"Close watch on this heart of mine..."

Just saw Walk the Line with Elise. I'm not going to say "Johnny Cash is God," but I'll admit that I'm tempted. Actually, he was perfectly horrendous in his early career (as were most in Rock & Roll history). Still I've got a soft spot for him in spite of (or perhaps because of) his appalling behaviour. But whatever he was like, the movie was quite good. I was in love the whole time. Everyone must see this movie, at the movie theatre, if possible.

I'm going to be listening to a lot of Johnny Cash in the coming days.

Somehow related to Christmas

I discovered this article on the Village Voice website. The article, "Searching for Bush's Jesus", is a curious and thought-provoking one. Tell me what you think. Check out the website sometime. The Village Voice is a rag from Greenwich Village, NY. Check it out for the liberal in you. Or, conversely, for the conservative in you find something to react against. I love discussion. One way or the other.

To y'all.

Merry Christmas to y'all! And to y'all a happy new year!

And, now, for a more serious message:

Christ is born! Glorify Him!

Inspired.

I found that "kitsch" article at this website called Ship of Fools. After perusing it, I thought it belonged on my list of "Places to Go" right below "Lark News." Check out the "Fruitcake" section, as well as the "Gadgets for God."

Kitschmas.

I read this article in the "Controversy" section of the Sunday Chicago Sun-Times. I was surprised to see such a ruthlessly Orthodox-sounding write-up about Christmas in a widely-read newspaper. Incidentally, it is by an Anglican minister who teaches philosophy at Oxford. Click the title here, "The Unbearable Kitschness of Christmas", to read it en toto. You'll be glad you did. Here's a snippet of it to wet your palate:

For the second century Gnostic, Valentinius, Jesus "ate and drank but did not defecate"....The Jesus of Valentinius is thus the kitsch Jesus. And it's this same kitsch Jesus of sentimental benevolence that features in countless Christmas cards and community carol services. The baby in the manger now presides over a celebration of feel-good bonhomie that makes the true meaning of Christmas almost impossible to articulate. Boozed-up partygoers and proud grandparents demand the unreality of "O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie".

TV.

Check out my tasty little quote down at the very bottom of this page. I'll change it every now and again. Please comment, criticize, etc. I'll write more about it (Linford who?) later.

And now: we are without him.

I back-posted a little vignette I wrote back in August. I don't know if anyone read it, but I'm now posting it current so you can all read about him.

His name was Clem Hamilton. He was 83. Not really the "old and decrepit" type, but definitely at the end of his years (that much is obvious now). His wife is probably still in a nursing home for her debilitating Alzheimer's disease. Will she know the man whose funeral she is attending tonight? I will see. I hope to go tonight.

I only knew him through casual, yet sincere and serious, conversations while working at Starbucks. He was a regular. Took the bus (he lived in town, his wife near, but not near enough to walk in his aged state). Got coffee. Usually got a donut or oatmeal raising cookie. Somehow he got hooked on our green frappuccino, that Green Tea one that came out this past summer. Maybe that killed him. Maybe the coffee. Probably not, though.

He told me, upon several occassions and my wife upon one, that he had a whole list a books he wanted to read before he died. My wife had the privilege of viewing it and remarked that the ones he had already read were so dark and depressing (but then, most good literature is). His most favorite book, I do believe, was Virginia Woolf's To the Lighthouse. He claimed it was "the most perfect book ever written".

I guess he died in his sleep. I was quite shocked to hear that he had died. I was angry, upset, to say the least. I didn't cry, but I was, and still am, deeply sad. I saw him sporadically, but was always glad when I did. Unfortunately, being on the clock, I was not at liberty to engage in long conversations. If I knew he was going to die, I guess I would have acted differently. But do we ever have a premonition of someone's death (except in the case of terminal illness, naturally)? I am glad to have had a particular interaction with him, which I wrote about later that day. The vignette is in the post below.

One last comment: Let us pray for his soul. His name was Clem Hamilton. May the Lord have mercy upon him. You are worthy, O God, now and ever and unto the ages of ages. Amen.

Clement's Resolve

‘John Bayley?’
‘Elegy for Iris’ says the old man.
‘A novel or non-fiction?’
‘It’s a memoir about a woman who died of Alzheimer’s.’
The young man stops his questioning for a few seconds to recall the fact that the old man’s wife is in a nursing home for the same disease.
‘I just hope that if it ever happens to me I’ll have the good sense to blow my brains out,’ continues the old man during the short pause. The young man gives a cute and awkward smirk and the two walk towards the front of the coffee shop.
‘I’m serious,’ comes the old man’s straight conversation closer.
The two break off, the old man complimenting a young lady on having a Macintosh laptop. The young man leaves the shop, gets on his bike and rides home.
‘I didn’t smirk because I thought he was joking, and it wasn’t so much because it was an awkward statement,’ says the young man in his head, ‘It was more because I agree with him and appreciate his honesty.’
The young man knows the old man to be the plain honest type. His favorite novels include Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Andersen and To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf. He wants to publish a novel he himself has written called Trotville, Ohio. The young man has the first two chapters in his possession and is reminded to finish the second chapter and return them next time he sees the old man come into the coffee shop. He knows that the old man gets up quite early every morning to get coffee in his travel mug and catch the bus to the nursing home to see his ailing wife, whom he has loved over fifty years. He used to write sports journalism in Dayton, Ohio. He has been a Mac lover since Apple II, one of the first personal computers made by Macintosh back in the early eighties. He wants to blow his brains out if he gets Alzheimer’s. This is the short list of facts the young man has compiled about the old man.

The young man, on the other hand, knows no facts about himself.

Frigid.

This morning driving to work the bank's digital time and temperature display said it was 4 degrees. Some kids at school said that it was 9 below. Our Norther Neighbors, 4 degrees is like 16 below.

I can't believe it. But with sun and no wind, somehow it is bearable.

The weather is as cold and bleak as my emotions these days.

-=o0o=-

I finished Lies (And the Lying Liars Who Tell Them): A Fair and Balanced Look at the Right by Al Franken. Totally compelling and entertaining -- and, at times, irreverant -- to the very end. It is interesting to note, as I mentioned in my last post, that it was a local Catholic high school that led me to read the book. I saw it on the shelf in the history class I was substituting that day. From the moment I started reading it, I was drawn in. I read at every chance I got. When I left that day and had to leave it behind, I was determined to get it at the library. That was last Thursday, less than a week ago. So I read the book fast. But then, books that are so-called "page-turners" are not necessarily the greatest writing out there, just written in such a fashion as to draw you in. Another book that falls in this category is Harry Potter. I've been reading the second book in fits and spurts over the past couple days. I read the first over a year ago and declared that I would not read another one.

I have not idea what I am saying by all of this and I've probably lost most of you. Oh well. I'll write about Clem now.

Adieu.

A li'l footnote.

Today while substituting a U.S. History class at the local Catholic College Preparatory High School, I came across Al Franken's Lies, and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them, which, by the way, I first saw in the airport bookstore a few years ago (which was during a time when I wasn't allowed to even have the appearance of having liberal leanings).

Anyway, I picked it up and read it. I was so obsessed with it that I even checked it out from the library as they were closing tonight. Perhaps my favorite part, so far for I've read perhaps only a fourth of it, is a graphic novel-esque story called "The Gospel of Supply Side Jesus." It is quite savvy and witty and fairly frightening. I'm sure our Northern Neighbors would especially appreciate it.

Check it out.

A rock genius in the making.

Cheryl asked (in a comment on the post "Cheap Entertainment") if Jude is as musical as ever. That is a resounding Yes! But what's funnier and cooler is that he'll pretend to not only put on a concert, but even have a recording set-up to record it all (and he seems more concerned with how it will be recorded than with the actual composition of the song). His mikes and guitars are the rolls of wrapping paper Elise brought home from Ikea. The recording equipment is the many spools of thread necessary for Elise's serger.

He's a funny kid. He was walking through Ikea with Elise and naming the artist of the particular song playing over the speakers. "That's Coldplay... U2... Moby." Now you know what music he likes. I don't know if he'll ever get any kind of classical music education, but he'll certainly know the ropes when it comes to rock'n'roll.

A little noise.

Yeah, good old Sufjan (pronounced "Soof-yahn" by the way) is basically rocking the world of folk and indie rock in one fell swoop. He's even captured the heart of my original source of good music, Andy W. (Elise's brother-in-law). Andy is a hard-sell for artists like Sufjan, but when he titles his latest album after your home state, what can you do?

I was at Hope as a freshman while Sufjan was a senior. He was in a band called Marzuki which I saw a couple times and really liked. Who knew that he'd be the biggest thing since Simon & Garfunkel? (Okay, that is perhaps a bit of an exaggeration.)

Cheap entertainment.

Lark News: Read if you dare.

What can I say? It made me laugh.

(Thanks Matthew.)

Grace and peace.

I hope all of our American friends had a blessed Thanksgiving. Ours was wonderful, spent with the Leonards, Elise's dad's siblings and relations. And to all, American and Canadian and otherwise, I wish a joy-filled Christmas season. On the day of (or very near it), I will be glad to say "Christ is born: glorify Him!"

Ritual.

Coffee for Elise and I is a ritual. I prepare it carefully and with precision to produce the finest americanos known to man. We enjoy our coffee, mine with cream, Elise's with cream and sugar, sometimes with chocolate or something else sweet and rich, at least once a day.

Coffee is a ritual for many still. We all have various rituals, usually without even realizing it. This doesn't make us a ritualistic people automatically. Ritualism results when the rituals themselves are truth or an end, as opposed to a means to discover or experience truth. We worship, live, be with actions and motions: to worship the movements themselves becomes idolatry.

This has all become a reality in my mind only since becoming an Orthodox Christian. Praise God for showing me the light.

What you all must know.

For those who are still confused: All of my blog postings are still here, but you must click on the various months (sidebar to right, scroll down) to see most of them because the homepage contains only ten of the most recent.

All for now.

"Earth's the right place for love:"

"I don't know where it's likely to go better."

Robert Frost, from "Birches."

Ten per page, please; and a word about poetry.

Yes, V. My blog is limited to (I think) ten posts per home page. If you would like to see all of November (for instance), click on the November 2005 link.

I've been into Robert Frost lately -- er, that is, since yesterday. I picked up a copy of "You Come Too," a collection of Frost poems geared at younger readers. In terms of poetry, I'm an infant. Robert Frost is the perfect pre-school teacher for the world of poetry. Still, this doesn't mean he is a shallow poet. His poems contain a first impression of the natural world, which is cause enough for celebration. There is a depth there as well, though it may be difficult to discover. But I've discovered that the beauty of poetry is first of the sounds, cadences and rhythms present in the words. Deeper meanings can be gleaned and fathomed afterwards.

See above for a lovely Robert Frost quote, right for a link to his poetry, and below for some poems I read that were simply beautiful.

Poems of Frost.

Blueberries
Birches
A Young Birch
Acquainted with the Night
Christmas Tree
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Going for Water
After Apple-Picking
The Exposed Nest
A Patch of Old Snow

Try these musings.

Below you will see and (I hope) read. Also: more pictures (encore!).

There is nothing like.

First: An early line drawing of J. Actually, late. Early would be like less than two for him.


Now: Es. doing her best actress-slash-model pose.


And here: Is us. El. and me, so happy. Taken by J., by the way.


Be sure to click on pic to see a big version!

This blogging thing.

Seems kind of stupid to me. What I really want is for people to read about highly fascinating life and say "Wow, Isaiah, your life is so damn interesting. I want to write a book about you or something."

It is all so stupid because my real desire to communicate with people over long distances, creating some kind of cyber-community which is so god-awful ridiculous it almost induces vomiting.

I spend very little time on the internet because we don't have it at home. I do all of this blogging at library computers (mostly Wheaton College, where I'm not even a student).

I think about how I'm probably inadvertently and apathetically helping develop Big Brother. That scares me a little so I try not to think about it.

I man commented, one I've never met and probably never will and said "Hm, coffee and autism: I like your thinking."

Autism? Maybe. More like Asperger's Symdrome, which explains my feeling like I'm in my own lonely little world.

Who will ever read this? Why do I care so much? What will it ever do to change this fallen world?

I crave only friends. Real ones. Flesh and blood.

But sometimes I feel that way about Jesus.

On taste (mis)pairings.

Elise made a delicious homemade pizza last night. I bought a delicious beer, a Hefeweizen from Trader Joe’s. I took a draught from the beer first. Delicious! I love weissbeers. So unique. Then I tried some pizza. Good, good. But why does it taste like banana to me? Elise wondered the same thing, after hearing my comment (which I did not give until she pried). Then I took another sip from the beer: Ah: so that’s why it tastes a little off: my beer tastes like banana. Fascinating.

Captive.

It is. It just is. Probably the best and only word to describe Ravel’s “Boléro” is to call it orgasmic. It is one of the great compositions of all time. A single theme repeated over and over, with only slight variation each time, always with greater intensity than the last time. I suppose acts like Godspeed You Black Emperor!, Sigur Rós, and Radiohead take many of their cues from that single composition, Boléro, whether intentionally, inspirationally or simply because it has affected the world of western music from that point on. It was composed in 1928 and featured in a really bad movie (so I’ve heard) called 10 starring Bo Derek and Dudley Moore. I first gave it a serious listen sometime after Elise and I got married. We both agreed that it was highly orgasmic. And oh-so tastefully composed and performed.

It was brought to my attention again by an article in Wired magazine. The article was written by a man who is working to perfect the computer programming of cochlear implants, which he himself has. They are meant for those who have lost all hearing. Every since he was 15, when his hearing was there yet in need of hearing aids, the music of “Boléro” touched him in a way that other compositions had not. His cochlear implant, gotten after he lost all hearing, allows him to converse with friends and co-workers, etc. The music of Ravel, however, is tasteless and monochrome with his new computer-age hearing aid. It is his desire to hear and experience “Boléro” in the same way as when he still had hearing.

So I just had to go listen to the composition again (for the first time), and I suddenly remembered why it is of such sublime beauty. One theme, lasting a little less than a minute, repeated over and over with slight variation and increase of dynamics, yet captivating for every second of its 15+ minutes. 1928 was the date of composition: it was the birth of minimalism.

"Golden" rules.

Just published: my ode to coffee and caffeine, "Logical addictions." Also, more on special education.

Sorry that I haven't been looking at your various blogs. I haven't gotten much time on internet lately. I realize that if I expect others to read my ramblings and further pontificate, I should do the say to them (the Golden Rule). But I fall short.

Other stuff: autism. I've been reading about it lately. Interesting. I'm worried that I'm borderline autistic. I just mentioned The Idiot by Dostoyevsky. About a Prince who is seen as an "idiot" meaning that he stood off from society in his own world. Autistic people either don't know or misinterpret the social values making them seem like freaks or geeks. But perhaps many, like myself, are well aware of them, but refuse to obey/follow/practice them because of some made-up or deeply-entrenched moral standard. Perhaps we should ask them sometime.

All for now.

My own little world.

Today: more discussion on teaching in special education. I mentioned that I have gotten some recent experience in being an aide for the field of special education, and also that I have enjoyed it and see its benefit to me and to the world. But a comment from a friend (see "Glamour.") was an excellent word on the tendency to act like a kind of saviour to the world for befriending and helping those who are friendless and helpless. I should not say anything at this moment simply because I will start sounding like I have answers, etc, which I don't. (And already this post is sounding incoherent.)

I returned again to a school where I was an aide in a Developmental Learning Program. Why the strong desire to return? for that is what I had. I don't know. Maybe because it felt like being with and educating my own kids.

Dostoyevsky's The Idiot addresses the issue of being with children and the importance of treating them with dignity as you would any adult. Children can teach us more, perhaps, than we can teach them. I would say this is true also of developmentally disabled adults (who act like they are seven) and kids (who act even younger still).

The point is, we can learn much from them. I guess I have nothing more to say right now. My desire is that I could start conversation and discussion, but that is probably wishful thinking. In a year and five years I'll look back at this writing and realize how little I knew then -- and how much I've grown since -- and how much I still have yet to learn.

Glamour.

Rewarding day. I'm discovering a job that I feel contributes to a better society. Somehow I don't feel that as much working at Starbucks. I have a feeling that it would seem that way working any corporate or business job. Obviously there is a need for all kinds of laborers in our society, and in any society, and that justifies their necessity. But if I am to get paid and make a living, as it were, the world of education seems so valuable to me.

Today I worked with three autistic kids, a couple of wheelchair/non-verbal kids and a lovely boy with dark curls that had some undefined problem. They were all too beautiful. And it was so easy to love them and be with them and work with them. It is not a glamourous job, but so worth it in the end, I'm sure.

I've done much special education over the past two months, and will likely do much more. I didn't think it was something I'd enjoy and feel comfortable with. But it is. I have much love and respect for Daniel, my brother-in-law, whenever I am doing this. I feel that I can relate to his experience and his heart.

A little choked up at the thought of it. I'm brought to tears nearly with many interactions I have with these kids. And someone needs to love them. So why not me?

Logical addictions.

Ahh... Coffee. A new perspective on life. Dragging horribly mid-shift, whether substitute teaching or at my personal caffeine service station, Starbucks, coffee does do the job. So I’m admitting here: I am a hopeless addict. Or I am getting old. Or both.

When I was a little younger, and much more naive, I scoffed at grown-ups’ inability to abstain from coffee (and for those that cannot stomach coffee, Diet Coke will do). Well, I have not taken to drinking countless cups of weak drip coffee throughout the day no matter its source, as is my parents custom. Somehow my uncompromised taste for quality trumps the need for caffeine. This means I stay away from soda drinks too. Instead, my poison comes in the form of watered-down espresso–otherwise known as “café americano–laced with cream. Occasionally I’ll have the iced version. At home, I make the occasional french press; at work, I’ll grab the readily available drip-brewed cup. It makes a difference during the day.

Can I hear an “Amen!”?

Last of the Nite.

Lots to see here. Five posts not counting this one. Scroll down and try to be amused.

Trip Hop.

Someday, perhaps, this lovely dear will contribute something. God, she can write a helluva lot better than me. I'm such a hack next to her magic and charm of pen and paper. Elise says "Hello" to all.

Total Art.

Kimberley, at your request. Okay, it ain't a story, but as they say, "A picture says a thousand..." Jude not only composed the picture, he also photographed it himself. I'm proud of that boy. This posting is at Nick's request as well, actually. He commissioned Jude's recent artwork. Enjoy!

Rememberment

Didn’t like Erasmus - a fellow Dutchman - before today. I thought he was just some ruthless proto-Protestant. Today I read something about him that inspired me to greater holiness. In the book All Saints: Daily Reflections on Saints, Prophets, and Witnesses for Our Time, Robert Ellsberg gives some delicious quotes. As is the theme of the entire book, the short biography highlights the virtues of pacificism, social justice and charity to the poor and outcast.

Ellsberg specifically mentions Erasmus’ writings on war and peace, which were prophetic of the times to come: the war of Catholics versus Reformers and Lutherans, the in-fighting of the inevitable Protestant subdivisions.

Erasmus comments on Christ’s commmand “Let him who has no sword sell his mantle and buy one”: “As if Christ, who taught nothing but patience and meekness, meant the sword used by bandits and murderers rather than the sword of the spirit.”

Ellsberg writes that “above all, Erasmus could not abide the effort to reconcile violence with the spirit of Christ.” He then quotes Erasmus: “How can you say Our Father if you plunge steel into the guts of your brother? Christ compared himself to a hen: Christians behave like hawks. Christ was a shepherd of sheep: Christians tear each other like wolves.”

Protestants of today tend to look back to Erasmus as a kind of pre-reformer, but he never left the Church, meaning the Roman Catholic Church. He despised the schism that he saw happening as a result of Luther’s attempts at reformation. In this sense, he was truly Orthodox. Those called Protestant might be the same if they had not insisted on dismembering themselves and declaring war on the very body from which they came.

* * *

It is not my intention with this short reflection to further divide. I have many friends who are Orthodox, like myself, and many who are Protestant, which I was formerly. I only wish to root out the Truth for what it is and bring harmony amongst the schism to the point of even erasing it. Perhaps this is unattainable. But one thing I know: love covers a multitude of wrongs. If only we could attain to the true love of Christ. I forget this in much of my life. It comes easiest here at home with those that are my very blood and breath: Elise, Jude, Esmé. But even here I struggle. I must remember to live at peace with all of my brethren, whomever I interact with, whether Christian or not. If I am the only “little Christ” they ever know, so be it. But let me not be accused of bearing nothing of Christ’s indelible impression.

A Rush of Blood to the Ears.

Sadly, music has become my consuming passion. It is spiritual, religious even, a kind of holy and innocent drug. A little distorted electric guitar is always good to give relief. For Jude it is license to get a little crazy. But then, the other day he sat peacefully on my lap while we cranked Rage Against The Machine. Maybe he is learning my art/religion.

One of my favorite car jams is Neil Young’s After The Goldrush. This album was unknown to me when I first acquired the tape. It was one of many tapes inherited from Stephen and Stephanie, a parting gift before we left Vancouver. A tape deck was the only audio medium available in our two-tone blue Vanagon (‘83, round headlights, air-cooled edition). So Stephen let us take his old tapes. After The Goldrush was in there, but we didn’t know its significance. Fortunately we bought a car (to replace the ill-fated Vanagon, bless its heart) that also had a tape deck and no CD player. So, driving around, tapes were the only option.

Neil Young’s critically-best album, made in 1970 during his CSNY days, became an instant favorite to me. I still love it about a year later. I have since - and recently - discovered his other opuses. But there is a special quality to After The Goldrush that makes it so conducive to jamming in the car. I think it will be part of heaven’s soundtrack.

Electronic Memories.

Was drawn away from surgically cutting a plastic grocery. When finished, it will be two or three rectangular pieces used for covering up sourdough sponge and bread. It can wait. I needed to write.

Lately I’ve been typing entries directly on the blog, which I can only do when at a library and, when the opportunity presents itself, during downtime at a school where I’m subbing. But this entry is typed up at home. Started as an Apple Works document. Really, it started in my head, was transferred to my fingers, which feverishly yet thoughtfully pecked it out on the keyboard, which in turn displayed these very words.

Funny how I am reluctant to write up entries at home, when they can be easily transferred to an internet-ready computer. But maybe it is because when I get that chance, even if it is just an hour or two later, I’ll read the entry realizing how stupid, how trite it sounds. With the internet at my fingertips, I can spontaneously write my thoughts and then rashly publish it on the blog for the world to see. Still, either way it is possible to go back later and edit – or remove entirely – a dissatisfactory blog.

When it is erased forever, does this mean the thoughts no longer exist? No, for they continue to exist in the minds of those that have already read, and in my mind as well. Sure, there is no documentable evidence, but it is a memory: therefore it is real.

Out of the hole.

At a computer in a fifth-grade classroom. The li'l ones are away for lunch and recess. Nothing but good news for how it's been going (new career?). This is my first time subbing a class that stays all day (otherwise I've only subbed middle school and high school one-subject rotation).

Normally I'm not afforded the opportunity to write during the day (when subbing), so this is a true privilege.

Last thought: please see comments in "Cutting myself" and "Notes (3)" for responses to your comments.

More sooner or later.

Cutting myself.

Hot right now in my four layers: t-shirt, plaid cowboyish shirt, old-school pullover sweater, tweed jacket. Taking off the tweed jacket (took off the comfy scarf when first getting here).

The weather is my lover. Fifties (low tens celsius), drizzle, balmy, clean-smelling. Vancouverites know what I'm talking about (guess what I'm missing?). I was carrying Jude's bright yellow shield and scabbard (both homemade) while chaperoning the trick-or-treaters, and some mom's thought I was dressed up like Harry Potter.

I ditched The Blank Slate and A People's History of the United States and The Immortal Profession at the library tonight. I had been reading all three at once. I stopped reading Moby-Dick two weeks ago. Why do I choose to read four books at once? And then not finish them? Does this say something deep and profound about me? All of the books were incredible and educational books. But it is nearly impossible to read four books at once (especially of such disparate material and writing style).

My new readings will be along the more religious and spiritual: The Gospel in Dostoevsky (with wood-cuttings of beautiful anguish my Eichenberg) and Schmemann's For the Life of the World.

One question, before I close: why do I feel the need to publish this personal imformation on the internet? I wish I knew.

Notes (3).

1. See August 28 (a kind of pre-entry). It is from my at-home e-journal that I'm going to gradually merge into this blog. It is called "Clement's Resolve," a vignette, albeit a fairly sloppy one. I was inspired one day and wrote it. Let me know what you think.

2. See October 8 for my 25 best albums list. Ask me about any of the albums. I might tell you why I like them.

3. Changed the Elise pic.

Hot Off the Digital Files.

Kids first. Esmé. Jude & Esmé. Jude.

A Perfect Day Elise.

Woman.

Me.

Look Right.

I have added a few links to my blog. They take you to the blogsites of various friends of mine. I have not done this so much to expand the blogging community, or to give others free access of invasion into these friends' lives (blogging or otherwise). This is so that I can easily access their blogs. Why should I expect others to read my blog (because I do have this expectation) while not taking time to read theirs?

One more thing: please let me know if you would like me to take your bloglink off my blog. Thank you.

Potty mouth and grin my eyes.

Today for the 7th graders silent reading session I read aloud from two favorite passages of mine. First was chapter 5 from Frank McCourt's 'Tis. It is about him attempting to smuggle and eat a lemon meringue pie and bottle of ginger ale into a theatre showing Laurence Olivier's Hamlet. I simply love his writing, and this chapter is so colorful and descriptive of his situation as an Irish immigrant in New York in the fifties. The kids liked it too. They laughed nervously at all the goddam's and hell's and ass's. I hope I don't get in trouble for that. Shouldn't.

It is funny how kids can watch movies with all kinds of colorful language, graphic sexual situations and gratuitous violence -- on TV, the movies, video games -- and still get a little weird about what I read (which wasn't so bad). But maybe I was the one with the weird attitude, and they were picking up on it. Still, I read. I love Frank McCourt, and though I would have been scandalized at the time, no doubt, I could have used writing like his in my life, read by a caring and thoughtful teacher (or substitute in my case).

All for now.

Thoughts on blogging.

The wave of the future? a rising new form of communication? an exercise in practical narcissism?

(I owe my friend Mark for the last question.)

I hope I don't become obsessed. And if I do? it will die away and I will stumble upon some new obsession.

My beauties.

There is no way to describe the kind of emotion I have for Jude and Esme'. To begin with, they are both super-intelligent and obnoxiously beautiful. This is perhaps what causes the original stir in my heart. But is their whole persona, experienced only in their constant presence that causes me to be overcome with utmost love for them.

Esme' doesn't crawl or walk yet. Instead she sits on the kitchen floor scissoring her legs in such a fashion as to spin around and around on her bum. Once I watched her spin herself around completely three times. Whenever I look at her, smile, talk in my silly voice to her, she smiles this amazing squinty-eyed, chubby-cheeked, gummy expression. Amazing.

Jude can almost best me in chess. He prays before every meal, faithfully crosses himself "in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit," and prays for everyone present, and if Esme' is sleeping he prays "that Ezzy will wake up." Jude can already basically read, count to 120, add and subtract. His drawings and paintings are always breathtaking. He is independent but always wants to build duplos with him or play uno (which is successfully better at than us) or play dice. He likes to listen to rock'n'roll at high volumes while driving in the car. His favorite album is Weezer, "the one with the blue cover." Sometimes I have to be stern with him, such as when he ran off in the library last night, but then that "scares" him and breaks his heart and it breaks my heart too. He is too beautiful. Ezzy too.

You might have noticed.

The lovely picture of my family was removed. I do apologize for this. But I will be shortly putting up another of my wife (some real model pix), as well as a more recent -- and flattering -- picture of myself, and also some more of Jude and Esme' (the lovely little ones!).

More on the Orthodox Faith.

I have an icon of Jesus, a beautiful depiction of the risen Christ, the Son of God, one of the Holy Trinity on the top shelf of our current bookshelf. It sits with several other icons we have collected. I view this "window into heaven" every single day. It is simply beautiful and sometimes I pray and light a candle in front of it and kiss it, and I am kissing Him for why would I not want to kiss the risen Christ?

Another question, then: Is Jesus' beautiful depiction burning an impression upon me? This is what I desire and what I must pray for.

The Orthodox Faith.

Here I am back from a long hiatus. I'll admit that this blog started out highly experimental and mostly sarcastic. But my distaste for sarcasm is growing. I am now taking it semi-seriously, however, and might continue to become more serious from here on out.

A little history. There is the usual blah-blah about the need to journal starting from when our grade school teachers forced this task upon us. Most recently I've been keeping a journal on my eMac at home which I might some day soon transfer to this blogspot. "Golightly" itself was originally a joke and cover up for my true self. And what a joke! for don't I long to be my true self? No, but lately I've attempted to be something else, something that falls more in line with this rat-race called Chicagoland.

Look at my profile: everything is true, except one thing: my name. But I liked that piece of pure fabrication so much that I decided to keep it.

Now, what about the title? Victoria, if you are reading this right now, thank you. I appreciate her unabashed proclamation that she's an Orthodox Christian. So why do I hold back? Because all that defined me until I was 24 and a half was derived from and summarized in one word: Evangelicalism.

My wife put it beautifully: she said something like, "I've got a lot of evangelized skeletons in my closet." And I would desire to exorcise them. But is this the best idea? Whatever the case may be, I am a Christian, though I don't know if I live up to that title meaning "little Christ," and I am Orthodox, though I have long way to go because worship and believe rightly.

More later on the Orthodox faith.

A picture of Elise, Jude and Esmé.

[This picture removed at request of Elise due to her not granting permission to display a photograph of herself. Thank you for understanding.]

A picture of me and Esmé.

Still trying to figure this out.

Why does the music of PJ Harvey connect with my soul so much?

Speaking of souls, I've been reading this book called "The Blank Slate: The Modern Denial of Human Nature" by the world's leading expert on language and the mind, Steven Pinker. His studies and conclusions reject these three notions that have developed over the past four hundred years (post-Renaissance/Enlightenment and forward): The Blank Slate (the notion that the mind is a "tabla rasa", a scraped tablet, that is entirely formed and conditioned by the experiences of life), the Noble Savage (that pre-civilized man was a more decent creature before the affects of civilization and [to a greater degree] industrialization/modernization/Westernization), and the Ghost in the Machine (essentially, the fact that we have a soul).

What he says is amazingly convincing and well-thought out. But the idea that we don't have a soul, something part of us that lives on after the body is dead, as has been believed for milllenia by traditional cultures and even by our modern cultures, is a rather depressing and troubling thought for me. But I reject it roundly. Not simply because I've always believed we have souls and just could never imagine thinking otherwise, or even that it destroys everything I believe in terms of my Christian faith, but mostly because I don't see how the belief in an afterlife and a non-material, immortal part of our being--something that has been believed, as I have said, for millenia--could be so easily proven "wrong" by current scientific understanding of how the mind works. So that is my statement.

PJ Harvey, you touch my soul. More importantly, I still believe in Jesus.

Boob.

"This country's going down the tubes." My dad grieves out the words as he reclines on the couch in front of the HDTV showing FoxNews and the report of the recent earthquake in Pakistan and India.
"Why do you say that?" comes my question.
"Because everybody is in debt and spending money like crazy; there are no morals anymore; everything has become so political."
"Hm," I think, "I guess my dad and I do agree on something."

List.

Compiled a list of albums I’d likely bring with me to a desert island. I know, it is a cliched exercise, but here goes. (Perhaps someday I’ll give my reasons why I chose each album, but by then, it will be different):

( ) Sigur Rós
After the Goldrush Neil Young
At Folsom Prison Johnny Cash
Blood on the Tracks Bob Dylan
Bringing It All Back Home Bob Dylan
Car Wheels on a Gravel Road Lucinda Williams
Chronicle, Vol. 1 Creedence Clearwater Revival
Egypt Youssou N’Dour
Elephant The White Stripes
Ella & Louis Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong
Funeral The Arcade Fire
Gold Ryan Adams
Homogenic Björk
Is This Desire? PJ Harvey
IV Led Zeppelin
Kid A Radiohead
Kind of Blue Miles Davis
Pink Moon Nick Drake
Revolver The Beatles
Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band The Beatles
Star Time James Brown
Summer Sun Yo La Tengo
The Basement Tapes Bob Dylan & The Band
The Joshua Tree U2
The Milk-Eyed Mender Joanna Newsom

Thank God I'm Immortal

Hard to be young and be mistaken for much younger (than I am) while teaching those who are in actuality as old as most think I look all under the guise of professionalism which I have a hard time taking seriously in the first place. Sometimes I don't shave on purpose. But neither that nor the tweed jacket help me look much older. Perhaps I should be sporting a pipe? Perhaps a beard and I don't care how ridiculous I would look in it. Then there is this: I feel I have more in common with those under my charge than with those called colleagues. This is today's recursive thoughts.

Painful.

Not to describe the feeling I have right now. And feelings: what are feelings? But who cares right now. Riding my bike into town, over to the college, the library, it is a clear crisp early autumn morning. It still gets warm during the day, but the mornings are much cooler. Reminds me of being in Ramallah. I'm not sure why. But while riding my bike, that was the feeling I got. So strange. So painful.

(Title Necessary?)

Ryan Adams can't decide whether he is Bob Dylan or Gram Parsons or Bruce Springsteen or The Replacements or Coldplay or (heaven forbid!) Bryan Adams.

It goes something like.

Very little. 3 classes. Algebra 1, Biology, Algebra 2. The rapscallions. The beautiful rapscallions. M&Ms to cheer. Dateline docu about 9/11 to crush their stone-cold hearts. Find a job, a house. But, oh, are they beautiful. So cliche'd to say "they are the future." Too true. Must direct them. Direct them with my own misdirection/directionlessness. Very little.

My life is not a fake.

Buidling 503 looms in my mind. Whatever shall I do? I must not sleep today for fear that I might wake up with a dream of Building 503 lingering in my thoughts. I guess the justice department just ain't for me.

This is the ending.

Congratulations on winning the "Mergent Dividend Recorders" Lookalike Contest! You win cheeses.