Insecurities, Why I Will Never Be a Heroine... Oh, and a Book List

I was asked for book recommendations a few weeks ago and felt utterly overcome with responsibility. What if you didn't like the books I recommended? Or, like always happens every time I recommend a TV show, I've forgotten something in them that will make you very uncomfortable? Or I leave a book out that deserves its place on my shelf of favorites? And what if I make my favorites sound worse than they are by trying to be honest about them? And what if I'm no good at reviews?

I have overcome these fears by not thinking about them. Which seems to be my new approach to fears and things I don't like in general. What's that you say? Avoidance? So?

Thus, in no particular order, here are my favorite books.

Peace Like a River: 

Told from the perspective of a little boy, Rueben, I love nearly all the characters in this book, particularly Rueben's sister Swede. But I think what makes it one of my favorites is that it's a book about miracles--about the mercy and attentiveness of God--that doesn't get cutesy or preachy. Instead, it's a story in which miracles occur and largely go unnoticed, or freak people out. The downside of this book is that, like so many others, the ending feels rushed.

How to Kill a Mockingbird:

You all should have read this in high school. If you were deprived of that opportunity, go pick it up from the library. If you used sparknotes or intuition to get by on the tests, go pick it up from the library. And if you read and thought, "That was nice," but it didn't make you laugh or cry hard, go pick it up from the library. That's all.

The Elegance of a Hedgehog: 

I adore this book. I love this book. I recognize that this book is not for everyone. It's plot is slow to start, and slow to pick up. It's a book that is largely concerned with people and ideas and, so, will dwell on them for quite a long time. Also, there is this side plot concerning suicide which can be thematically disturbing. And while we're being completely honest about things I don't adore about this book, I have to say that I thought the ending was the product of either a lazy writer or a lazy editor.


Those things honestly sound worse than they are. What I love about The Elegance of a Hedgehog is it's main character who intelligent, funny, and utterly unorthodox in the world of fictitious heroines. I also think the language is soul-stirringly immaculate. Truly, this book is worth reading if only for the vocabulary boost. I think we often read, or participate in any kind of art really, because we want to feel a certain way. When I'm stressed out I listen to cello music, and read this book (and, yes, eat lots of chocolate) and I feel better.

Howls Moving Castle:

This book is nowhere near the quality of the other books I'm recommending. There is nothing in this book that I feel the world at large should become aware of. The language is entirely adequate, the characters funny, interesting, but probably not deep. I'm recommending this book not because I think it is a triumph of modern literature, but because I like it and because I think you can't always be reading triumphs of modern literature.


Howls Moving Castle is a fantasy book about a girl who gets cursed--and turns into an old woman. Which, yeah, pretty much stinks. But instead of buying a new wardrobe of lavender and lace and feeling sorry for herself--which is probably what I would do--she runs away from home and becomes a cleaning lady or an evil wizard. And this is why I will never be a heroine.

The Book Thief:

This is one of those books that I'm pretty sure everyone has heard about. In fact, I think all of these books might be this way. Or maybe I just love them so much it's difficult for me to imagine it's not. The Book Thief is a product of genius story telling, gorgeous language, and brilliant character development. It's narrated by Death and takes place in Nazi Germany. And it is one of two books I have ever read and thought, "That was the perfect ending."

Go read it. Now.

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.