My Metaphor

In US History I read about how some of the founding fathers thought of God as a clockmaker.















You know. Like, He made the universe. Maybe He tinkered with atoms and quarks at His work bench--the God particle came to Him in his sleep and woke Him with a flash of sheer brilliance. He smoothed out the dark satin of space, started the mechanical movement of the stars, compressed and carved a few worlds and then dusted his hands off and walked away. Said, "Well. That was fun. What else do we do around here?"

Maybe He went and created a few other universes. Maybe He took a really long nap. Or went and listened to an extremely long angel concert. But he definitely walked away. Because why else would there be starvation? And war? Why else would children be abused, and families be broken up? Why would politicians be corrupt, and everyday people be nasty?

If God were still around, these things couldn't happen. Or so thought the founding fathers. Their God was a perfectionist, intolerant of anything that wasn't as good as He was.

I thought about this for a long time. Having been extremely sheltered, my experiences with the world's evil and heartache is extremely limited. So I admit to being unqualified to explain why God allows bad things to happen to good people. But, you know, my lack of qualifications haven't really ever stopped me before.

I'll admit that what bugged me most when I read about the founding father's was not, as my friend pointed out to me, that the men who wrote about "the Laws of Nature and Nature's God" did not, in fact, believe that God was around. It was mostly that they had a metaphor for how their God worked, and I didn't have one for mine.

I confess it. I'm an English major at heart. (I'm actually trying to decide if I want the rest of me to be an English major, or whether I want to isolate the impulses to my thoracic cavity. Thoughts?)

After a great deal of thought I have come up with my metaphor.

My God is an orchestra conductor.

I don't know if you've ever been in an orchestra. (I haven't. I was in a band--school band. I'm not cool enough to be in a non-school band.)

An orchestra conductor gives you music and says, "Hey, listen, things will work out best for you if you follow this music." He can't make you, of course. But he suggests it. He'll help you out if you come talk to Him, and explain the difficult passages. Sometimes He'll give you hard music just so that you'll struggle with it, learn from it, come talk to him about it.

But sometimes He won't be able to explain things to you. How can He tell you what a violin bow is supposed to feel like in your hand? How can he explain how to speed your breath up or slow it down in time with the music?

He won't fix your problems with the other orchestra members either. Sometimes, in the middle of the performance the brass section will trip, slip, and tumble, messing up every other instrumentalist there. Sometimes there will be one musician struggling. Does he stop the show? Does he kick them out?

Sometimes. But he orchestrates everything and everyone. He is mindful of them all.

That's my God. He's stands at the front and begs everyone to watch, pleads with them to be good to each other, to make each other better. But he can't--or, maybe, he won't--play our instruments for us.

If the World was (were?) Just

I have a job!

I spend several hours a day busing tables and smiling really big. I say "Aloha" and "Mahalo" and "Are you done with that?" You don't have to have a very big vocabulary when you bus tables.

Applying for jobs was a painful process for me. I felt extremely judged. Every time I went into talk to someone I stood there awkwardly and tried to think of something impressive to say. You know, something like, I can lift three hundred pounds. And tame lions. 

Somehow my GPA wasn't quite cutting it.

Working is exposing me to my woeful ignorance, which is never a comfortable feeling. Nothing they taught me at school makes me any better at balancing silverware. I am really hoping that busing isn't my life's calling. Because I kind of stink at it.

It isn't just that my job shows me all sorts of things I don't know. It also starts poking holes in things I thought I did know.

I mean, I always knew that I didn't know anything about how the internet works. But I thought I had a basic grasp on Newton's laws of motion. Not, a rocket science, I'm going to fly a monkey to Mars level. But a function in the everyday world, have a general idea of how to throw a ball level. But here's the thing--I can't figure out the mechanisms of a cart.

You would think that moving a cart should be fairly straightforward. You put wheels on something and it moves. But apparently carts can be broken. Not as in a wheel falling off. As in... it no longer responds to my understanding of Newton's laws.

"For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction."

...Guys, does that not mean that a cart should move in the way you push it? No?

My whole life has been a lie.

(If the world was just, carts would move in the way you push them. I'm just saying.)

A Few of My Favorite Things

I watched The Young Victoria yesterday. Again.

Every once in a while I get the urge to watch a "bonnet movie." You know, a movie where all the women wear beautiful dresses, and all the men wear high boots. Where everyone is witty, and the stakes are purely interpersonal. Where it's clear from the beginning who is going to fall in love, so any angst suffered along the way is throughly enjoyable. This happened sometime last January and to satisfy my craving I got on Netflix and watched Bright Star. I was less than pleased.

A similar urge ceased me sometime last summer. Once again I consulted Netflix. I found The Young Victoria. And it was love.

If you are a guy, this may be a good time to bow out. I don't know that this is a guy movie. Unless you're a guy like my dad--who called me, several weeks ago, to inform me that when I got home we were going to watch all of the six hour Pride and Prejudice and do a textual analysis of it in which he would prove, once and for all, that Lizzy did not fall in love with Darcy for his money.

But, if you're not a guy, or if you're a guy like my dad (in which case we should talk), let me tell you what I love about this movie.

There is your normal run of good things--the script is smart (though not fast paced), and the acting ranges from inoffensive to excellent. The film is beautifully shot (mostly), and the score is lovely.

But I've got to tell you, what I really love about The Young Victoria is Victoria.

I have thing for smart heroines. If my smart heroines are also powerful and deeply flawed, then I am completely sold. (it's the perfect combination of things i am and things i wish i were. i'll let you guess which are which.)

Victoria is strong. This strength saves her from a childhood full of hurt and in which she was denied any power at all. However, this same strength is detrimental later in her life, as her stubborn streak makes her unwise. I love this. I love that the best parts of her are also the worst parts. It's something I recognize from life.

I have to talk a little bit about Alfred too, because I love him almost as much.

I like Alfred on his own. He seems basically kind, and extremely smart. When I fall for him, though, is when he's with Victoria.

He is supportive while having his own opinions, gives good advice, loves music, and is nice to her dog. He is saved from perfection, however, by something like pettiness, which is a flaw that we as viewers are prone to forgive. If he were cowardly, or (heaven forbid) humorless, it would be more difficult. But pettiness is forgivable and even lovable.

They make me happy.

And while we're talking about things that make me happy (which we should definitely continue doing, because it's a great excuse to not fill out job applications) I should mention Humans of New York.

I stumbled across this last week with the assistance of facebook and an excellent English teacher. (thanks jackson.) And it just makes me smile. And want to go to New York. And take up photography...

Go check it out.

...No, seriously. Why are you still here?

Martin Luther King Had a Dream. I Would Like One.

Well, friends. I'm home.

I've been thinking, in the midst of my sickness and general post-finals exhaustion, and I haven't got a clue what I want to do with my life. I met people at college who knew what they wanted.

Thayne is going to study stars--the details of this may not yet be ironed out, but there are definitely stars on his horizon (that pun was just for you, mom. because i love you).

Lexi is doing animation, and pretty much has a job with Disney and Pixar already. (on an absolutely random aside, have you seen the trailer for the new pixar movie brave?

a movie about a fiery, curly-headed, arrow-shooting heroine? so there. i love pixar. also, i decided about four months ago that i'm scottish.)

Holly is going to be a fabulous English teacher, Kelsey will illustrate, Darian and Jacob are doing something with electrical engineering.

They all know what they want. They have visions of their future lives in their heads. If they're anything like me they can already see it and carry on imagined conversations with future colleagues who are, no doubt, awed by their work and intelligence.

I, on the other hand, am just beginning to realize that the future--that is, post-college life, is actually a reality. At all. There will be a point at which I am no longer in school, and I will have to find something to do with my time. And, in all likelihood, my life will not even remotely resemble the various imaginings I have set forth for myself--all of which include me doing something fantastic and amazing, like curing cancer. Except that I have no pretensions to any skills even remotely related to science, so more of the humanities equivalent of curing cancer.

I have never thought realistically about my future and so, when realism imposes itself over the frame, the canvas inside is absolutely empty. I've got nothing. And suddenly the idea of life after education becomes mildly petrifying.

It isn't that I thought I would die after college. It's just I didn't really realize that I would keep living.

I need a dream. A point. A striven-for place, thought, job, goal, way of being (enlightenment is too vague to be life's ambition). I need something to yearn and work for. If only for lending a sense of purpose.

I need a dream, guys. Anyone have one they want to lend me?

You're Just Jealous You're Not Johnny Depp

IN CELEBRATION OF THE DAY AFTER THE LAST DAY OF CLASS:

“At least he’s not trying to kill Napoleon.”

“Despite your class’s initial success, it fails for the following reasons. I will explore these reasons by focusing on your ultimate failure as a human being.”

“Basketball’s fun. Especially when you’re destroying children.”

“Darn it, she’s talking about mushrooms—now I have to talk about mushrooms—and we can never get married.”

“Talking is what you do when you have nothing to say.”

“We do dig up graveyards. Some people really don’t like us for it. We do it nicely! We put them back! Sometimes…”

“That’s not to say pregnant women are incapable of… deep passion. That is… I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Seriously? You have the gall to say hi to me after putting me through heck? I will punch you. I will throw a baby at you.”

“You’re just jealous you’re not Johnny Depp.”

“I am vertically challenged.”

“The phoenix: a symbol which has recently been made famous by Harry Potter. To which all roads lead. What is Tolstoy but a forerunner, a precursor, to Harry Potter?”

“He’s a business major, but I like him anyway.”

“She burned her toads.”

“Have you had diet gingerelle? It’s an abomination.”

“Saying you don’t like Orwell is like saying you don’t like oxygen. It’s irrelevant.” 

“I went to buy Nutella and tampons. If that doesn’t spell bad weekend I don’t know what does.”

Appreciation

I have things to say....

     I'm almost entirely positive.

But.

My brain quit on me about a week ago. After three essays. Before the next four.

            A profound and preparatory apology to my professors.

My teeth no longer hurt. Thank you for those of you who proffered sympathy. It was appreciated.

                  Those of you who were skeptical of this ailment (dad) need to expand your imagination. My  
                  strangeness knows no bounds.

It is spring here. There are blossoming trees. They're pretty.

And they smell like fried fish. With undertones of hot dog.

     I do not appreciate this.

I got a book yesterday. And spent this morning in conversation with it.

             I stood up four essays for my date with the
         book. They're probably still puttering around  feeling sorry for themselves.

The book was Chocolat. It was worth alienating the essays. It will probably not be worth failing my classes for.

But since when was prudence a virtue?

I ran for the bus today. And caught it.
   I consider this to be a mini miracle.

        I like mini miracles. I appreciate them.

I was wrong.

       I didn't really have things to say.

My Teeth May Be Afraid of Heights

There's weird thing right now. In my mouth. My teeth hurt. But only when I jump. Or walk down stairs.

I can eat carrots, and apples, brush my teeth hard, push at my gums. My teeth are fine. But walk down stairs? Spare us! It's like my teeth have suddenly developed a fear of heights. Or gravity has been gravely offended by them.

What does gravity have against my teeth?

Actually, while we're on the subject, what does gravity have against me in general?

My random tooth aches are one among many random pains I have been experiencing recently. Like, on Tuesday, my feet decided they were done with me for no apparent reason.

Fine. They might have had a reason. I wore heels that day. What? I felt short when I woke up. (does that every happen to you? my dad laughed at me when i told him that, but he's a guy, so he might not count.) So I wore heels. Not I-have-a-date-with-my-little-black-dress-heels (i don't own those kind of heels. or that kind of dress). They were more like I'm-wearing-jeans-oh-look-at-that-I'm-three-inches-taller-heels.

But of course that was the day that I forgot my class was in the library, so I walked across campus twice in ten minutes. And then my writing teacher decided we were doing a "writing marathon"--this thing where you go to random places and just write. Places that, of necessity, are all over campus. So I spent another hour walking.

Oh my feet. They ached. I don't appreciate when repercussions for my vanity are physical.

On a happier side note, sitting in an elevator and writing with three other people is awesome. The weird looks. The awkward and unsure movements of people who want to press the buttons that are directly above your head. The cramped legs. The bumps and bruises. The part where you crack up because you're pretty sure you know that guy.

Everyone should do this. Possibly once a week.