you when you made some remark to the tune of "So are you going to stop flirting and just ask her out, already?"<br /><br />He gave me a look like 'maybe I will', and I gave him a look like, 'maybe you shouldn't.' He didn't; but I often reminisce and enjoy a good laugh at his expense--him and his overly-flirtatious ways.<br /><br />I had that glove in my pocket for a few weeks after that, and every time I put my hand into the pocket of my overcoat, I would think of you, the narrator. I wish I could remember whatever became of that little souvenir. I might have accidentally "lost it" at a bus stop, on account of the other memory I had connected with it. (haha!)<br /><br />I should have kept it: that souvenir of our story.<br /><br />Thank you. Thank you for your courage, and your example, and for your ability to narrate and inspire. You have done more good in my life than you can know, of that I am absolutely certain.Katie Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09580217005694958080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7155352340745614816.post-11002467043282934522011-11-17T19:02:00.003-07:002011-11-17T21:03:24.880-07:00"I'll Never Live to Get Any Shade Out of It"When I was taking film classes back at the University, I was shown <a href="http://fitforthekingdom.byu.edu/?page=watch&piece=leroy">this</a> short documentary in one of them.<br /><br />I have never forgot it. It is not on YouTube, and I couldn't figure out any way to embed it, so if you want to see what I'm talking about, you'll have to follow the link.<br /><br />I guess it doesn't really matter. Truth be told, I don't really care if no one bothers to click on the link and watch the video. Life is busy, we all have plenty to do.<br /><br />I'll take it a step further and say...that I'm not even going to say...that you SHOULD watch this video. You 'shouldn't' do anything. I will tell you that it wouldn't hurt to watch it; it might do you some good. <br /><br />As stated, I have never forgot this film, though I'm not sure what it was that inspired me to run a Google search on it this evening. A portly old gentleman, working his crossing-guard post 10 years ago. Who knows if Leroy is still around today? The kids in the video are graduating from high school. Some of them <span style="font-style: italic;">might</span> remember him, most of them probably don't. I can almost guarantee that none of them remember his name.<br />It would be nice to say that this video was one of those "beauty of the everyday, find the hidden artistic side of being old and having little to do, I want to help you change your life...." sort of endeavors... but... it isn't.<br /><br />I love it because....<br />Gosh, I don't know.<br />Because it was made with so much love. This is charity at its finest. Ben Unguren wasn't trying to make a hero out of Leroy. I'm not really sure he was <span style="font-style: italic;">trying</span> to do much of anything. It is pretty unpolished. It is as it is. <br /><br />Don't think I'm stupid enough to think that this is "Unbiased" or just a "slice of life" with no artistic lens on it. That would not even be possible. (No <a href="http://mekatiec.blogspot.com/2011/05/unobstructed-views.html">Unobstructed Views</a>, remember?) But it does do a good job at getting <span style="font-style: italic;">closer</span> to the heart of the issue, to the heart of a (possibly) lonely old man. It does a better job than a lot of what you probably see.<br /><br />Is Leroy a hero anyway? Probably. I'm sure he was for someone, somewhere.<br /><br />I guess he becomes a hero to me every time I think of his words that close the clip.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Well. I guess it's about time to go home and plant my tree. I'll never live to get any shade out of it, but I'll go home and plant it. </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">What are you going to do when you leave here?"</span><br /><br />No judgment, no nod towards striving to be inspirational. It is pretty raw, pretty unsalted, pretty un-sexy.<br /><br />Watch it if you want. If not, no worries.Katie Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09580217005694958080noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7155352340745614816.post-65748715195224892122011-10-27T21:22:00.003-06:002011-10-27T22:00:35.653-06:00You {Me}-- A Study: AdventureI think you could kind of tell that 12:30 a.m. was not the time I wanted to be negotiating with the employees of a just-barely-closed-for-the-night Wendy's to give you a frosty. A nobler woman than I once said that "Angry people are not always wise<span style="font-style: italic;">.</span>"- (Jane Austen, <span style="font-style: italic;">Pride and Prejudice</span>). I think the same can be said for exhausted people, so I let you have at it on your own. As you walked in, I depressed the 'recline' button on my seat in the car and thought that maybe if I fell asleep fast enough, I could dream that I was already warm in bed, instead of out here, chasing down icey treats at all hours.<br />It didn't take you long to get nowhere with the Wendy's employee. She was probably dreaming of bed herself. <br />"She pointed me in the direction of a McDonald's. It's not far"<br />I had been nodding off in the theatre, but had found a second wind in stepping outside. Unfortunately, the second-wind had long been used-up by the time we drove into the next city and back. I don't think bed has ever called my name so loudly. <br />I bit my tongue.<br />On to McDonald's we went.<br />The poor fellow working at the drive-in at that unearthly hour got more than he bargained for when we pulled up to the microphone to place our order.<br />"Yeah, how are the Rolo shakes?" you asked.<br />"It's a McFlurry. And we're out of the Rolo ones."<br />I don't think you heard him.<br />"Yeah, I was hoping to get a Rolo shake tonight."<br />"They're McFlurries and we don't have any of the Rolo ones right now."<br />I guess you still didn't catch his correction.<br />"Ok. Between the Oreo and the M&M shake, which do you prefer?"<br />"They're McFlurries."<br />By this point I was ready to crawl in the window, box the employee's ears, and make one myself. I didn't understand in the least why the young man felt that such impertinence was necessary, when all I wanted was to get some sleep.<br />"OK. Can I get an Oreo shake?"<br />He didn't argue you on that one, and I thanked the gods of the fast food industries as you pulled forward to the first window. While we sat there, the magical moment of 12:45 am tolled. You know, the moment where everything suddenly becomes side-splittingly hysterical; things that, 25 minutes earlier, may not have even merited a smile? <br />We sat there, at that window, and I don't know what made me think of it, but I couldn't help but bring it up.<br />"Did you take a look at that sign in the Diner tonight? The one that said, 'Come Again!'" I made quotation marks with my fingers in the air when I spoke to indicate exactly how the sign had been written.<br />I finished my thought. "I don't get it. What is the point of the quotation marks!? They are completely unnecessary!" <br />You were right behind me, and by then, we were already giggling more than the silly grammatical error had warranted.<br />"You know, it's like my old gramps used to say. 'Come Again!'"<br />We lost it. <br />There in the McDonalds drive-through, I temporarily lost my sanity. It was only made more funny by the fact that a few moments later our favorite employee stuck his head out of a window a few yards in front us, trying to see if we were coming for our "shake". <br />We were at the wrong window.<br />I am 100% sure he thought we were drunks, which was all just as well. I never will be drunk in my life, and, you know, you've got to get your kicks in somehow.<br />The point is, had we been sleeping at that moment, the one thing I thought I really wanted, I would not be writing this little anecdote. Your sense of adventure has always been such an inspiration to me; not in seeking midnight sweets, but in making life what you want it to be, and not letting little annoyances get in your way. <span style="font-size:130%;">You've always treated me as though I were endowed with that same unquenchable desire for adventure</span>, and for fulfilling all of my dreams in-spite of the inevitable difficulties that arise in trying to do so. <br />If there is one thing I need a little more of in my life, it's that attitude. Thank you.Katie Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09580217005694958080noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7155352340745614816.post-3888346025453104432011-10-24T12:34:00.004-06:002011-10-24T22:27:16.693-06:00An Hundred Roads Diverged in a Yellow Wood...<span style="font-style: italic;">"I shall be telling this with a sigh</span>,<br /> <span style="font-style: italic;"> somewhere ages and ages hence:</span><br /> <span style="font-style: italic;"> Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-</span>"<br /> -Robert Frost "The Road Not Taken"<br /><br /> If only it really were TWO roads that diverged. <br />If only it weren't a proverbial web, spreading out in all of those directions.<br /> Incomprehensible,<br /> Without bounds,<br /> Overwhelming in its multiplicity,<br /> Paralyzing in its possibility.<br /><br /> If only it didn't always have to be told with a sigh. <br /><br />Years ago, I sat on the couch of a familiar little apartment in Provo, UT and had the following conversation with my best friend:<br /><br />Me: Sometimes I wish that life were less like life and more like a Choose Your Own Adventure book.<br />Her: So that you could go back and put your thumb in it.<br /><br />Did you ever do that, reader? I put more than a thumb in it. I would keep one digit between the pages of every decision I made. It always seemed as though it would be so easy to back-track if I became dissatisfied with the ending of my story, (eg if I fell down an old well and was never heard from again) so painless, so possible. <br /><br />Sometimes, in my adulthood, I almost feel that same sense of possibility. Just imagine me! I still have ten digits between my two hands, and I still assert that I can recognize when an important moment is transpiring. I still have the urge to put a finger here, a finger there, to mark pivotal points, as if marking them can save me from the consequences of them.<br /><br />But Oh! how those moments eat at us in the days, weeks, months, years to come: those momentous moments we mark as having transpired right before everything came crashing down. It is very probable that these "moments" are not even related to specific personal decisions. Maybe they were the products of elemental circumstances, or the decisions of someone else. In cases such as these, must we trace back further to avoid undesired consequences? Where is it then? That wrong decision? Where can we find the moment in which the stupid decision was made that led to all of this insanity? <br /><br />In the seeming impossibility of tracing the genesis of the "mistake", which moment do we pin as the fatal one? If you could only go back once, trying to avoid ultimate tragedy, which moment would you choose? What if the turning point really comes in your reaction to the choices, or in your reaction to the set of circumstances, (which reactions become little choices that accumulate over time)? <br /><br />What moment do we save so that we can re-visit later? Do we mark all of them and then choose once the final blow has been administered, or is that when it is already too late? Which choices only feel important, and may end up having little bearing on the outcome? Which ones seem insignificant but may rock the very foundations upon which we have built our everything?<br /><br />In the final few paragraphs of what I consider to be one of the most moving novels I have ever had occasion to read on the subject of love, author David Levithan writes the following as a sort of definition for the noun <span style="font-style: italic;">Zenith</span>:<br /><br /> <span style="font-style: italic;">"I'm standing in the bathroom, drying my hands on your towel, and you're hovering in the kitchen. I am happy from dinner, happy the day is over, and before I can ask you what's going on, you tell me there's something we need to talk about.</span><br /> <span style="font-style: italic;">This is it, the moment before you tell me the precise thing I don't want to know.</span><br /> <span style="font-style: italic;">Is this the zenith? This last moment of ignorance? </span><br /> <span style="font-style: italic;">Or does it come much later?"</span> -David Levithan "The Lover's Dictionary"<br /><br />The truth is, however much we want to protect ourselves, at the end of the day, we only have ten fingers. That is not nearly enough to keep a marker on all of the potentially-life-altering moments. As if this realization is not dis-heartening enough, it is also true that the more fingers you have marking pages, the less you have available to use to turn new pages forward, the more frazzled you become, the more confused. <br /><br />There comes a time when you have to take your fingers out of the page, when you have to acknowledge that no one is allowed to live outside of circumstance. No one is allowed to live non-linearly. No one is allowed to take every path, wish as we may, try as we might. <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />"I wish we could take every path.</span><br /> <span style="font-style: italic;">I could spend a hundred years<br />Adoring you.</span><br /> <span style="font-style: italic;">Yes, I wish we could take every path,</span><br /> <span style="font-style: italic;">Because I hated to close<br />the door on you.<br /><br />And I have never known the plan.<br />It's been a long, long time.<br />How are you?<br />Your eyes are green. Your hair is gold.<br />Your hair is black. Your eyes are blue.<br />I closed the ranks, and I doubled back--<br />but, you know, I hated to close<br />the dog-gone door on you.<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span> -Joanna Newsom "Baby Birch"Katie Christinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09580217005694958080noreply@blogger.com1