The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

“The Yellow Wallpaper”; it was hard to get into at first, but as the story progressed as did I ease into the story. Having read it to its completion I found nothing very interpretive about it until the end. Much like “The Open Boat” everything built up but had a meaning and a purpose unknown to me until the end of story. 

The main character, who I would presume to be the author, Charlotte Gilman, is struck with a mild case of deliria it seems and does not know exactly what she wants or needs, but from what her doctor husband tells her. They have moved out to an old house away from the city for the summer to help her condition.  Throughout the story she is doing things that she has been advised not to do, but is never caught doing. Noticing this strangely yellow wall paper in one of the rooms of the house they are staying in. 

“The color is repellent, almost revolting; a smouldering unclean yellow, strangely faded by the slow-turning sunlight.
        It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a sickly sulphur tint in others.”

Throughout the progress of the story she is openly moved from repulsiveness to mystery. As she sits and waits at night staring at this unseemly wallpaper she sees what she believes to be a shadow of a woman behind the first layer of wallpaper as if she is trapped, imprisoned.

Jumping to the last three or four paragraphs of the story; she is now ripping the wallpaper of methodically trying to rip off as big a piece at a time. She becomes obsessed by her fascination to rip this wallpaper off this nursery wall. Trying to free this poor woman trapped behind this wallpaper.

Finally she succeeds. Only to find that instead of getting better she has actually gotten worse. She has obsessed over this woman so long that she has, in her mind, become this women, and her doctor husband and his sister were the ones keeping her trapped behind that wall paper, which is why she  tore most of it off the wall.

We are trapped. Hiding behind the walls of our own “innocence”; trying to be people that we are not. Attempting to become something we were never destined to be. We hide because we are unsure of what the rest of the world, our friends, our families, might think of us. We hide behind our traditions and our rituals. We hide behind our insecurities and failures.

We tell our selves that we’re going to free that woman, that man, behind the wall paper. That when we have kids we’re going to treat them differently. We’re going to raise them differently. That when we grow up we’re going to be a better man then our fathers were, a better woman then our mothers were.

It matters because it’s a problem and so few of us actually succeed in freeing that imprisoned soul behind that nasty yellow wallpaper. It matters because when we finally figure out how to accurately free that scared child, that timid impression of ourselves; it may almost be too late.

And until we do we will always find ourselves in the same place we ran away to hide; in the shadows. Sometimes we need a place of seclusion that will bring out the worst in us so that we can find the best we can be. 

The Book of Sand by Jorge Luis Borges

My dad used to always tell me, “Knowledge is power!” maybe in an amusing effort to motivate me to get my homework done, I don’t know; but if it was then maybe, just maybe, he was right. Looking back now I do wish I had tried harder to become a better student, though I do not think myself stupid, knowledge is a great asset to have. Although knowledge is not exactly the greatest power, whereas faith and God would then come into play, but to us as humans; it’s really all we have.

I heard someone say, though I don’t remember who, that, “Absolute power corrupts absolutely.” Now if this then is true then perhaps The Book of Sands is a book that was filled with infinite knowledge. Perhaps there was no first page because, apart from God, knowledge has no beginning, and to our knowledge it also has no end, which is why we discover knew things every day.

I feel that The Book of Sands (which I read every sentence of) can be written to mean any number of things. But the conclusion I am most drawn to is one I have already stated, that knowledge is power and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

Knowledge builds things and destroys things. It creates things and perverts things. It motivates and discourages. It loves but it also fights. Knowledge [power] gives us the ability to build bridges, but also the capacity to blow them up. Knowledge [power] creates ideas for newer things and a better future, but it also can turn those things against us. Knowledge [power] helps us mend our broken hearts, but at the same time birthed the conflict that broke our hearts.

As the author acquires this book, he is intrigued at its first showing. He sees that the book is indeed special, but to what extent?  As he made the trade with the traveling tradesman, he had every intention I’m sure of discovering its secrets. (“I examined the worn binding and the covers with a magnifying glass, and rejected the possibility of some artifice. I found that the small illustrations were spaced at two-thousand-page intervals. I began noting them down in an alphabetized notebook, which was very soon filled. They never repeated themselves.” Pg. 7)

He even sacrificed some of his favorite things. (“I showed no one my treasure. To the joy of possession was added the fear that it would be stolen from me, and to that, the suspicion that it might not be truly infinite. Those two points of anxiety aggravated my already habitual misanthropy. I had but few friends left, and those, I stopped seeing. A prisoner of the Book, I hardly left my house.” Pg. 7)

Calling himself a prisoner, by choice, he locked himself in his house learning the books secrets and taking note of every detail. I don’t know about you but this sounds like a man who is hungry for power [knowledge]. It’s only when he realizes his own imprisonment that I believe he sets himself free. Taking the book to a safe place (Just like the tradesman he bought it off of) where no one will find it… hopefully.

This message of absolute power [knowledge] corrupting absolutely matters not only to me as a college student but to the professors I have, and to their deans, and to their Vice Presidents, and to the President.

Adolf Hitler claimed to know why the economy was struggling and gave the people an answer. To him, because he knows it’s false, is not knowledge, but to everyone else it’s truth, its knowledge. And Joseph Stalin was the same way, as was Mussolini. These men claimed to have absolute power [knowledge] about their countries current conditions, and provided a “solution” only to become the ultimate problem.

Hopefully then it’s safe to say that The Book of Sand is hidden, so that no one can profess true absolute knowledge [power],I because it’s not meant for anyone to have. This is why believe there to be things out there, somewhere, that will remain undiscovered until the good Lord takes us home. It matters because to you; it shouldn’t matter. Absolute power [knowledge] is absolutely unnecessary. 

The Open Boat by Stephen Crane

This was complicated story; full of many “could be” analogies. I was thinking as I read through that maybe it meant this, and then after reading further and more deeply into it I thought it could maybe mean that or was in fact implying something else.

As I read through it I too felt lost at sea, looking for a meaning. Being tossed by the waves of my own complexities; being washed over by my swells of shallowness. But it was until I got to the end (Yes I did read the entire story) that I finally realized any true significance to this story. It’s meaning, it’s purpose, it’s moral, it’s theme.

“When it came night, the white waves paced to and fro in the moonlight,
and the wind brought the sound of the great sea's voice to the men on
shore, and they felt that they could then be interpreters.”


Summed up in the last paragraph, just as a conclusion should be, the message of the story I feel is not one of any common victory. It’s not one of self righteousness, or revenge. It’s not a sob story, though at times it may seem that way, the way they kept getting tossed around. It was a moral for someone else. That they were the sea’s interpreters meant that they knew it better than anyone. That they had experienced it more fiercely then anyone ever had.


May times they wondered, if they would ever make it out and why nature had reared its ugly head at them. To have brought them so far to only drown them in the end.
“If I am going to be drowned--if I am going to be drowned--if I am going
to be drowned, why, in the name of the seven mad gods who rule the sea,
was I allowed to come thus far and contemplate sand and trees? Was I
brought here merely to have my nose dragged away as I was about to
nibble the sacred cheese of life?”


What had they lived so long for if only to die? The truth is that we will all surely die someday, but to brave the open sea during such a dangerous storm, and with such perfidious waves, would only be the biggest “slap-in-the-face” to a seaman.


Sometimes we go through things not because they necessarily do anything for us, or that we might directly benefit from them, but so that we can be a help to others when they go through the same things; that we might become interpreters of our own situations and circumstances.


 “Oh, cool,” you say, “but why does it matter? Why can’t they figure things out for themselves?”


Believe it or not you were placed on this earth for such a purpose to be a blessing. It matters because as soon as the person you love the most ends up going through something that you’ve just gone through or been through before; your able to be their interpreter; because you’ve been there and experienced it for yourself. It matters because you’re not the only one out there, which means most of the time it’s not going to be about you. That the pain we sometimes go through is for the benefit of others. It matters because others matter. 

Metaphorical Interpretation

                The Very Old Man with Enormous Wings, is an interesting story. A sailor type man has come somehow to this small town. No one knows quite how he got there, since he was found during three days of rain, but many have their suspicions. Some say he is an angel; others still a freak of nature. The story really leaves you without really know what he is, or where he came from. Leaving the whole story open ended in a way, for your imagination to run wild.

                I feel that this story is just one big metaphor to symbolize when Christ came in human form. And there are many comparisons that parallel with the life of Christ.

                He came in an unusual way.  Much like the baby Jesus being born in a manger, and to a virgin nonetheless; this old man with wings, though unknown, came to this town in a way just as mysterious.

                The “Ragpicker”. In this story the appearance of this old man with wings is that of a lowly pesent. I have reason to believe that this is one of the reasons that he is treated with such disregard.

When Jesus came he was the son of a carpenter; nothing more than common folk. He learned his trade just like every other son in his day; he was to carry on the family business. In Isaiah it was written that there was nothing about him to attract us to him. No physical beauty or sweet aroma. Just like this man with wings, there were only a few things to separate him from us.

                “The Neighbor Woman”.  The husband and wife in this story go out in search of counsel and bring back the neighbor woman; “… who knew everything about life and death…” “”He’s an angel,” she said…” The wings must have given him away. For I were to think that if I saw something such as him, who did not speak, at least nothing intelligible, that I would pass him off as a drunk.

Throughout Jesus’ life there were those who proclaimed his messiah-ship, and then those who proclaimed his hypocrisy. Saying that he was either the true son of God or an imposter sent to distract us from who or what the real messiah is.

                “Father Gonzaga”.  Father Gonzaga is that person; the one who isn’t buying the whole angel story. As he enters the chicken coop, where this winged fellow is being kept he is immediately alerted to the fact that he may not be an angel. “…he did not understand the language of God or know how to greet his ministers.” So naturally he can’t be an angel.

I don’t think I remember Jesus greeting the counsel of priests with the expected type of response. He was more unique in that way. Who is man to make rules and regulations any way? Is not everything set into motion by God? I feel as though Christ is similar in this way. He showed respect because they were in a position to receive respect, but never once do I think he gave them the answer they were looking for.

                “The Curious… The Crowds”.  “… then got the idea to of fencing in the yard and charging five cents admission to see the angel. The curious came from far away.”  Amazed at the thought of an angel, or whatever he was, live and held captive on earth was a dream; something that only happened in children’s stories. (Like this one) They came just to see him, to awe at his “splendor”.

They came to hear him, to see him do miracles. They came to see for themselves the things that he was teaching and doing; multitudes of thousands upon thousands. The “Sermon on the Mount” is a classic example. When five thousand people were fed with a small boy’s lunch. They came from near and far, just to see him.

                “Treatment”. “ Especially during the first days, when the hens pecked at him, searching for the stellar parasites that proliferated in his wings, and the cripples pulled out feathers to touch their defective parts with, and even the most merciful threw stones at him,...” They threw stones at him? Now if you thought that there was an angel in your midst that you would throw stones at it? I don’t think so. This doesn’t seem to be very logically thinking.

Did they not openly rebuke him? Did Peter, one of his closest friends, not reject him three different times the night of his arrest? Jesus was treated like the worst of sinners though he had no sin to be guilty of. He was spat upon and ultimately crucified. What manner of injustice did he do to deserve this? He offended someone, or challenged someone’s authority; such injustice.

                “Making Money”. They had charged 5 cents at the door just to look upon such an interesting creature, as if they had now owned him; and, “With the money they had saved they built a two-story mansion with balconies and gardens and high netting so that crabs wouldn’t get in during winter, and iron bars on the windows so that angels wouldn’t get in.” With iron bars on the windows it [angels] must have been quite the problem in that small town.

Thirty pieces of silver, the cost of our savior’s life. With the money he had saved [“earned”] he went out and bought a field and hung himself for what he had done. Nothing could keep out the continuous haunting from so many demons pursuing his very soul. He must have been possessed by Satan himself. What is the cost of redemption? Is it not your life?

                “The Departure”. Then he leaves; no goodbyes, no farewells, but a memory that could never fade. “Then she went to the window and caught the angel in his first attempts at flight… But he did manage to gain altitude.” Elisenda then sighs in relief and is happy that he is finally gone because above all other things; he was an annoyance. There was no purpose for him to be there. They learned nothing during his visit, they weren’t thankful for their new wealth, they were just happy he was gone.

Though when he left he left in a slightly different fashion he was still, in retrospect, look at a nuisance to the religious society. They were happy that he was gone; or was he really even gone? The fact remains that as he left there was a sigh of relief, but also a sigh of sorrow. Not knowing he would come back. Some say after he rose from the dead that there was an impression made on the hearts of those whom he loved; that his legacy lived on. 

An Angel in Disguise

The first thing that comes to mind is that the angel is an unwanted “guest” as if he imposed himself upon the lives of Pelayo and his wife. But still they took care of him; kind of. They gave him shelter, a chicken coop and later a shed; food, at least whatever the townspeople threw to him. But they kept him around for their own gain. They turned him into a circus show and made money off of him. They compared him to the freak show that often came into town. And when he started getting better, they were happy not because he was no longer miserable but because maybe, just maybe he would leave.

You see them every day; the homeless, the beggars, the panhandlers on the side of the road. And you know that they need help. You drive by them on your way to school, your way to work, and still they go “unnoticed”. Their lives untouched, or we talk about them with the windows rolled up; “Why don’t they just get a job and stop wasting their life?” And we live with them everywhere, everyday; and when they finally leave we are filled with joy. Not because we are happy with their advancements towards a better life, but because we don’t have to deal with them anymore.

What would happen if we as the church (which is what I feel this story is portraying in a way with the reference to angels and Father Gonzaga) stop passing by, and become the Samaritans that Christ talks about. That even our enemies will know us for our love. When will the church that Christ talks about in the gospels come to life?

Never will I tire from doing good, for even if I fail; to stand by and watch would defeat my soul.

“Papa, help me to find the most in every opportunity. That everything I experience would present its self a widow to show your love. May the people I come in contact with feel the compassion that you have for them in a way that is most real to them. Help them to see Christ in me. I love you Papa.”

A Story as a Metaphor; Omelas

The city, Omelas, in this story seems to characterize most of the world as we see it today. There is a place where there are all things almost completely void of any feeling or genuine emotions. Much like the world today everybody tries their best to feel as if there is nothing that can make them happy or sad, or angry, because they need, for themselves, to have complete rule over their own emotions. They don’t know what it means to truly love any more; they don’t know what it means to truly care for anything. Because, much like the child in the closet, they justify any act that has even the smallest hint of inhumanity as a necessary evil.

                If there is nothing for which they can look at and feel pity about then there is nothing to feel good about; because without evil there is no good.  If everything in the world was just fine and dandy, then nothing would seem as good as it really truly is. But if you have a moment of darkness, a reminder of cruelty then maybe, just maybe, everything is just that much better, because at least you’re not the one shoved into a closet with no windows, and no floor, with little to no light ever seen at any given time. At least you’ve got other things to think about then why you’re trapped inside a closet covered in your own waste, built up over the years.

                You’ve got a nice little life of your own going on. And the only purpose that those commercials with the dogs in the pound that need your help and the children across the world with no home or family, the only purpose those have for you is to make you feel better about yourself and your life. Because at least you’re not an orphaned child in a third world country

Nature Came Late...

So this post is late but is completely relevant to class. Nature is a huge part of everything that we do and experience, that it would be a shame not to post this poem and blog even if it is late.

As I was out at Lake Bonny Park enjoying the view before me; the ball park, the traffic noise in the small distance, the human waste vehicle emptying out the bathrooms, and the beeping sound that is accompanied with every backing up of an oversized truck, or trailer, I found myself struggling to find the organic beauty of it all. Then it began to rain. You could hear it on top of the picnic covering Casey and I were sitting under, it was made of metal and you could hear every rain drop, big and small, those falling in a furious decent, and those taking their time enjoying their short life span. It was a small symphony in motion. These are the words that came to my mind when I found something to write about...

"What word can express, all the beauty that nature has in it's possession, it's become an obsession to sit in the "wild" deep in meditation, concentration is key to understanding what the father is of this "Mother Nature" is trying to tell me, the birds of the air and the fish of the sea, consider these things as you think simplisticly, it truly is a great design, that I may witness with these eyes of mine, not it shines on the horizon, it's the sun, that you might encounter a God in this place, of grace, a warm expression on your face, for what do we have to gain from the rain, we pass it off as a pain and let it run down the drain, but it's to enjoy, and employ the clouds on days like this, whether the weather is cld or hot, wet or not, consider it a blessing for messing up "your plans", life not always about beaches and getting tans."


This isn't quite like what we've been reading in class but it was the natural flow that came to me with what I was experiencing. I hope that you enjoyed it and were somewhat inspired to have a new experience.

A Re-Examination

   I will admit that the first time reading this through there was not much interaction with the text and I was deeply discouraged at my lack of the ability to focus and “hone in” on what the text was really trying to say.  But after my genius friend Chelsea gave me her brilliant insight on the text, I came to the conclusion that it really did not make any kind of sense at all.

                

   I think that the thing that confuses me the most is how every stanza is completely irrelevant to the previous one. With the way that I think things through and process things makes it difficult for me to read things like this poem. I can deal with the Psalms and with the Bible in its entirety but when it keeps jumping around from topic to topic and is never on a seemingly constant thought, it’s hard to put together what exactly the author, Robert Hass in this case, is trying so intelligently to get across. First, I think we’re talking about a little school girl, who I think might actually be a terrorist, and then we jump to everything natural, and then jellyfish and dogs. I just don’t understand.

              

  It could be the author is transitioning from a metaphorical way of thinking and writing to a more literal and natural form. This is what I don’t understand. Is it considered poetic or artistic? Am I the only one who is having trouble with this? Please trust me when I say that nothing is more frustrating than sitting at Starbucks trying to figure out for the second time what someone is trying to say in a poem they wrote a long time ago. 

   Nature, terrorists, and jellyfish dogs are not exactly my idea of cohesive writing, but maybe I’m just stubborn. I do admire the author’s vocabulary and the texture that seems to jump out of each individual story, or poem. I just wish that they were more relevant to each other. 

State of the Planet

I am sorry to say that I was unable to engage with the text today. Maybe it's because I'm too busy, or stressed out. Maybe it's because of this or that. No, it can't be anything other then me. Myself. I did this to myself. Failure to engage means failure to understand. And isn't that the purpose of blogging? To understand? Maybe it's not all it's cracked up to be. Maybe these readings are mind-numbing, brain-washing, dirty water mop buckets that aren't really doing much but just spreading everything around so that it looks different. Maybe it's not really supposed to be understood, and that by claiming an "understanding" you are incoherently lying to the professor, the class, and ultimately to yourself.

I am also ashamed to say that I have fallen prey to this form of illusion, as I have sworn I would never. But alas, it is true. so lets just get on with it...


"Lucretius, we have grown so clever that mechanics on our art of natural philosophy can take the property of luminescence from a jellyfish and put it in mice. In the dark the creatures give off greenish light. Their bodies must be very strange to them. An artist in Chicago- think os a great city in Dacia or Thacia- has asked to learn the method so he can sell people dogs that glow in the dark."


This is our world today. Everybody always wants something new. If it's been out for two weeks it's too old, outdated. Pressure has been put on us since we were kids to create the next big thing. To start the next big movement. I hear people say all the time that they have failed our generation by not doing that for us, and that it's our "opportunity" to do it for the next generation. But it's literally impossible; With two week being the out of date time period our society has given us, it's impossible to be the change. It's impossible to make a difference. It's impossible to create something that is lasting. Something that will be around. Only time, if there's much left, will tell.

Does this mean that people will never be satisfied? I hope not. Goodness if people were never happy with what they had, or will have, I don't think this world would be have as nice of a lace to live. I'm glad there are a few people who are able to find the strength of contentment. What would a person need with a glow in the dark dog anyway? So that when they get up in the middle of the night to get a glass of water they don't trip over Scruffy? That's pitiful. And the only logical reason I can find for owning a glow in the dark pup. Can we do ourselves a favor and just get over ourselves? Please? Thank you.

James Baldwin

Earlier this semester I was talking about it. The luxury some authors have to illicitly describe what the characters feel like in the story, the characters themselves, the scene, and what is going on. James Baldwin, uses incredible language while setting up the story and its characters,

“I read about it in the paper, in the subway, on my way to work. … I stared at it in the swinging lights of the subway car, and in the faces and bodies of the people, and in my own face, trapped in the darkness which roared outside.

It was not to be believed … I was scared, scared for Sonny…. A block of ice got settled on my belly and kept melting there slowly all day long, while I taught my class algebra. It was a special kind of ice. It kept melting, sending trickles of ice water all up and down my veins, but it never got less. …

When he was… his face had been wonderfully bright and open, there was a lot of copper in it; he’d had wonderfully direct brown eyes, and great gentleness and privacy.”

There’s just a level of intensity in his writing that makes it stand out, even in the first two or three paragraphs. There is just something to be said about an author that can accurately describe the entire set up and premise of the story in the first several paragraphs.

Now maybe I’m crazy but can see and have experienced the difficulty of this task. I like to look at myself as an admirer of the arts; someone who can fully appreciate the passion that an artist puts in to his work. And that probably comes from my parents raising me with the mind set of, “If it doesn’t make you work hard, then it’s not good work.” Just because you can’t do something as well as someone else, doesn’t make it any less of an accomplishment. I love it. Literature is a whole other subject, and it needs to be appreciated. 

Midterm

                So the midterm we took last class was to my relief was extremely rewarding. Although I was fully confident in my skills and sure of the knowledge I had gained in (and out of) class. I was al little worried as I went to bed the Wednesday night. So I woke the next morning to study, hard. I looked over every note taken, which wasn’t much, and read, more like skimmed through, every handout we had received in class. I will be honest and say that I did not read the two chapters on theme and character so naturally I didn’t even think about looking over them. How you can you remember something you never did?

The problem lies in timing. For on this fateful Thursday morning I had not one but two midterms that were of equal importance. So I found myself splitting my study time, about 2-3 hours, between two very important classes; Introduction to Literature, and World Religions.  The world seemed so small until this particular Thursday morning; breakfast never seemed so irrelevant. So I studied, with everything I had I scrolled through notes upon notes of things I didn’t even remember writing down. My hear t is racing; my time is coming to an end.

The moment of truth, class; Introduction to Literature, the World Religions test seemed to have gone well.  Now it’s time for the last one of the day.  Feeling completely unprepared for what I believe is in store, I take my pencil out and ready, at least the best that I can, my mind. Then comes’ the news. Good news and bad news. Bad news first, Professor Corrigan wasn’t able to make the test a 100 questions long. The Good news, we had more time in class to learn. Now I’m all for learning but when it comes to getting things taken care of, I’m all about getting in and then getting out. Sometimes The good news is the bad news. I love Intro. to Lit. 

Fireworks

       I had never seen anything like it. The sky lit up like a Christmas tree in the summer sky with brilliant displays of blue and green. So many years, I was amazed that I had never experienced such a majestic array of colors. I took a deep breath, and tried my best to take in the moment. Looking down just for a moment to relax my trapezius, I saw her. As if the fireworks weren’t enough, she was illuminating the sky as if she was giving off her own radiant glow. She soon too looked down and gave me a lasting stare. The five seconds our eyes met seemed like five minutes. Her bright smile, with her dark complexion only complemented what I was already thinking. It was only a matter of time.

            I saw that she was still looking at me; probably because I was still looking at her. Those five seconds had become five minutes, but for a different reason. Quickly looking away, I tied to think of an excuse as to why I was looking at her for so long. I wasn’t going to tell her that I was enthralled with her seemingly matchless beauty, with her dark eyes and pretentious stature. She was impeccably designed; and she knew it. Her smile, though gorgeous, said more than the lips that formed it ever could. She began to walk over.

            My heart is racing, she’s twenty yards away. Think. Think… What’s a good excuse? The fireworks are still singing their song in the evening firmament; red, and blue now. As she approached her hair glistened in the shine of the nocturnal display. She had a grace about her that seemed to capture the very heart of what it meant to be free.

            I found myself staring again, only with my mouth open this time. What was it that was so hypnotizing about her? Was it the way she dressed, with her Carhart overalls and flannel button up work shirt that drew me into her gaze? Was it the half smile, half don’t mess with me look that she was now giving me? Or perhaps the way her hair blew in the wind as she approached my place of standing? Whatever it is I don’t care. She’s ten yards away and I don’t have an excuse yet.

            I look hurriedly back up at the sky whose space is being invaded with life and light; still nothing like it in the world. Sparklers and fountains, yellows and gold’s; the pyromaniac genius that organized this was truly a visionary. If only this kind of thing happened more often; maybe the world would be a better place.

            She had disappeared; nowhere to be found. As I frantically searched for her florescent like presence. It was as if she was part of the show. This beautiful presentation of glory, and then in a moment is gone. Why do the best things in life have to be so temporary? The flowers of the field will wither and die. The snowcapped mountains swiftly melt away. The rising sun soon sets. Is nothing good to stay with us? Are we only ever left with our memories?

            The evening is now approaching its’ climax. This wondrous depiction of splendor in the sky is being taken to another level as tear drops fall, and sparklers fall to their end. Messages in the sky; “I love you”, “Will you marry me?”, “Happy 4^th of July”. So far it was an unforgettable experience.

            Looking down to rest my neck once more, there she is. Standing ten yards to the opposite of where she was when I last her. No longer looking at me but gazing up at the heavens and their magic show. She was everything vibrant, everything perfect. Her rosy cheeks matched her rosy personality. Never once did that smile come all the way off her face. Maybe once or twice for and “Ohh!”, or an “Ahh!”. She once again looked over to catch me staring at her perfections.

            Still no excuse, now walking towards me for the second time, I can feel my heart sink like a treasure chest to the bottom of the deep blue. Blue was the color of her flannel shirt that she wore from experience. The rolled up sleeves showed her aggression, and the top button left undone revealed a sense of unfinished business. Neither of which scare me very easily, at least not tonight for some reason.

            I noticed that she is walking faster than the last time I saw her b-lining towards me. There was a taste of urgency in the air, and it was rich. The only problem was the five yard distance that was being infringed upon while I still did not have an excuse for my repulsive glares. How un-gentlemen of me to stare at someone who is clearly so far above my division or weight class? There have been many a time when I have found myself in awkward situations that I have fancied my way out of, but this. This was another ball game. Before I had a wingman, a friend, someone to back me up and give my fabrications credentials. Tonight there is no one, just me; just her, the two of us.

            The pyrotechnics had flawless timing. The very moment she stretches her hand out in introduction. The finale has arrived. Every color known to man is now in the sky: red, blue, green, yellow, orange, pink (which I often mistook for red throughout the night), and white (or silver as it appeared). Fountains, sparklers, tear drops, mortars, and umbrellas; indisputably one of the best firework shows of all time. Too bad the 4^th of July only comes once a year.

            We were holding hands. Her name was Allison Jackowski. We had grown up together and even gone through grade school together. Her parents were deceased, meaning that she was adopted, by a family who didn’t even care to know her name. She was my first girlfriend.  

This Blessed House

   Sanjeev. Twinkle. I don't think that there could be a more annoying and disturbing marriage then this one. He, Sanjeev, seems almost annoyed with everything Twinkle does. Every time she finds something that interests her it's never okay, or acceptable if it doesn't interest him also. I understand his whole "we're not Christians" arguement, but it sets his whole attitude for the rest of the story. I'm not very sure that this is what I would want my marriage or any of my friends marriages' to look like. There was a time when he said, "I had never seen her cry before, I had never seen such pain in her eyes'" Then there came a moment of compromise. To move the statue to the side of the house as opposed to having it in the front yard, or taking it to the dump.

   I would like to think of life as a series of compromises. Everyday is another day that things don't exactly go your way. Sometimes the compromises are so big that their life changing. Others are to small to give any recognition to. Marriage, however, should be the opposite. I think that there needs to be a sense of "said-ness" when it comes to certain things. Something that is said and never spoken against. Certain absolutes. For example, I would not want my wife to put up Hindu or Muslim paraphernalia in our home if we are not Hindu of Muslim. First of all, it misrepresents us as a single unit, as a husband and wife. Secondly it, brings doubt and uncertainty into our home. Joshua 24:15b "... as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord." 


   Sanjeev, though I understand his discontent, I feel that there were moments where he was literally about to "go off" on Twinkle. Things that she said that almost begged a response from Sanjeev, now I give him credit for not actually "going off", but his OCD personality almost seemed like that's where it was leading to. What I do admire is Twinkles submissive spirit, and being willing to end controversy with a solution.

Madame Descartes

   If there's one thing I love more then a great, well made movie, it's an amazing vocabulary, and an original voice. And David St. John... he has that. He very delicately describes Madame Descartes as he sees her and takes in her beauty; "Along the fir wall, a leisurely veil of cigarette smoke steadily latticing the air before her; then I caught her unmistakable reflection in one of the square mirrored pillars, "those regal cheekbones, those nearly opaque, sea-blue eyes that'd commandeered both men and newspapers for forty years, simply lifting to meet mine..."  I love how he describes, in great depth, her eyes before he even sees them. 


   This is something I struggle to maintain. A distinct voice when I write. Every now and then it'll sound like something, or someone, else. When you go through and you read the entire new testament, you can see that paul has his own style, and certain words that he emphasizes the most. John does the same, as does Luke and Peter. When you read the book in the new testament you can tell who wrote it simply by it's voice. David St. John has a voice that is both refreshing and unique. There is another time in the narrative that stands out to me because it is so descriptive that you can't not notice it. "Beneath her quite carefully constructed mask, The islands of rouge mapping soft slopes of power, beneath the precise calm she'd expertly painted for herself before the mirror, I could see why scandal had tattooed even the air she'd walked through. I'd never seen a beauty like hers, riveting as a unicorns soft eye." 


   In chapel last friday (Yes... I go to religion chapel at Southeastern) The had a panel of three women who are actively involved in ministry. Each one had something different to say as far as how ministry is to be approached and dealt with, but they al had the same underlying theme... find your voice. They argued that your life is a story, and it has a voice. One of my goals is to find that voice and to write that story, and then to eventually read it to my children, and to my children's children, so that they too can find their voice. But why stop there? Why not so that everyone can read it? My dream is to help others discover their voice, to write their stories. For this I now live...

Joel

  After rereading the book of Joel. I tried to find a common theme. As difficult as it was I think I may have found one. In the beginning He is talking about different kinds of locusts. After reading and analyzing the book a little further in detail, I feel as though I am able to come to the conclusion that he is metaphorically speaking about all of these different nations that took Israel into slavery. In Chapter 2 he quotes the Lord having said, "Then I will make up to you for the years, that the swarming locust has eaten, the creeping locust, the stripping locust and the gnawing locust." Calling it His great army sent against them. And then in Charpter 3 he talks about "...Tyre, Sidon and all the regions of Philistia." and then later, " and sold the sons of Judah and Jerusalem to the Greeks..."

   This is the main theme I found through out the book, even though it is incredibly short. Death and destruction, then a reviving of the life that was lost. The locusts come and eat everything and completely decimate the land. Just as the neighboring countries would come in and destroy the land that they called home and take them captive, making a profit by selling them into slavery.

   Chapter one is describing the scene created in a metaphorical nature. Chapter two emphasizes redemption and God's power and it's potency. Chapter three, seems to elaborate on both of these things by using a little more literal language. As we talked about in class on Tuesday, the bible is literally poetry. Maybe not always the way it sounds but the way it's written definitely presents a prose and common theme. Truth, and justice. What else is important enough to write 66 books about?
  
   If you haven't read Joel or Any of the other minor prophets, I would encourage you to read at least one before the year is over.

A New Way of Thinking

   I should say that one the things, or aspects, of Corrigans class that I find most humbling is what dialog that we share in class. After reading and blogging about his essay on darkness, hope and other such things I found that class discussion was some what robust. The room was filled with questions and most did not have answers. Which is fitting since the essay talked about how the questions that we so often look for are the ones that we know we either have the answer to or the ones that we can find an answer to. Nothing is as it seems. And it's funny, I always thought of myself more as a writer then as a reader. But the last year or so, and especially after being introduced to Prof. Corrigans class, I feel an urgency to read more then write.

  This last discussion we had in class reminded me of something I wrote last semester. Something in my journal...

"All the mourning that you're doing tonight, in the morning will just turn into might, give you strength to fight, lace 'em up strap your armor on tight, don't you settle for wrong when you know that your right, my eternal God, my refuge and my strength, I pray that you would guide me within every step I take, no mistakes, cause me to break, and above all else I pray you keep me safe, as the earth quakes, 'cause everyday ain't the same, some are filled with guilt and shame, and then there's those days you gotta call on the name, 'cause what can you do when you greatest fears come true, it's at that point you realize your strength is not from you, it's not your own, not until you seek the throne, your not accident prone, you're attack prone, susceptible to the evil one, the master of deception, make you believe in lies like you're not good enough, make you think that you're not tough enough, like you ain't got the stuff it takes, to fight for your life and other lives at stake..."

   Nothing is as it seems, Sometimes, it's a constant battle, the classic epic fight of good versus evil, light versus the darkness. It's got me thinking about the Yupik (Native Alaskan Tribe) story. Inside everyman lives two wolves, a Great White Wolf and a Blood Thirsty Grey Wolf. The wolf that lives is the wolf you feed the most. Which wolf are you feeding?

A question about Darkness

   Where is darkness? If I were to put you in a room by yourself (or with a friend, it really doesn't matter) and turned the lights off on you and ask you to point out darkness what would you say? Is darkness something that can be defined? Is it something tangible that you can see and touch? And if you could identify it, what would it look like?

   A lot of times we seem to overlook the idea of darkness. Sometimes we refuse to see it because we want to believe everything is okay. "Fake it till you make it." My Intro to Psychology teacher Misty Seybert used to always say. And in doing so we tend to become unaware of what exactly darkness is, and what it looks like. "To live without awareness of it at all is death pure and simple--even though one may still be walking around and smelling perfect." (Thomas Merton, quoted from Drakness, Question, Poetry, and Spiritual Hope by Paul Corrigan)

   Professor Corrigan also states that, "Darkness is a question that must be asked seriously." Implying that Darkness is of such a matter that firing off answers as if you have the right answer is nothing short of ignorance, and/or stupidity. At least in my own rendition of the thought anyway. I feel the same way; that when it come to something as serious as darkness, you need to ask yourself the right questions. Matthew 6:22-23 talks about darkness in respect to your heart. That if your eyes are a window to the soul then this means that they are what lets the light and or darkness in. Make sure that you are only letting in light, but what if the light that you thought was good is in fact darkness? (The question comes...) How great then is that greatness?

   Professor Corrigan brought up a truly valid issue; "Certainly we do not need to attend a funeral or travel to the other side of the world to find darkness. Downtown is as far as we ever need to go; and often, we can find it in our own bedroom." So then now the challenge becomes a matter of the heart, rather then just a matter of pure evil, death, and gloom. This is far more discouraging then the latter. For if it were simply a matter of pure evil, and certainty of death, then we would deal with it as we always have; ignored it. But because it's a matter of our own hearts now, we have been drawn to the dark-side. A force set out to destroy anything resembling that of hope. And the worst part is that we've been fighting this war against ourselves this whole time and never realized it until just now... when I told you. Corrigan also, as any good writer would do, insures a hope; stating that, "Facing darkness is not pleasant or socially acceptable, but in this world where darkness is, the integrity of our hope depends on it."

   The remarkable thing to me is that we tend to be that very source of evil, but are at the same time the only source of hope we have. It's when our hope rises up and chooses to say that, "Enough is enough. I'm tired of seeing people hungry. I'm sick of walking by people and not giving a care, just as long as I have money for the dollar menu at Micky D's. I'm done with changing the channel every time I see an ad for an orphanage in India. I'm done sitting around and doing nothing." It was ElieWiesel, a holocaust survivor, who said it best; "Indifference is the worst kind of hatred." So I direct my question now to our hope... When are you going to rise up? And when are we going to stop pretending that this darkness isn't in us?


   If this subject interested you and you want to see it in a more visual way, watch the movie Three. (It's also a book written by Ted Dekker.)

The Grave-yard Shift

   It was an interesting assignment that much is true,  but it was also in a way, an incredibly eye opening experience. As we approached the site of our next field trip thoughts flooded our minds and eventually found their way out via our mouths. What the heck are we doing here? Is this appropriate, since none of us know anyone here? What's proper cemetery etiquette? And how long should we reflect on each respective grave?

  I feel often that cemeteries can be a place of depression, and loneliness. But as we began reading each tombstone we passed I began to get this feeling of excitement for some, peculiar reason. I began thinking of the stories that we were encountering. I began seeing, in my mind, the lives that had been lived. What were these people like. Considering most of the graves we saw were from around the late 1900's, it was intriguing to feel as if I could understand the struggles they went through. This is a place were the humble were remembered with the great. In most aspects the greats were those who were humble. At least that's the way it seems to often times be. There were soldiers in many different places; some that served in WWII, and some that served in more recent wars such as the Persian Gulf War and one soldier that had died earlier this year.

   Maybe you've heard the saying, "The most important thing on your tombstone, is that dash between the dates." It's what you did while you were alive. Did you give generously? Did you not only notice the poor among you but did you do something about it? I started thinking about all these times when I could have done something. When I could have given something, even though I had so little to share. The times I should have said something but kept my mouth shut with strong effort. What are people going to say about me when I'm dead and gone? (great song by T.I. and Justin Timberlake) What's that dash going to proclaim about the way I chose to live my life?

   "Never let anyone tell you that your not old enough, that your too young, that you don't know anything." (The Apostle Paul-paraphrased) Let be your warning! There are no excuses, nothing should keep you from doing what you know is right. While we were at the cemetery, we came across the grave of a couple who had lived during the segregation period of our country. The best part of this was that this couple was African-American. The trials they must have gone trough in that time must have been unbearable at times. Those are the stories I want to hear. Those are the stories I want my life to mimic.

A Grief Observed- Part 1

   "They say an unhappy man wants distractions- something to take him out of himself. Only as a dog-tired man wants an extra blanket on a cold night; he'd rather lie there and shiver then get up and find one. It's easy to see why the lonely become untidy, finally, dirty and disgusting." (Pg. 5)

   It was my junior year in high school and we were just about to get the basketball season started. The team was looking good and our chances at winning the state championship were even better. It was looking like the perfect year. We had most everybody coming back, and after a summer of working out and hanging out, the time was approaching us. The Season opener; the first game of the season. Everyone knows how important the first game is. It's like a first impression on the season. It's what says, "We're the team to beat." As a Junior and co-captain, I was in the starting line up; I had worked a lot over the summer trying to make sure I didn't take any steps back.  But that night was one of the roughest nights I had in high-school. We get a call at about 9pm-10pm. It's my Aunt Tricia, who is my dad's younger siser,... It's about my Grandma... she just passed away after struggling only a few months with breast cancer. Devastated I failed to sleep that night, and as I went to school the next I found myself in the same isolation the C.S. Lewis put himself in after the death of his wife. Even though the relationships are different, I still felt the same things he felt.

   I grew up not knowing anyone in my mothers family, for clearly obvious reasons, and the only distant relatives I knew were, my Aunt Tricia and her family, and my dads parents. Only my aunt lived in town so it wasn't very often we got to see them. But them were all the family I had, and I loved them. But this is not the end.

   The very next year, I find out my Aunt Catherine (my dads aunt) just passed away with breast cancer also. Granted I did not really know her except for when we took a vacation down to Florida one year and stayed with her for a couple nights, I wasn't affected as much.

   "Cancer, and cancer, and cancer. My Mother, my father, my wife. I wondered who is next in the queue." (Pg. 12) Cancer, and cancer, and cancer. My Grandma, my Aunt Catherine, and then my Aunt Trica. The very one who called us to tell us about Grandma was now diagnosed with breast cancer, my sophomore year in college. It's never an easy thing to hear, someone you love and hold so dear has now got a disease that has no real cure. Times can be hard. In relation to, at least the first two chapters anyway, I find it hard to disagree with Lewis. Sometimes you really do have to ask the tough questions, because sometimes you just really don't know.

My Literary Self

   It seems to me that my earliest memories of literature, after deep reflection and prolonged action to do anything about it, I have come to the simple conclusion that, at least my favorite anyways, is whenever my Dad would read to us as we fell asleep. He liked reading the adventure stories like Frank Peretti's "The Cooper Family Adventures", and then J.R.R. Tolkein's quotable "The Lord of the Rings" trilogy. They were inspiring and the only thing I would really look forward to when the day had come to and end. There's nothing like falling asleep to a story that involves such perilous adventures and life and death situations, I'm sure if you were to ask my parents they would say they made for great dreams to be told about in the early mornings before school .
   But through this my Father had instilled within me an uncanny nature to just read. "Knowledge is Power!" He would sometimes say, and even though it took awhile for me to actually pick a book that I thought I would enjoy, I did, and there's been at least one in my hand ever since. He birthed that passion to learn, that passion to read.
   The most significant piece of literature I've read, besides the bible (which I still haven't even read all the way through yet), wold have to be "Worldliness" edited by C.J. Mahaney; I had also just finished reading before I left for India, and so need less to say God pretty much messed me up in preparation for that little adventure, but it made me really re-examine my outlook on life, and forced me to notice things that I needed to work on, as much as I didn't want to. It helped me see who I am, and who I've been called to be. Where I'm at, and where I should be.
   Literature has value in the sense that without it, we wouldn't be where we are today. Even if the art of writing on paper gets outdated and goes out of style, it was important because it was a necessary part of the process to get there. Literature is important and shows promise in the single fact that literature provides understanding. There are things I can't comprehend, unless I see it written out on paper. But like everything else it has it's pros and cons.
   Literature doesn't matter when it comes to table talk, or opinions/advice (since I feel that opinions/advice are points of views based off of experiences), there are certain things that literature cannot make up for. Literature cannot make up for an experience. Just because you read a very well written book about skydiving, does not mean that you know what it feels like to jump out of a plane, unless of coarse you have had that experience. Literature cannot get you a girlfriend. No matter how many books you read, or how many times you read them. You will never woe a woman until you take significant time to get to know her.