This time last year-.

This time last year we were not friends.
This time last year we were not friends, either.
I'm glad that we changed.
I'm glad we are friends now.
Although I'm not sure how we happened.

But we happened.
This time last year-
it's not that I didn't like you;
it's not that you didn't like me,
but I was here,
and you were not.
You were there
and I was not.
Then we happened upon the same place where we laughed, cried, and tried to tell each other a few lies,
but we were quickly undone when our boundaries faltered,
crumbling heavily and loudly onto the ground.
This time last year we wanted protection-
searched everywhere within- why didn't it occur to us to look out?

This time last year we were not friends.
This time last year we did not know we could trust each other so well.
This time last year we were strangers.
This time this year I am glad we can be different together.

I didn't kill the spider.

I just loosed a spider into the wild.

I can't remember the last time I did that because I don't think I've ever done that before.

I am usually terrified of spiders.

But a couple nights ago, I re-watched James and the Giant Peach; James Trotter didn't kill the spider. He protected the spider from his insane aunts Spiker and Sponge. Little did he know that later he would befriend it...her, rather, Miss. Spider.

So, tonight, I couldn't kill the spider because James Trotter didn't kill the spider- though the spider fell on my leg, I still tried to pick it up with a piece of paper but it refused, more terrified of me than I of it. Then I lost it** altogether, until a dance student found it across the room still scrambling away to safety. I lunged at it, wanting to save it from terrified squeals and spastic stomping feet.

I don't know that I rescued the little insect. It probably didn't feel very rescued. What small thing does when a giant reaches down for it?

More to the point: a movie based on one of my favorite children's stories influenced me to befriend- to take mercy upon- to rescue- not to kill- an otherwise scary and misunderstood animal.

Ah, I feel something that wants to be written.








**edit- 6 December: I did not 'lose it' in the sense of going stark, raving mad- I actually lost the spider. I couldn't find it, I was so sad.

Orion.

Orion, come sooner above me
because I have missed you so.

Orion, you should not have left me;
I suspect you love me no more.

Orion, you obey too well the dance of the night
and the turn of the earth.
This year ignore them.
Listen to me:
don't make me follow you
when you should follow me.

Orion, stay.
Leave your sword, bow and arrows-
you need not protect yourself here
for with me you are safe.

Orion, I should not wish upon you,
yet you've heard every prayer, every word I have ever said;
but you've never spoken, no, never spoken a word to anyone.
...because you can't talk.
No, you won't talk!
Orion, please share with me!

Orion, I misuse you.
Of course you do not hear.
I have not heard you!
You and I will not hear for another few thousand, hundred years.

To you do I speak
as you attack and defend.
In you do I confide as my loyal friend.

Orion, when you leave
you must still keep me in sight.
Your arms cradle oceans;
you step from nation to nation- pride in every stride.

Orion, come sooner above me
for I have missed you so.
Come, speak your loudest;
I shall yell, too.
Then our dry veins will flow with histories
our descendants will struggle to decipher,
still begging you to come sooner, and stay-
still reaching out for the hand I offer.

Good On Paper

Dear Officer,

A few weeks ago you pulled me over because I ignored a red light, although I swear it was yellow. Said so, too, when you asked if I knew why you pulled me over. You asked for my license and registration- gave them to you, no big deal- I was ready to accept a ticket.You only gave me a few minutes to consider how I would pay for this ticket when you returned and, after returning to me my things, said, "Ma'am, thank you. Next time just be more cautious. Good night." 

Officer, as I drove off I wondered why you didn't give me a ticket I obviously deserved. I am hardly ungrateful for your timely mercy, but I admit surprise. Then I smirked: you didn't give me a ticket because I look good on paper.

Ha, damn right, I look good on paper. Never been caught.

sincerely, Justine

P.S.- But seriously, though, thanks for not giving me a ticket. 

But whether I should be proud to look good on paper is an entirely different question because, as I said, I only look good on paper because I've never before been caught zooming through an-almost-red-light, or speeding on the highway, or texting, none of which should be positively rewarded, yet I drove home, late that night, free of tickets or points.

I wondered who else looks good on paper; you'll forgive me for suddenly turning dramatic, but I answered my own question like this: leaders of organized crime. Ha, I know, how dare I compare zooming through an-almost-red-light to organized crime- I'm hardly, however, comparing the way the laws are broken, but how they both go unchecked.

Not only did I drive away that night without a ticket, I also drove away with my car and body fully intact, harming no one. My actions that night had no serious repercussions. I didn't need to channel my ninja skills to sneak my way out of a ticket (I also don't have ninja skills to channel), which would probably mean I wouldn't be a very good leader of organized crime.

Everyone knows not to drive through a red light... how does everyone not know not to sell or keep slaves?

Don't assume that I'm suggesting the former leads to the latter- hardly, but I want to know who else looks good on paper, and how they got to looking good on paper, and we continue to let them look good on paper. (I also apologize for using the universal 'we', but just bare with me on this one, just once.) I am aware that once a person, like the leader of organized crime, is caught it is difficult to keep that person caught because the things for which he is caught are hardly enough to keep him behind bars- maybe just a little slap on the wrists, and then give him a ticket that he'll probably ignore anyway because what's the worse that you could do to him?

Yeah, seriously, good luck with that because even Bryan Mills had to take the law into his own hand in order to see justice served and served well because, apparently, that is the only way to get justice: big government isn't going to help you because some of the people in that system are helping that corruption. Honestly, watch more television- you'll learn something.

This, of course, begs the question, what then really is justice if it can only be used as vengeance?, but I'd rather not.

Damn right, crime organizers look good on paper. They never get caught- they hire other people to get caught.

"'Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you are like whitewashed tombs, which outwardly appear beautiful, but within are full of dead people's bones and all uncleanness. So you also outwardly appear righteous to others, but within you are full of hypocrisy and lawlessness." Matthew 23.27 (ESV)

Under Consideration

I don't know what it is about New York City but I always learn something new about myself and the world at large while I'm there.

When I found out Banksy was taking up a month's residence in the five boroughs I thought it would be a great opportunity to see his work in person since I have no hope of visiting his usual hits in London any time soon. I asked a friend to come with me to find his works, but we didn't do a very good job--we were distracted by other things, like food and used books. (For the rest of this blog post you'll have to know these two things: my friend and I are both girls; she's black, I'm Asian- a Filipino, to be exact.)

At one point during the day we caught ourselves in the MET. At the top of the grand staircase she introduced me to Stuff White People Like (SWPL). I knew it was a book, I didn't know it began as a blog. Apparently, white people like some of the following:

1. Banksy
2. TED Conferences
3. the Idea of Soccer
4. Manhattan
5. snowboarding
6. Non-Profit Organizations
7. Scarves

As we skimmed some of the listed blog posts we laughed very, very hard, never mind that we preferred the small screen of her smart phone to some of the MET's most treasured works. Anyway, we came across one that intrigued me: Asian Girls, but the page refused to load, so we resigned to view an external page: something of a reaction to SWPL's blog post about 'Asian Girls'.

I do not think I need to tell you what we discovered. The actual SWPL blog post wasn't horrible. In fact, when I read it later I found it moderately amusing. The reactions to it were, well, to say the least, surprising. Many of the reactions made me cry, which I suppose doesn't say much because it's not that difficult to make me cry, but, do you know, I can't remember the last time I felt diminished because of my ethnicity. I admit, I am plagued with self-inflicted derogatory statements, but I can easily deflect my own jabs. I am unpracticed when it comes to a stranger's jabs.

At the time of my initial reaction, I did not know if I was grateful or ungrateful that I was so ignorant of such ignorant, racist, prejudiced thoughts and beliefs. I was torn--make this #753 existential crisis of the year 2013.

Do I really look like an expensive hussy when I walk side by side one of my male white friends? What do you mean when you say that Sandra Oh is 'the Elephant Man of Asian women'? Have you ever seen an elephant man because right now I'm sure he's more attractive than you are.

Am I not supposed to age physically though many birthdays pass? Am I always to look like I'm a twenty-something with perfect skin and weight because I'm naturally genetically engineered that way- never mind I have ancestors who were also Spanish therefore making some people think I'm actually Puerto Rican, or Hawaiian, or, once, I got Somalian (I was really tan one summer).

But then I stopped crying. We were then distracted by other things, and who wants to talk about racism when you can talk about religious ignorance? (Feel free to interpret 'religious ignorance' as you wish.) Our day in the city was not to be ruined!

So, eventually we ended up in a used book store where I found a few books written by Thomas More; etc. I considered buying it, but then I put it down because (1) I already bought a new journal and (2) as much as I admire Thomas More, he's a European White male which usually would not deter me, but where are the Asian theologians? Did More have any Asian contemporaries? But ethnicity doesn't matter right?





When I was a college student (two years removed now) I was one of, like, I think, six Asians on campus- I attended a predominantly white school- and the other five Asians were international students from Myanmar, so they were much more Asian than I was. Anyway, I was reading a book in the hall way when one of my favorite professors, Godblesshim, approached me:

Professor: Justine! There you are. I'm glad I spotted you. I have a question: you're Filipino, right?

Me: Yes? Haha, why?

Professor: Well, you know that class I'm teaching [something about diversity in classroom, I don't remember what it's called], well, in our textbook we have a chapter on Filipino students so I was wondering if you'd like to come in and- I mean, I know you're not speaking for the entire Philippine nation, but just for us to hear your perspective.

Me: Sure, that sounds fun! Actually, it's funny you ask because I've been talking with another professor about ethnicity and identity- I would love to come into your classroom.

So, I bought my own copy of the text book. I get to the chapter, which is entitled "Families with Pilipino Roots". I'm excited: I'm about to have a text book definition of my culture that will act as a foundation I can build upon when I read this (both quotations are from Developing Cross-Cultural Competence):

Understanding the Pilipino American character is complex. The differences among Pilipinos in terms of history, language, familial and other forms of affiliation, religion, education, and individual experiences can be great. Although this chapter provides some general insights into families with Pilipino roots, great caution and consideration must be taken to prevent perpetuating stereotypes. Although many Pilipino Americans have a shared history and common cultural experiences, other factors not related to being Pilipino may have a more decided influence on their self-identities. 

Damnit! My culture doesn't even have a text book definition! Generally, all the other ethnicities listed in the text book have definitions, why doesn't mine? Because

' "Neither history nor geography permitted the Filipinos time to consolidate their parochial and isolated strands into a culture integrated enough to repel outside pressures and influence." Throughout centuries of colonialism, Pilipinos have nevertheless avoided becoming 'carbon copies' of their colonizers. They have pursued a dual historical path of understanding, accommodating to, placating, or opposing the overwhelming power foreigners have exercised in their lives while simultaneously preserving what is essentially Pilipino in themselves. '

Oh, dear God, who am I?

When I attended the class as a guest-speaker I spoke solely on my behalf, and can recall saying (this isn't word for word): "Students are students, no matter the ethnicity. Don't just assume that this text book will offer you everything you need to know about how to deal with students who are Native American, or European, or Latino, or Hispanic. Your future, potential students are still individuals."




So, if students are students; if students are still individuals, why do I care so much for Thomas More's Asian contemporaries?

Why does it bother me that I don't know any of Lewis' Asian contemporaries?

Don't even get me started that religion is predominantly male-oriented (although some of them still act like immature, spoiled thirteen year old girls). Where are my female role models?

St. Patrick's Day, yes- if Patrick were a Patricia, would we have St. Patricia's Day?

I hope that I am not diminishing the importance of God's work in these men's lives. I am not.

I'm not saying that Native Americans and Europeans and Latinos and Hispanics are easier to define that Filipinos.

Because we are all individuals influenced by internal and external situations.

I get that, I do.




A little later in the evening my friend and I were eating at Whole Foods (ironically, another thing that white people like), when a few seats away were these really loud black guys. Just- they were loud; and I was already tired, and subconsciously cranky from my own dealings with racism, and I made some comment to my friend about how I could never date a black guy- Godblessher, she didn't slap me right then and there.

The day after we talked about my revelation: I am racist.

Friend: Justine, you're not racist. You're prejudiced. If you were racist- racism means you hate people of that race. You don't hate black people.

Me: Ha, if I did, I wouldn't be your friend. Thank you, you're so wonderful to me. If I ever become racist, shoot me.

Friend: Hey, I got your back.

And yet I am still haunted with questions of race/ethnicity and gender.





Upworthy recently sent me an e-mail with this video:


He expresses everything I have ever thought, much more cleverly and precisely than I ever could, or would dream, and it's ironic because he's still a white male, although he himself recognizes that women of every color have expressed these very thoughts. Then I realize: the messenger is not as important as the message. 

"I always get asked, 'Where do you get your confidence?' I think people are well meaning, but it's pretty insulting. Because what it means to me is, 'You, Mindy Kaling, have all the trappings of a very marginalized person. You're not skinny, you're not white, you're a woman. Why on earth would you feel like you're worth anything?'" -September 2013 issue of Parade Magazine

"Don't mind me if I burst."

Sometimes it is exhausting, all this caring business. Sometimes I wish I didn't care for anything at all. Sometimes I wish that I could be content as a lonely, griping old miser. When I say 'sometimes', I might mean 'all the time'. In the hardest parts of my heart I want nothing to do with problems because I, frankly, just don't like them, and want them to go away.

I also wish, to a certain extent, that I could be the one that makes those problems go away. Sometimes, I think, that by acknowledging the problem and attempting to solve the problem actually makes the problem worse. Godforbid I make anyone's problems worse- that would be unbearable.

And yet, I am no prophetess. Just as we cannot estimate the strength, and therefore damage, of a typhoon, so we cannot estimate the sort and amount of help that will come to those in greatest need.

I have no immediate family that was affected by the typhoon, and I've been a first-world citizen since birth. You know, I shouldn't care...but, I do.

Sometimes it is exhausting, all this caring business. Sometimes I wish I didn't care for anything at all. Sometimes I wish that I could be content as a lonely, griping old miser. But if I am to learn anything from trite hollers of "YOLO" and "Love life" and "Just do it"- just because we trivialize the profound does not make the profound any less profound- obviously the profound is accessible to any person: first-world, second-world, third-world, 3/4-world; Mars.

So, I will care as much as I can, and then attempt to care more.

Don't mind me if I burst.

That's what supposed to happen when you care.

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable."- from C.S. Lewis' The Four Loves (I'm pretty sure I quote this all the time.)

“So if there is any encouragement in Christ, any comfort from love, any participation in the Spirit, any affection and sympathy, complete my joy by being of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind. Do nothing from selfish ambition of conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his interests, but also to the interests of others. Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. Therefore God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.” –Philippians 2.1-11 

Here's some of the disaster, compliments of Al Jazeera.

And, how to help? Well, this link is a great list of NGOs, compliments of the Huffington Post, or seriously, just Google it :P Maybe even start your own fundraiser, yeah?

God bless your endeavors.

at my lunch table

i just started a twitter account a couple weeks ago, and so far, it's serving the purpose for which i meant it: keeping up with world news headlines. at first, it was overwhelming, the amount of things that go on; the constant update and/or correction of facts and figures. and how exactly does one go about getting- what is it?- retweeted?

aha, i see.

still, the news corporations, businesses, entrepreneurs, actors, authors, musicians; etc. that i have decided to follow on twitter have all delighted me in this one way: they all seem to follow each other.

and you're like, "Duh, Justine. Celebrities follow celebrities. Normal people wish celebrities followed them."

be that as it may, it's not just celebrities following celebrities- they are, after all, still normal people just following other normal people (for the record, they only seem so fabulously abnormal because we know them, but we don't know them- at least the strangers we encounter on a daily basis are actually strangers. anyway...); and because they're still just people they follow the people they admire, or are their friends. so when i find that MIKA follows Neil Gaiman and Jamie Cullum, and that Alton Brown follows Jamie Hyneman my first thought is: "Oh, my gosh! We could all sit at the same lunch table, and all get along!"




you ever have that writing prompt presented to you? "If you could have lunch/dinner/tea with any five people, dead or alive (perhaps not yet born) who would they be and why?" well, according to the amount i follow on twitter, i'd have a hard time picking just five, and they're all alive so i don't even have to wait for them to be born or resurrect any of them from the dead.

EXCELLENT!

now i just have to make sure i find the perfect day for all their schedules to coincide... oh, and i can't forget: i also need to find the perfect stationery for the invitations, and the appropriate location-!

IS THAT DOMINIC COOPER TOM HIDDLESTON IS FOLLOWING? oh, wait, duh- they're both involved with 'The Avengers'. right. okay. i forgot. that's about as normal as me following my friends.

okay.

man, i hope one day i get to meet some of these people, even for just a handshake.









edit: 12 November 2013--i just realized all the people i mentioned i followed are all older white males. hmm, well, whatever- we're all human, right? but i suppose that also says i really need some female role models, huh?

Remember My Love for Dance

The other night a friend of mine asked me for tips on how to go about rewriting things.

I was honored that he even asked me. So, you know, I gave my advice, which wasn't a whole lot, but enough to get him started; although it was difficult to come up with advice because I'd never thought about how I rewrite- I just rewrite. Then I read his work which he graciously passed onto me. I'd read the first half, which I thoroughly enjoyed, so I was excited to read the second half. After reading it, I came up with much more advice and encouragement.

At first I simply hoped I was giving encouraging advice; he confirmed this hope by gladly and appreciatively accepting them. Yay. I can officially give good writing advice.




I took my third belly dance class tonight. I enjoy it a lot. More than I thought I would, but every time before class: I can't tell you how much I try to convince myself not to take the class; just to focus on something else. But then I take the class, anyway, because I'm like, "What the hell! It's free for me anyway, and besides, I don't want to disappoint the teacher."

During these classes, I am constantly told to "Smile!" or "Stop thinking!"

Smiling is not foreign to me. Hardly. I smile all the time.

No, not thinking is foreign to me. I don't know how not to think. In fact, when I'm told "Stop thinking!" I immediately consider, "What exactly does not thinking entail? Wait, I have to keep my pelvis in neutral position. Oh, -swear words- I'm thinking! I have to stop thinking."

I cannot stop thinking. Especially tonight when we had to freestyle.

BAH!

When I was younger I used to dance all the time. All. The. Time. To put it in perspective: I danced then as much as I think now. Dancing was my form of release- I switched it out for writing in middle school after moving to a new school. I used to love dance. I used to freestyle all the time. I don't know if I was very good at it, but my younger self didn't care.

I informed my teacher of this, and she responded: "Well, you just have to remember your love for dance!"

Too true.

Now, I don't exactly expect to be Shakira if I ever get better at this belly dance-thing, but dancing is my instructor's form of release, as much as writing is my form of release. The way she doesn't think about dancing is the very same I don't think about writing--she just dances; I just write.

So, how do I regain, or at this point, transfer my "Stop thinking!" habits of writing to dance?

Well, for one thing, I ought to be less self-conscious. How many times have you heard that, right? But honestly, of all the worries that my appearance causes me, no one else thinks a quarter of those worries: I freak myself, and no one cares, and rightly so! They either respect me enough, or ignore me enough to think I look all right.

"Oh! I'll look like a fool."

"Shut up, Justine. Kick of your Sunday shoes and go wild."

I mean, I am the person that randomly breaks out into the Macarena on a busy street in Manhattan. I already don't care when dancing the Macarena (although, that also requires absolutely no skill, only a good, steady memory of 90's music), so I need to apply that attitude to the dance studio class. Somehow.

On the surface, writing and dancing don't really have anything in common. But if I enjoy exercising my brain, ought I not also enjoy exercising my body?

And for the record, not thinking in dance class is just another way of saying, "Hey! Be who you are. Stop freaking out that you're doing it wrong, besides you're supposed to make mistakes anyway. We'll help you along."




And, if I can remember my love for dance, I'll be able to better empathize with potential students who are, or want to be, dancers. Win-win!

What We Seek.

Social justice interests me for one main reason: every social justice cause simply seeks acceptance and care; to add to that, love. 

Active or inactive in social justice, do not all people seek acceptance, care, and love? When you have heart-to-hearts with loved ones, or even strangers, they're always so afraid of rejection, because who wants to be turned away for who they think they are, or for who they might be, or for the way they get to who they are to be? 

While I have often tried to stray away from labels, I find that I am always affected by them, as if the avoidance of labels actually brings on the labels...indeed, I find that is always the case, but does that say something about the labels? No, not the "if you can't beat them, join them" mentality, but that labels, however used or misused, are still just words? We have power over words, once it goes the other way around we're afraid to talk for fear of offending someone we'll probably never talk to, or see, again. 

None of this is to say I altogether throw out discretion or politeness, but, really: do we need to take things so personally? I thought we wanted to be in control of ourselves- in control of the labels, the compliments, the criticisms; etc. 

Then you can imagine my delight when I came upon this short article: How To Tell If You're A Feminist In Two Easy Steps. Is that all? However comedic this article's intentions, how many reasons do you need to be a good person in general whether or not you label yourself 'feminist', or whatever label to which you wholeheartedly subscribe, or adamantly avoid. 

A world without acceptance, care, and love is a world that seeks justice. Truly, I can't hate any person for seeking that. I can only hope to be of some service to them. 

ALSO! Happy Month of Mozart! Listen to WQXR on the radio or online. 

Everything Matters...in my writing, I mean.

First things first: Yesterday, I was suddenly in China Town, which, I suppose, shouldn't be all that surprising- I only live fifteen-to-twenty minutes out of the city, but I just thought I was going to walk with my grandparents around the local mall. Nope. They have to go to China Town. Then Brooklyn to drop off their friend. Of course I chauffeured! I can drive through and in the city, but I don't enjoy it. I- I greatly dislike driving through the city. I can't stand it, but I had to do it.

I bought my grandpa some bubble tea-creamy taro :D He was pretty pleased, to say the least.




Yesterday, when I got home from work I wrestled into my pajamas and plopped onto the couch with my mom who was watching television. PBS, actually, a show called 'Making Things-'; this episode was called 'Making Things Faster'. Yay. I was totally geeking-out the entire time, so much so, I wonder why I don't watch this channel more often. Well, anyway, I'm watching this and secretly hoping they'll talk about teleportation, but they never even touched upon it; now, though, I have a new-found respect for delivery persons: travelling salesman problem? Oh, my gosh. Who knew?! I will never again complain if I get a late package- I am more appreciative of your efforts.

Anyway, all that to say this: I've been working on a story pretty consistently for the past six months, and it's pretty exciting (not roller coaster exciting...well, sometimes it's roller coaster exciting) because this story is getting somewhere- it keeps evolving like a real story should.

And as real stories are written, advice is given. Some advice is good. Other advice is horrid. Of all the advice given to me, one is most given: write what you know.

Yay.

Great.

Good idea, good start.

But I only know so much. After a while I have to do research or, well, give up the writing project entirely.

But for this story I've found that everything I do or encounter becomes a part of my research for this story: my spontaneous trip to China Town, and watching PBS' NOVA.

At this point, I can't tell if this is so because either I'm so obsessed with my story that everything relates to it, or that research for writing really does fully inhabit the writer when he or she is, if you will allow, 'in the zone'.

Is that how great writing happens? Everything just becomes a part of the story? Cool.

I hope that if you are a writer, or even if you are not, everything you do and encounter will inspire you. Are not some of the greatest inventions inspired by accidents or by something that had seemed completely irrelevant?

Hollaback.

Sorry about yesterday,

You'll have to forgive me for my blog post yesterday--I wasn't in my right mind. I'd wanted my tone to be a little more solemn, not whacked-out-crazy, but apparently, that was not to be. I hadn't even remembered the most important lesson of my reaction to my sickness yesterday: I never again want to be in control of my breathing. Of all the things I am glad, and the things for which I am grateful, automatic breathing has become my favorite. It feels very good to be able to think about other things and breathing just sort of happens in the background; it is when I have to remember to breathe while I'm thinking that's tricky.

You see, what I'd wanted to post yesterday I shall have to post today: an encouraging note I found in the deep corners of my journal. This is what it reads:

Dear Magistra [Teacher] Triumpho (sic),

Thank you for always being there as a teacher and friend. You’ve helped me everytime (sic) I was down by either making me laugh, smile or look at the bright side. You make me understand who I am. Thanks, Love Naty.

When I first read her note to me I could not cry because I was too shocked and honored at receiving it; that and I thought it was adorable how she misspelled my last name- how phonetic. I did not know my actions meant more than I intended, so much so, that I helped a young lady understand her very identity. Indeed, I only thought I was helping her to conjugate Latin verbs.

I do wonder, though if the outcome would have been different if I did intend to help her understand her identity, and not how to conjugate Latin verbs. Eh, who's to say what could've happened--that, at this point (two years later), is irrelevant.

But her gratitude does then make me consider: if my positive actions can incur such humbling gratitude, what sort of impact do my negative actions in incur? Of course, that begs the question: is it a positive action to intend only to help in academia, and therefore a negative action if I intend to influence and develop her life outside of academia? Vice versa? But, frankly, no matter what my actions are it is only she that can determine her reaction. People can become good people in spite of poor parents and teachers. People can become bad people in spite of good parents and teachers.

Whatever.

I don't know, and couldn't give a damn.

Those are such petty questions when I should really keep in mind: I hope Natalie is doing all right. I do hope she has other teachers who help her build up her individual identity. I hope she is taking full advantage of whatever opportunities are coming her way. Make mistakes, Natalie.

"Fried! Deep fried brain!"

When I was a freshman in college I got sick. Surprise, surprise. My roommate quarantined me to my room. I was not allowed to attend any of my classes. I was not allowed to leave my room, not my bed either. I was so antsy I had to do something! So, I started exercising. When my roommate came back she found me planking. She looked at me. I looked at her. She said, "What are you doing?"

"I'm not exercising if that's what you mean."

"Get. Back. In. Bed. You're sick."

"I might feel a little sleepy-."

"You're sick! Oh, my gosh! You're sick!"

To this day, we're still best friends. Thank God.




So, I haven't changed much since then because a couple nights ago I suddenly caught something. When I say 'suddenly' I mean suddenly.

I was sitting at my desk job, typing away, bopping my head to the music playing in the background when my arms fell to my chest to keep warm. I couldn't breathe properly, but I was like, "No, I have to keep working." So, I kept working. Seriously, no big deal. People get sick all the time. Except me. I don't get sick, and when I do get sick I'm not actually sick because I feel well enough to exercise.

Anyway, that night, after work, I went directly to bed. My head and torso were uncommonly warm, and the rest of my body was uncommonly freezing. Still, no big deal. However, half the night later, I woke up in a cold sweat (I think it was a cold sweat), which would explain why I was swimming in my dream, so I turned the fan on to cool down, but I only felt colder. I felt so weak.

Feeling weak is for weak people! BAH!

The very next morning I decided to bake cookies & cream cookies (hey, I'd baked vanilla cupcakes the day before), so I did. But my back ached. My arms ached. My cookies didn't turn out as well as I wanted, but everyone else loved them.

ADVIL. I took just one Advil. Felt fine. NBD, BRO! I can go to work. I need the money.

So, I went to work. I felt fine.

Slept fine. I got this. Ain't dreaming about swimming, therefore no cold sweat.

The very next morning, I drove my sister to school. Drove my mom to her carpool. Then I went to my aunt's house to drop off more of cupcakes and cookies.

Except, that I started convulsing. My arms were crossed so tightly over my chest, I could not unravel them. I couldn't breathe properly, and when I did I was wheezing- I was practically singing. my death song (haha, I just made that up). My stomach muscles were contracting I felt they wanted to eat my insides, but I hadn't eaten that much in the first place. My aunt first called her husband, a nurse, down to take my temperature, things like that. I was so glad none of them panicked because I already didn't want to die.

Seriously, I thought to myself, "I don't want to die yet, I still have a story I need to finish." And then I thought, "What is wrooooong with me. One little reaction to what could be a flu... Don't be ridiculous."

They called my dad over. He came, and something about his presence, I calmed down after that, but that didn't stop my body from attacking itself.

Then I stopped convulsing, well, after I swallowed some Ibuprofen, so stopped whatever it was I was doing, or reacting to, and finally just lay there on that leather couch, under three blankets (I think), listening to the adults in the room talk.

I lay there and thought, "So, this what this feels like. This is what this feels like." At the time, I couldn't quite label 'this' I just knew I didn't like 'this'. 'This' wasn't a good feeling.

My aunt said, "Wow, when my kid's get sick they just get warm."

My dad responded, "Oh, she doesn't get sick like this either. At least not since she was a baby. We were still living in the city when she was just walking around, when she fell over. I thought, 'Why is she sleeping like that?' but then she turned over then, aha!- she's having a seizure!'" Of course they laughed. Then I laughed, or tried to laugh, ish. I laughed-ish. "Fried! Deep fried brain!" my dad yelled, joking, "That's why this is happening now."





I lay there for another hour or so. My dad left for his dentist appointment. My aunt and uncle went back to real life. I felt pathetic. Thankful, but pathetic.

I am a freaking working woman! I can't let sickness stop me! And yet, if I keep working while I'm sick, do I really want my body to collapse on itself because I was too stubborn to admit sickness in the first place?

But this is a better idea for a blog post than asking more existential questions. Right?

Next time, I'll just wear a coat when I go outside during the fall and winter. I don't want to feel 'this' ever again. Oh, and never exercise when you're sick, no matter how well you feel because, at that point, you're totally lying to yourself.

STAY IN BED!

An Oppressive Reality

Do you know, I always hear about how poorly treated are Christians in the US. I'm not saying that mistreatment cannot happen in the US, but I wonder- are the stories I hear, or the news I read only a small percentage of what really goes on? What's the other percentage?




When I was younger I was, obviously, a picky eater, so my parents would tell me, "Tine, there are children starving in Africa- eat your food." In my head, I would respond, "Well, then send it to them." What my parents were trying to tell me is to be grateful for the food set before me, I only know that now.

Lately, I've been reading and learning that there is a food shortage right here in this, my adopted homeland of the US. No, I haven't discerned which information is propaganda and which is factual, but whether exaggerated or otherwise, there are those who starve here in the US. To imagine that every US citizen is well-fed is to be disillusioned. Social-economic problems are not reserved for second and third world countries, because of this, though first world countries have the ability, perhaps even the responsibility of helping those weaker than themselves this gives the illusion that somehow those who are helped must be weaker than those who give help: this is perfectly fallacious.

Since problems do not choose a type of person, persons; state, country, nation; era, I have to know, believe and understand that problems can and will arise everywhere- anywhere.

I do not doubt that people starve anywhere and everywhere (willing and unwilling starvation).

I do not doubt that Christians are poorly treated even in this religiously-free country, but I do doubt the extent to which Christians are poorly treated. I sometimes wonder if this poor treatment is unwittingly self-inflicted.

I cannot tell you how many sermons I've heard about the oppression of the Christian faith in even a small town coffee shop; how many articles I read about pastors wrongly imprisoned for sharing the Gospel.

I am well aware that Christ said if they persecuted him how much more so will his followers be persecuted, and yet, how much we do tolerate in this country. Some (left or right winged, or middle, or none) say we tolerate too much, forgetting that they themselves are a part of those tolerated.

But like the 'starving children in Africa' analogy to my younger picky-eater years, the fear of embarrassment for sharing your faith solicitously in a small town coffee shop cannot be compared to persecution of Christians that occurs elsewhere in the world. (And if you misunderstand the former comparison, let me clarify: 'starving children in Africa' can hardly be compared to a middle-class child's refusal to eat meals; however an attempt to teach gratefulness.)

Honestly, who doesn't get teased for being too smart, too tall, too freckly, too pale, too quiet, too loud, too girly, too boyish, too weak, too strong? We tell every child that teasing is just going to happen, but what matters is not what others think (because they're not thinking in the first place) but what you think of yourself, and how you choose to live your own life. We do not judge others because they can't be judged--we do not judge others because we, too, are to be judged.

What poor treatment is teasing for my faith? Is that really the least I can suffer for my faith? That's not really suffering- I just need to get over my insecurities. Much more insecurities than persecutions!

We ought to be more careful of the words we choose to describe our individual pains.

A sudden empathy...

The other day, I found my copy of the Bible, don't ask me where I found it, but I finally found it, and took to reading it. If you recall from my last blog I moaned and groaned about reading Proverbs and Isaiah like the ridiculous child that I am, when it occurred to me (oddly enough, while reading the Proverbs) that perhaps the reason why Proverbs sounds and looks so slapdash-ed-ly put together is that Solomon, wise as he was, had these sudden bursts of wisdom occur to him at the moment, and jotted them down, much like any person, full of wisdom or witless, today would suddenly be struck with a thought which he would have to write down, never later deciding to expand upon that thought. Some thoughts are better left un-expanded; better left as purpose-less poetry :P

note: not poetry without purpose, but without a fluid theme. ya get me?

Perhaps Solomon walked often, making these casual observations when something struck him, like a fire pit and had to write, "As charcoal to hot embers and wood to fire, so is a quarrelsome man for kindling strife", Proverbs 26.21.

He heard, observed, and maybe even touched everything and heard, observed, and touched God, not because God was in the fire he noticed. Do you know, sometimes I entertain the thought: I'm sure that they who wrote the books of the Bible were not always aware that they were directly inspired. I don't imagine that, when they were inspired, they glowed likes the Avatars of the Bending World (see: Nickelodean's The Last Airbender or Legend of Korra), nothing like that- I'm sure they knew when words greater than themselves possessed them (although it would be cool if they did glow, ha) but what if God, when using Solomon, when using Abraham, or Moses, or Isaiah, or Paul, or John- what if these men did not know they were being used till after the fact?

I don't know.

Speaking nonsense, again, I know.

No, don't ask me about Isaiah, yet. Ha, I'll let you know when I get there.





On another note!- I am not an excellent reader. I pick up all these books and do not know how to finish them because I've not yet disciplined my mind to maintain peace during reading. I will read a sentence, obsess over it for a day or more (usually more) and wonder how to apply it.

Fiction, non-fiction- I don't know what it is about them that their words can't make me still. I'm jealous of those who can read for hours and hours without moving. I want to be able to do that because, unfortunately, I like to do other things while I read. I always have a pen or pencil in my hand, and a few semi-transparent sticky flags to mark something..

So, thanks be to God that my parents bought the audio series of The Chronicles of Narnia! The other day, do listen, it's frightfully funny, I was listening to The Last Battle when I finally got to the, well, second-to-last battle of the book: when Emeth wants to see Tash, when Eustace is thrown into the darkened shed; I start crying! And I'm driving while I'm listening and crying, which isn't at all safe for me and my fellow drivers, but I'm crying, salty tears stinging my cheeks, blurring my vision which is already impaired by the glow of the setting sun. By Aslan's Mane, I'm surprised I didn't crash. (Haha.)

No, I can't even blame my monthly friend for such emotional tirades.

But when Eustace was thrown in!- I absolutely fell apart! What terror he must've felt! Now, I knew what was on the other side of that door (only because I've read/heard the books over and over again)- perhaps I cried so because I was living in the story as though I'd never read or heard The Last Battle; that in spite of my foreknowledge of its 'ending' (I say 'ending' because you very well know that Lewis only describes the end of Narnia, indeed of all worlds, as the beginning of Chapter One of the Great Story) I wholeheartedly empathized with Eustace. Felt Jill's pain at her loss. Wept with King Tirian.

Now, if only I could weep, feel and empathize so with the people in this world without casually wanting the high and mighty feeling of helping their souls, but never acting upon that high.




This just occurred to me: do you think that if we just let children read the Bible, just as a story, they would later see it as inspired? Do we really need to say it's inspired? Now, don't mistake me: I'm not saying that the Bible isn't inspired, nor am I saying that we should not bring up children in the faith, but, I am saying that, perhaps, the things we emphasize now as important are later diminished as irrelevant because we emphasize the wrong part. When the word 'inspired' is said, we sometimes harp upon the word 'inspire' instead of harping upon what the inspiration actually entails to the Bible's past, present, and future readers.

But this is too much for a blog post.




On another note, a much lighter one, too: I do believe that I can trust Cumberbatch with any beloved character he so chooses to play.

Special Words

I am not a very consistent person. Nope. Ain't got the attention span for it. That's probably my fault. Whatever. Anyway! So, today- this morning- my parents and I went to the park to exercise. You know, walking or jogging a few laps. We had a few church friends join us, then my Dad said, "Oh, call your grandparents. See if they want to come."

Now, I initially didn't want to call them because that meant I would have to walk with my grandma, and not exercise on my own. Not that I don't enjoy walking with my grandma, but because of my inconsistency this was my first week working out after a month of sedentary habits. But, I called my grandparents, of course, I did, who do you think I am? They'd said they'd come.

I knew that I had about thirty to forty minutes before my grandparents would show up so I decided to take four quick laps around the main area of the park (that's about a mile). When my grandparents arrived, I just finished my laps, and could now attend to my grandma. (Grandpa doesn't want me to help him walk around because my helping him makes him look old. Don't tell him, but I think he looks old without my help.)

When I walk with my grandma I sometimes I forget I walk too quickly for her. That I need to slow down. At a few points during our walk she needs to sit and rest. I took advantage of this and did a few squats, when she turns to me and says, "You're not stout. You are skinny."

"Oh, I-. Thanks, Grandma."

Self-consciousness is not reserved for the female half of the species so I probably don't need to tell you how I can 'feel fat' even though 'fat' is not a feeling. Sadness, anger, happiness: those are feelings. I probably don't need to tell you how frustrating it can be to go clothes' shopping; or how I don't want to do Zumba, or Crossfit, or go on diets after looking through magazines or watching television or surfing the internet.

In fact, a lot of my reasons for refusing to lose weight stem from a desire to stay away from the hype and need to 'look good' in clothes I can't afford or that I even like in the first place. I have no desire to post my day-to-day progress from a size 10 to a size -3. I don't like when people look at me now, why in the world would I want people to look at me when I'm 'really attractive'?

But then Grandma told me, "You're not stout. You are skinny."

I'm 5'2 and weigh about 165 lbs: I am far from 'skinny' for my dimensions, but as it is, I like to think I look well enough; I like to think that I'm confident enough in myself, in my appearances to brush off any insult...but not all the time.

Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with posting your day-to-day progress. There's nothing wrong with wanting to look good in clothes, especially if it's something you like, but I cannot tell you how many times those worries have overpowered the better desire to be healthy, confident, and happy. I cannot tell you how many times I've covered myself in shame for being unable to wear what the mannequin's wearing.

I can't believe I can be intimidated by something that doesn't breathe. At all. Nor would care to!

I suppose, in so many words, my grandma meant to say I've changed. Perhaps she meant to say I'm pretty. Whatever she meant to say I was glad she said it. Glad to hear her stories. Glad I asked for my grandparents to join us. Glad my weight problems are mere mole-hills instead of mountains, as indeed are all my problems mole-hills.

Seeking after...what?

I don't know if it's just me, but I'm not very good at finding solace where I should find it. That's probably my fault. This is probably a learning/growing point for me--one day I will be able to find solace where I should find it.

...you're probably wondering what 'it' is.

Many of you know, and more of you don't know, that I'm reading the Bible in the year. I've got the handy dandy calendar thingy to help me keep track of what I read day-by-day. In fact, in the blog that I accidentally deleted I used that blog to, well, blog about my daily findings from my reading. Doing that became overwhelming and repetitive. I can only say so much about a few chapters without sounding rehearsed or cliched, so then I wrote on a weekly basis. Then I accidentally deleted that blog this this one is born.

From January to September, what have I learned, so far, in my daily Bible reading? For one: I should not have come upon this read-the-Bible-in-one-year so unthinkingly, or without preparing myself for the histories I would eventually question.

Yes, that's exactly what 'it' is: the Bible. I'm going through Proverbs and Isaiah now (or I was going through it a week ago- I haven't been able to locate my copy of the Bible since last Wednesday) and I cannot tell you how much I dislike Proverbs and Isaiah because I have none of the context! Is that my fault, that I am unaware of the context of Proverbs and Isaiah? I mean, I attended Bible college, for Godsake! How could I not know the context of these books? I know, at this point I am living hand to mouth both physically and spiritually...especially spiritually.

I don't mean to say that I only read when the text means something to me, otherwise, why would I ever read?

Am I the only one who feels this way? That there have been too many verses pulled out of context just 'to comfort' someone 'in pain' or 'in need'?

Bible verses aren't pills to pop. They're not greeting cards to give away.

Someone tell me that they've also thought that the Proverbs are just idioms mushed together. None of the 'chapters' feel like poems, like the Psalms. Proverbs- oh, why did Solomon write Proverbs? I should probably study up on that, huh?





I sincerely apologize for expressing these thoughts. I'm pretty sure I'm a stumbling block to many people.

But take care that this right of yours does not somehow become a stumbling block to the weak. For if anyone sees you who have knowledge eating in an idol's temple, will he not be encouraged, if his conscience is weak, to eat food offered to idols? And so by your knowledge this weak person is destroyed, the brother for whom Christ died. Thus, sinning against your brothers and wounding their conscience when it is weak, you sin against Christ. Therefore, if food makes your brothers stumble, I will never eat meat, lest I make my brother stumble. (1 Corinthians 8.9-13)

Or am I the weak one? Besides, all my actions should speak love (Matthew 22.36-40)! I'm feeling pretty weak. I find solace in Reza Aslan, Greg Mortenson, Neil Gaiman, Charlotte Bronte, but I can't find solace in God's Word?

Well, maybe not the solace I think I need. 'I think I need' is about as bad as 'I want', you know. What kind of solace do I really need to find in God's Word? Am I seeking justification? Am I seeking relationships? Am I seeking  good stories? I'm not even sure what kind of questions I'm really asking! Sheesh.

But I can express that most of my frustration is that God can be so good and so wonderful in spite of my foolish wanderings-around. Why can't I find solace in God's Word? Is that not the least I can do for a god so great?

DIY: Origami Bookmarks

So, I have this odd habit. You know how people enjoy knitting because they can socialize while knitting a scarf or sweater? Well, I like to fold origami bookmarks, although when I fold origami bookmarks it's not so I can talk to other people. On the contrary, I fold origami bookmarks while I'm thinking. So, you can imagine, I've a surplus of these little buggers. I do, however, like to give them away, but on the off-chance I never meet you I'd like to show you how to make them.

Here we go [: Hope you enjoy.

First things first, you don't need to have origami paper. Origami paper is certainly a plus, but it's not essential. Any kind of paper will do. I once had a friend use Post-It notes. As long as the paper is a square, or can be cut into square, you're good to go.

For this DIY I've used origami paper I bought at Barnes & Noble. Around $7 for, like, 500 sheets, all with different designs. This is the design I've chosen. I thought it reminiscent of Japanese screen printing, therefore, appropriate for the Chinese art of paper folding. (Well, actually, the art of paper-folding also seems to originate from places like Germany, Italy, and Spain...but for now, I'll consider it an explicitly Asian art.)

This sheet is about 3x3 inches, and only printed on one side. Because I'm frugal, I like to rip these squares into even smaller squares. You don't have to. If you want a larger bookmark, by all means, skip the first few steps.

step one: fold the sheet in half (you may want to do this more than once so it'll be easier to rip in half)

step two: rip sheet in half

See, it's like mitosis. Now you've got four smaller squares with which you'll be able to make four origami bookmarks.

step three: select one of the smaller squares and fold in half, side to side. do this to both sides.

step four: now fold in half diagonally

I know the lines are faint, but you see how you've got an asterisk now? Good.

step five: take one of the corners and fold it to meet the very middle

step six: now fold again, tucking the small triangle underneath

For the next few steps, you'll want to position the paper so that it looks like an upright pyramid.

step seven: take either of the bottom angles and fold to meet the very top of the pyramid

step eight: tuck edges into the pocket

What pocket? I'll show you. 

Then you're done! YAY!

Put in your books now!

Have fun with these. Feel free to show me some you've made. Or maybe you could show me another way to make an origami bookmark.

Panic Attacks

A couple days ago, I was working the night shift at work, thus panicking about my future. Well, not my future, so much as the story I am writing. I wasn't having an actual panic attack. I don't believe I've ever had an actual panic attack. 

According to Wikipedia " are periods of intense fear or apprehension  that are of sudden onset and of variable duration from minutes to hours. Panic attacks usually begin abruptly, may reach a peak within 10 minutes, but may continue for much longer if the sufferer had the attack triggered by a situation from which they are not able to escape." I take that back. I have had panic attacks before- right before student teaching. However, moving on-.

I was working in the children's department at work that night and had access to a computer all evening; desperate for some consolation I Googled 'encouragement for writers' (because what better way to find consolation than with strangers, right?) and found this: an article by Writers of the Purple Sage, called (oddly enough) Writing Encouragement. I cried, but my emotions that night should be left unaccounted for. Most of my emotions after a certain time of day shouldn't count.

Lemony Snicket made me cry. But I couldn't really cry because I had customers I needed to help. Can you imagine?

customer: Hi, could you help me find this book? Are you all right?

me: I'm fine! I'm sorry. How can I help you?

customer: Um, the book is called-. Are you sure? You're still crying?

me: It's just lotion! I've got lotion in my eyes! (I really have been getting lotion in my eyes lately, it's become habitual.)

What did Lemony Snicket, author of A Series of Unfortunate Events write to make me cry so?

Dear Cohort,

Struggling with your novel? Paralyzed by the fear that it’s nowhere near good enough? Feeling caught in a trap of your own devising? You should probably give up.For one thing, writing is a dying form. One reads of this every day. Every magazine and newspaper, every hardcover and paperback, every website and most walls near the freeway trumpet the news that nobody reads anymore, and everyone has read these statements and felt their powerful effects. The authors of all those articles and editorials, all those manifestos and essays, all those exclamations and eulogies – what would they say if they knew you were writing something? They would urge you, in bold-faced print, to stop.

Clearly, the future is moving us proudly and zippily away from the written word, so writing a novel is actually interfering with the natural progress of modern society. It is old-fashioned and fuddy-duddy, a relic of a time when people took artistic expression seriously and found solace in a good story told well. We are in the process of disentangling ourselves from that kind of peace of mind, so it is rude for you to hinder the world by insisting on adhering to the beloved paradigms of the past. It is like sitting in a gondola, listening to the water carry you across the water, while everyone else is zooming over you in jetpacks, belching smoke into the sky. Stop it, is what the jet-packers would say to you. Stop it this instant, you in that beautiful craft of intricately-carved wood that is giving you such a pleasant journey.

Besides, there are already plenty of novels. There is no need for a new one. One could devote one’s entire life to reading the work of Henry James, for instance, and never touch another novel by any other author, and never be hungry for anything else, the way one could live on nothing but multivitamin tablets and pureed root vegetables and never find oneself craving wild mushroom soup or linguini with clam sauce or a plain roasted chicken with lemon-zested dandelion greens or strong black coffee or a perfectly ripe peach or chips and salsa or caramel ice cream on top of poppyseed cake or smoked salmon with capers or aged goat cheese or a gin gimlet or some other startling item sprung from the imagination of some unknown cook. In fact, think of the world of literature as an enormous meal, and your novel as some small piddling ingredient – the drawn butter, for example, served next to a large, boiled lobster. Who wants that? If it were brought to the table, surely most people would ask that it be removed post-haste.

Even if you insisted on finishing your novel, what for? Novels sit unpublished, or published but unsold, or sold but unread, or read but unreread, lonely on shelves and in drawers and under the legs of wobbly tables. They are like seashells on the beach. Not enough people marvel over them. They pick them up and put them down. Even your friends and associates will never appreciate your novel the way you want them to. In fact, there are likely just a handful of readers out in the world who are perfect for your book, who will take it to heart and feel its mighty ripples throughout their lives, and you will likely never meet them, at least under the proper circumstances. So who cares?

(This is where I began to cry.)

Think of that secret favorite book of yours – not the one you tell people you like best, but that book so good that you refuse to share it with people because they’d never understand it. Perhaps it’s not even a whole book, just a tiny portion that you’ll never forget as long as you live. Nobody knows you feel this way about that tiny portion of literature, so what does it matter? The author of that small bright thing, that treasured whisper deep in your heart, never should have bothered.

(I could cry again now, and this time my emotions count because they're clearer in the morning!)

Of course, it may well be that you are writing not for some perfect reader someplace, but for yourself, and that is the biggest folly of them all, because it will not work. You will not be happy all of the time. Unlike most things that most people make, your novel will not be perfect. It may well be considerably less than one-fourth perfect, and this will frustrate you and sadden you. This is why you should stop. Most people are not writing novels which is why there is so little frustration and sadness in the world, particularly as we zoom on past the novel in our smoky jet packs soon to be equipped with pureed food. The next time you find yourself in a group of people, stop and think to yourself, probably no one here is writing a novel. This is why everyone is so content, here at this bus stop or in line at the supermarket or standing around this baggage carousel or sitting around in this doctor’s waiting room or in seventh grade or in Johannesburg. Give up your novel, and join the crowd. Think of all the things you could do with your time instead of participating in a noble and storied art form. There are things in your cupboards that likely need to be moved around.

In short, quit. Writing a novel is a tiny candle in a dark, swirling world. It brings light and warmth and hope to the lucky few who, against insufferable odds and despite a juggernaut of irritations, find themselves in the right place to hold it. Blow it out, so our eyes will not be drawn to its power. Extinguish it so we can get some sleep. I plan to quit writing novels myself, sometime in the next hundred years.

–Lemony Snicket

Have I got lotion in my eyes again? Excuse me.

To reread, or not to reread? That's hardly a question! Reread!

So, yesterday was a pretty full day for me. Not because I was running all over the place trying to accomplish fifty different things simultaneously, I just had no time to myself. I haven't had an entire day to myself for a while now. I miss those lonesome hours. Regardless, my full day yesterday, I had a few great conversations, all which challenged me, forcing me to reconsider some of my beliefs, my standards and morals. (Now, don't mistake me. 'Reconsider' does not mean 'completely dismiss'. Thanks.)

The conversations I had yesterday reminded me of many of the books I've read, some of which I couldn't quote perfectly. I couldn't even remember the names of the characters I was trying to describe. This bothered me greatly: if I can't remember names of characters, or the exact words of the quotation I might as well just pull the words out of my butt! I might be using these examples out of context, and I hate doing that. I hate manipulating words to me what I want them to mean. I can't just throw away the author's/writer's intent--I'd be a traitor. Every author/writer entrusts his readers to take into account his intent (except, maybe, for deconstructionists). Who am I to impose my thought?

side note: I am not suggesting that I couldn't 'correct' someone's thinking--were I able to do that in the first place--but I like to think I allow the author/writer to think his own thoughts. Only when I understood the author/writer would I feel able, or ready, to offer a rebuttal, or reinforcement.

So!- because of this, I really ought to reread the book's that've, so far, influenced my thinking. I ought to read the books that influenced those books. I really need to read more. I really need to reread. I need to memorize.

Oh, geez. I have to memorize now.

Excuse me while I pull out my index cards.