Hear the Angel Voices

Christmas has never caused any spiritual stirrings in my heart. This might be because I didn't grow up in a religious home. That isn't to say that I never went to church when I was a kid, but it wasn't part of my regular routine and I was never in church on Christmas.

For some this is a deeply emotional experience to reflect on how God, the supreme author of the universe, took on the body of human frailty in order to redeem his people who desperately need him. I can relate to that, but on December 25th I feel no stronger about this than on the other 364 days of the year. Don't get me wrong. I still get excited about Christmas, but it is frustrating because I want to connect with what is being discussed in church, and each year it is a struggle for me to do so.

That being said, I am enjoying Vintage's Advent series called The Invasion. The militaristic overtones are not accidental. The Jews of Jesus's time viewed the coming of the Christ, or the Messiah, in these terms. He would be the one to restore the kingdom of David and establish a kingdom without end. But the kingdom of God came in such unintuitive trappings: not in power but in weakness; not with military might, but with love and grace. So often we come to think of God's kingdom in these earthly terms.

I was driving home the other day and I was, somewhat shamefully, thinking about my Christmas list. I get really excited about the gifts I give people, but I also get excited about the ones I'm going to receive. I'm a game junky, and I asked for a lot of games that I am excited to play with my family and friends. But as I was thinking about these things that I would be getting, I saw a father and son walking in the cold. The father had a satchel and he held the child's hand as they walked across the street. It didn't look like they had anywhere to go. It was cold then, and it's even colder tonight.

Maybe Christmas is a good opportunity to realize how entrenched we can become in our own microcosms.

Time to Put the Beast to Rest

For a long time now it has stood mocking in the shadows--a huge, lurking, lumbering colossus. It's facade appears impregnable, daunting. With haughty, cocked eyebrows it challenges me, dares me, to approach. I have circled around it, held trophies before it (The Sound and the Fury, Brothers Karamazov, Dante's Inferno, the list goes on. Even Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, letting it know that I meant business), yet to no avail. I knew there would come a time, must come a time, when we entered the ring together and didn't leave until I was overcome or victorious, reeling with blood-stained hands, but finally thankfully free of this oppressive weight, this fetter that would not loosen nor let me wander, holding me locked in its incessant gaze. And always the ridicule, the insufferable hints that I would fail, would fall before its awful presence. But I will not retreat or cower any longer. I have grabbed this villain, this demonic plague, by the throat and I will drag it to the ground and silence it, and I will not leave until I see myself in its lifeless eyes...

I have started James Joyce's Ulysses, the towering giant universally acclaimed as the greatest literary production of the last century. Let the battle begin.

At Long Last...

Last night as I watched McCain's concession speech, I caught a glimpse of the man who could have captivated America and beaten Obama. I was touched by his call for unity and his patriotism. Then, I watched Obama describe the past century of America and thought about how insane it is to think that there are voters alive today who were denied the right to vote at one point. I would not have voted for Obama just because he was black, just as I wouldn't have voted for Hilary just because she's a woman, but I am glad that we have elected a black man, finally. We have come a long way.

Regardless of how you feel about the candidates, I think we can all agree and be glad that this madness has ended. And all the people said, "Amen!"

Five Thirty Eight

Continuing this political thread, I am have recently discovered the website Five Thirty Eight. Its name derives from the amount of electors in the electoral college, and its purpose is to accurately predict the election.

"How is this site different from other compilations of polls like Real Clear Politics," you ask? The website addresses this:
There are several principal ways that the FiveThityEight methodology differs from other poll compilations: Firstly, we assign each poll a weighting based on that pollster's historical track record, the poll's sample size, and the recentness of the poll. More reliable polls are weighted more heavily in our averages. Secondly, we include a regression estimate based on the demographics in each state among our 'polls', which helps to account for outlier polls and to keep the polling in its proper context. Thirdly, we use an inferential process to compute a rolling trendline that allows us to adjust results in states that have not been polled recently and make them ‘current’. Fourthly, we simulate the election 10,000 times for each site update in order to provide a probabilistic assessment of electoral outcomes based on a historical analysis of polling data since 1952. The simulation further accounts for the fact that similar states are likely to move together, e.g. future polling movement in states like Michigan and Ohio, or North and South Carolina, is likely to be in the same direction.

Basically, this is the most sophisticated election projection that I've seen. Right now Obama has a 95.7% chance to win the election, and the most likely scenario has him with 52% of the popular vote and 344.1 electoral votes (with 270 needed to win the presidency). The website also predicts that Democrats will come away with 57 seats in the Senate, though there is a 33% chance that they will reach the filibuster-proof 60.

I am interested to find out how accurate these projections are come Tuesday.

Every Vote Counts! (Unless You Do the Math)

Prompted by Mike's most recent post, I thought I would take a moment to reflect on voting: why it's important and why we do it. There have been two major advancements for suffrage in this country. In 1870, in the wake of the Civil War, we passed the Fifteenth Amendment (of the 37 states that ratified it, Arkansas was the 10th!), which stated that "The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of race, color, or previous condition of servitude." Hooray for equality! However, after the initial wave of Reconstruction shifted power towards African Americans, states began pass voter qualification laws, such as poll taxes and literacy tests, which greatly restricted African Americans' right to vote. Sadly, it wasn't until the 24th Amendment in 1964 (Shamefully, Arkansas was among the last five states to retain a poll tax) and the Voting Rights Act of 1965 that these Constitutional rights were upheld.

But let's not forget misogyny. Women's right to vote was restricted until the ripe time of 1920, with the passage of the Nineteenth Amendment (this time, Arkansas was the 12th!), which stated that "The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of sex."

These two steps were instrumental to our nation fulfilling its promise that all men are created equal. The right to vote is essential for there to exist equality among all sectors of society (though, as is obvious, it does not guarantee it). Those who cannot vote are powerless.

However, I am still left with the fact that my vote, in any statewide or national election, does not matter. In local elections, it is conceivable that one vote would make a difference (In fact, the 1977 mayorial election in Ann Arbor, Michigan was decided by only one vote), but in any larger election the odds are astronomically against it. For example, the 2000 election was decided by Florida, where 537 votes out of 6 million made the difference, so even in a historically close election, one vote does not matter. Moreover, I would wager that the margin of error for counting votes would be greater than one, which would render one vote mathmatically insignificant. In response to this, many people argue that if lots of people believed this, then it would make a difference. But that is a different issue. Groups of people voting make a difference, but whether I, as a solitary voter, stay home or go to the voting booth next Tuesday ultimately does not matter.

And yet I vote.

Why? you may ask. No doubt, some of you are angered by my seemingly apathetic view of things. I assure you, I am not apathetic, but rather reason has led me to these conclusions. Rationally, I can find no argument for voting. I can find an argument against what I am doing now, because it might influence others not to vote, but I hope that that won't be the case. I vote for the simple reason that it makes me feel good. I like participating in the process, and by doing so I force myself to become more involved and to pay closer attention to the state of our nation, thereby becoming a better citizen. This, to me, is important, and so since I value voting, it in fact is reasonable for me to vote.

I hope that as you are reflecting on which presidential candidate will better lead our nation, you will consider what I've said and come to value voting as well. Whatever your reasons, and whomever you vote for, get out there and vote on Tuesday the 4th.

Go America!

Worth Your Time

Dueling church signs.

I spied this on one of my friend's blog, and it is hilarious! (I'd have to say the Catholics schooled the Presbyterians.)

Thanks Vanessa!

A Bleak Persistence , or Hope Amidst Futility

Don't worry, this isn't about my life. Although I am still somewhat saddened by the FHS fiasco, and worried about the state of our bank account, my spirits are on the rise. Today the wife and I went to Gulley Park to lie in the sun and read for awhile. This weekend, we'll be headed to Tulsa with Dad and Dorris to see Garrison Keillor's Prairie Home Companion. Also, I have an interview this Thursday to begin subbing for Fayettevile public schools, which ought to pad our income some.

It turns out that life is still okay.

Unless you're Pulitzer-Prize-winning Cormac McCarthy, in which case it would appear that everything is not okay. I just finished reading The Road, which chronicles the life of a father and son who are trying to survive in a post-apocalyptic United States. The Event is never explained, but there was some sort of massive fire bombing, or perhaps a global nuclear war. Regardless, the present landscape is barren and lifeless. All animals are dead, ash rains down from the sky, and the sun is never fully seen. Most people have died, and the ones who remain must subsist off of the leftover canned food and scraps left in abandoned houses. Roaming the countryside are bands of men who will steal from you, kill you, and most likely eat you. The only way to survive is to keep moving and scavenging, like some dystopic echo of Kerouac's Beat classic.

Stylistically, McCarthy's writing is Hemingwayesque, sparse and economic. He doesn't use proper nouns, only pronouns (which at time is confusing), and often uses fragments. Also, between each paragraph is a larger than usual space, which seems like an insignificant detail, but it isn't. It creates a disjointed feeling, as if the story is told only in sporadic bursts of prose, which ultimately accents the bleakness or barrenness of the story.

Here is an example of his writing:
He walked out in the gray light and stood and he saw for a brief moment the absolute truth of the world. The cold relentless circling of the intestate earth. Darkness implacable. The blind dogs of the sun in their running. The crushing black vacuum of the universe. And somewhere two hunted animals trembling like ground foxes in their cover [A reference to him and his son]. Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it.

This example is telling of his tone and of his writing style, but not of his subject. This was one of the very few times that the writing strayed from relating simply the sparse details of their daily existence.

Ultimately, I'm unsure of what to think about this book. Certainly it was memorable and interesting, but it's not clear that it was good. It was interesting much in the way that 28 Days Later is interesting. The post-apocalyptic world is intriguing, as is the murderous environment that they protagonists must survive in, and I found myself agreeing, "Yes, that would be what would happen." The story is gripping, and I turned pages quickly, wanting to know what would happen next. But was it Good? Will it last within the canon of remarkable Literature?

Here my issue lies with the plot. There was none. The novel and its characters meandered from day to day, without any real purpose except to live another day: they wake, they walk a few miles, then sleep; they starve for a while, then find food; they are in danger, then they escape. The story drones on much as the lives of the people within this blighted land. All there is is the road: no meaning, just movement. And perhaps in that sense the plot, or lack thereof, does tie in with the effect that the novel creates as a whole, and so is pardonable.

Despite the bleakness of the novel's outlook, though, there are faint hints of something that resembles hope. It is so overwhelmed by the dominant presence of gloom and doom that it is almost non-existant, but it is there. I just wanted to mention that to explain the second half of this entry's title.

In the end, I think that McCarthy does have the abilities of a great writer, but those abilities did not all coalesce in this novel into something great, or something lasting. The seeds are there, but they have not yet come to fruition.

Still, it was worth the read.

A Heartbreaking Conclusion to Such a Wonderous Beginning

I got the job at FHS. I received the call on Thursday while I was NYC for a wedding (one of Sara's close friends). I can't describe the wonder and excitement of those first few hours, but needless to say, I was ecstatic. It couldn't have come at a better time--spiritually, mentally, financially--and it felt like everything in my life was clicking into place.

Then I received the email. I should back up, though. Before I applied, I didn't think I would be eligible to teach for this school year, but I talked with one of the regional directors of the Non-Traditional Licensure Program and was assured that I would be eligible to re-enroll in the program (and so be provisionally certified) at that time. I stated specifically that I had withdrawn, rather than being placed on hold, and had not attended any training modules, but somehow that information didn't sink in. On Friday it was discovered that I had done exactly as I had stated, that I had withdrawn, and I was told that I couldn't accept the job. I don't know whether the regional director didn't understand the distinction between the two and so didn't convey that information to the head office, or if the error lies there (it seems there was misinformation in my file that stated I had attended the summer training), but either way I am out of a job in an embarrassing fashion.

It has not been a good week.

Job Interview

I have a job interview at a Fayetteville High School this coming Wednesday. I really want to get this job, for a lot of reasons. First, frankly we need the money. Second, it would allow me to get certified and would be good experience. Lastly, starting in the familiar setting of the school I graduated from would helpful as I get situated to high school (as opposed to college-level) teaching.

Last time I interviewed here the principal and the English chair told me that I interviewed well. Last time I didn't get the job, though.

Wish me luck.

The Presidential Debate

About halfway through the debate, my dad and I paused it (thank you DVR) and I asked him how he thought it was going. I was shocked to hear that he thought that McCain might have gained more ground than Obama. To me, Obama was the more poised, well-articulated candidate, and the one who had more compelling answers.

I am liberal though, and so I agree more with Obama, but I tried to be aware of that when evaluating the two candidates' performances. Still, though, I would chalk this one up for Obama. McCain held his own for the most part, though at times he seemed flustered, but what frustrated me about his answers is that he seemed much less willing to debate the issues, most notably in the segment on the economy. Obama repeatedly pointed out the differences between their tax plans, but McCain only wanted to pin the label "big spender" on Obama. Frankly, it felt like a return to Bush's (regretably successful) tactic of labeling Kerry as a flip-flopper. I can understand how it is important to point out where a candidate is wrong or hypocritical, but please at some point debate the issues.

The other thing that bothered me about McCain was that he seemed to use misleading information to try to sway voters away from Obama. This is probably something that both candidates do, but I don't think Obama did this during the debate (at least, McCain never called him on it). What I am referring to is how McCain said that Obama said at one point that he would never cut spending on the troops, but then did. Obama pointed out that what he did was vote against the Republican funding bill that didn't include a time table, but he did vote for the bill that included one. It just seemed dishonest, and a shameful tactic to use.

That said, McCain did pick up ground on the foreign policy segment. Though I think the two came out even on this, I can see how people would say that McCain won this half of the debate. However, I would then agree with the analyst from Fox News, of all places, who said that although McCain won the segment on foreign policy, Obama won the first half on the economy, and since the economy is the more pressing issue, Obama came out ahead overall.

I'm not uber-political, as you all probably well know. I do think that both of these men want the best for America, and I'm a lot more optomistic about these candidates than I was in the last election. All that is to say, this post is about how the candidates faired in the first debate, not what people think of them overall.

Do you agree, or am I way off base (way to the left, no doubt)?

A Day in the Life of Sam Black

It drizzled as I made my way up to my office. It's been raining for weeks, it seems. I was meeting a client about a case I had been working on. The case seemed simple--they all do--but I kept having the nagging feeling that this one wasn't. At first glance it appeared to be a simple accident, a man slipped and fell, hurt his head, but the dame who was paying my bills suspected foul play. The guy doesn't remember anything, not even his name, so he's been no help.

It all revolves around Jill. I had talked to her when I first took the case and thought she was a good broad, but messy--the kind that will make you forget things just by looking at her. I wouldn't mind forgetting things with her for a while...and that's what makes me distrust her.

As I mounted the steps to the fifth floor I turned the facts over and over in my mind: on Saturday, September 13th at 10:40 in the morning, two people go up a hill to get some water. Why were running errands together at such an early hour? Were they lovers? Ex-lovers? At the crest of the hill, Jack, according to Jill, falls down and splits his skull. Why did they choose the steepest part of the hill to climb when it was so wet? Could Jill have overpowered Jack, knocked him over the head and caused him to fall down the hill? Here the details become fuzzy. Jack, in a raving, confused state, stumbles back to his house and covers his head with vinegar and brown paper. Or is it Old Dame Dob who bandages his head? So far everyone has had tight lips about this one. Where was Jill during all of this? Her alibi was sketchy at best. And how does Old Dame Dob come into the picture? An innocent, well-wishing bystander? Unlikely.

All of this could be accidental, or coincidental, but in my business I've found that things rarely are. But I still can't see how these people are tied together. Was there money involved? Drugs? Is this some sort of bitter love triangle? With these thoughts rattling around my head, I opened the door to my office, expecting to see my client, whose role in this remained an even deeper mystery. Instead, I was greeted by the steely eye of a revolver. I didn't recognize the man who was holding it, and he didn't offer a name. "Sit," he said. I could tell he wasn't one for pleasantries. As I walked to my chair, I felt the hard kick of the butt of his gun against the back of my head. The world slid away from me as I hit the floor.

When I awoke, my office was mostly unchanged, though now there was a jackhammer at the base of my skull. At times like these I turn to the only faithful friend I've got, Mr. Daniels. I poured myself a drink and noticed that there was note on my desk. How thoughtful.

Mr. Black,
You should think about dropping this case.
You're in over your head and you're sinking fast.
Consider this a warning. Next time won't be so friendly.

I'm sinking fast...funny that's what my wives used to say. I could see that this case was more complicated than I thought. If one of the parties was willing to bring in hired goons, well that must mean that I'm on to something. But the only one who knew that I was coming to my office at this time was my client, which means I was probably set up. But my client was the one who set me on this trail in the first place. Things just didn't make sense. They didn't have to, as far as I cared, as long as my check came in the mail.

I grabbed my pals Smith and Wesson and made my way to the street, the only place I felt at home. Once again, I reviewed the facts: Jack and Jill go up a hill, to fetch a pail of water. Later Jack is found with a broken crown...and then all hell breaks loose.

I head towards the scene of the crime, hoping to find some clue--something, anything--that will link all these pieces together. It's raining harder now, and it doesn't look like it's going to let up today. Perhaps it never will...

Pardon the Interim

Two weeks ago, on Thursday the 21st, we were told by our landlady that the house we were renting from her was sold and that we had 30 days to move out. This came somewhat as a shock, even though the house had been on the market for a while and people had come by to look at it (though not many stayed for long). Frankly, I would never buy that house, and I think anyone who does will regret. It was great to rent for $300/month, but it had too many problems to ever come out on top with it. It's not a fixer-upper, it's a do-over.

So, we moved kind of fast after that. On Friday we went around and looked a bagillion apartments and townhouses and finally fell in love with the last one we looked at, The Cliffs. We signed the lease on Monday and booked the Cliffs's moving van (if you're moving from Fayetteville to Fayetteville, you can use their van for free, which is pretty sweet) for Thursday. That week we moved pretty much everyday, though the bulk of it obviously came on Thursday and then over the weekend as we unpacked everything. By Monday we had everything in its place, and to celebrate we had my dad and step-mom over to play games. We can actually invite people over to entertain. Amazing.

Here are the advantages of our new place:
It's aweful shiny.
It has (and our old place did not): a dishwasher, a garbage disposal, central blessed heating and air, walk-in closets (two of them), a game closet(!), and lastly: doors.
Yes, I meant doors. Our last place, strangely enough, was arranged in such a way that only the bathroom had a door. And you had to nudge the water heater out of the way to shut that door. We're talking ghet-to.
It also has a sweet amenities package that includes access to a workout space, a pool, a sauna, a hot tub, and their business center that has a couple of computers and a copier and fax machine. We can also get a free massage from the on-site masseuse once a week. Heavenly.

Of course, the con is that it costs more, and currently I only have a part-time job, so that may turn out to be a problem. But right now, I'm basking in my airconditioned, door-enclosed, large-enough-to-hold-all-of-my-books office, and I say whatever. I like it here.

Death the Sound of Static

While reading White Noise, I've been thinking of what the book is about, what its primary concern is. I began to think that, along with its concern with how mass media and consumerism have changed our social landscape, the novel centered mainly around the issue of death, our fear of it, and the fact that all of our technological advances have not made a dent in either our fear of death and its inevitability. Then I came along the title passage:

"I do want to die first," she said, "but that doesn't mean I'm not afraid. I'm terribly afraid. I'm afraid all the time."
"I've been afraid for more than half my life."
"What do you want me to say? Your fear is older and wiser than mine?"
"I wake up sweating. I break out in killer sweats."
"I chew gum because my throat constricts."
"I have no body. I'm only a mind or a self, alone in a vast space."
"I seize up," she said.
"I'm too weak to move. I lack all sense of resolve, determination."
"I thought about my mother dying. Then she died."
"I think about everyone dying. Not just myself. I lapse into terrible reveries."
"I feel so guilty. I thought her death was connected to my thinking about it. I feel the same way about my own death. The more I think about it, the sooner it will happen."
"How strange it is. We have these deep terrible lingering fears about ourselves and the people we love. Yet we walk around, talk to people, eat and drink. We manage to function. The feelings are deep and real. Shouldn't they paralyze us? How is it we can survive them, at least for a while? We drive a car, we teach a class. How is it no one sees how deeply afraid we were, last night, this morning? Is it something we all hide from each other, by mutual consent? Or do we share the same secret without knowing it? Wear the same disguise."
"What if death is nothing but sound?"
"Electrical noise."
"You hear it forever. Sound all around. How awful."
"Uniform, white."

I just finished the novel, and I would have to say that I recommend it. One of the things that I enjoy most about reading a book by a new author is being startled by the writing style. Delillo's writing really is distinct. He gives you the sense that he is saying something new.

For those of you who haven't seen me much in the past two years, you may not know about my new obsession: board games. My college friends will probably only remember that they refused to play the one board game, Axis and Allies, that I brought to school, even though one year for my birthday all I asked for was for people to play it with me (for shame!).

However, since my exodus down south, I have broadened my horizons some. It all starts with the Spiel des Jahres (German game of the year) for 1995, The Settlers of Catan. My acquaintance with this game occurred somewhat circuitously. My friend Otto mentioned to me that I might like it probably my junior year at Wash U. Then, shortly after I came back to Fayetteville, I joined a once-a-month game night group who introduced it to me. Not long after that, my step-brother Brian got a copy and the craze spread from Brian and me to the rest of our family.

After a while of playing Settlers, I began to thirst for a little more variety in my gaming. I soon began buying other European games, and now I have quite the collection. Not yet the collection of my friend George, the host of our game night who owns probably over fifty games, but I’m working on it.

You may have noticed that my favorite website is boardgamegeek.com. You should check it out sometime if you haven’t already.

This begins my series of posts about gaming. I will devote an entire post to different games that I own and that are out there. You should think about trying out some of them.

Man the Sum of What Have You

What is man?

What The Sound and the Fury says:

"Man the sum of his climactic experiences Father said. Man the sum of what have you. A problem in impure properties carried tediously to an unvarying nil: stalemate of dust and desire."
............................
"Father said that man is the sum of his misfortunes. One day you'd think misfortune would get tired, but then time is your misfortune Father said. A gull on an invisible wire attached through space dragged. You carry the symbol of your frustration into eternity."
............................
"Father was teaching us that all men are just accumulations dolls stuffed with sawdust swept from the trash heaps where all previous dolls had been thrown away the sawdust flowing from what wound in what side that not for me died not."

What White Noise says:

"But you said we had a situation."
"I didn't say it. The computer did. The whole system says it. It's what we call a massive data-base tally. Gladney, J. A. K. I punch in the name, the substance, the exposure time and then I tap into your computer history. Your genetics, your personals, your medicals, your psychologicals, your police-and-hospitals. It comes back pulsing stars. This doesn't mean anything is going to happen to you as such, at least not today or tomorrow. It just means that you are the sum total of your data. No man escapes that."
............................
"Everything that goes on in your whole life is a result of molecules rushing around somewhere in your brain."
"Heinrich's brain theories. They're all true. We're the sum of our chemical impulses."


Interesting the difference 57 years make.

Church Street

With my newfound free time, I decided to start a book club at my church. I've wanted to get more involved and to give something to the church body for awhile, and I felt this was the answer. It also gives me a reason to keep reading good books and to continue to read scholarly articles about them. Over the past two years I found that I really love reading scholarship, but for some reason I often lack the impulse to read it. Hopefully being the "leader" of the book club will guilt, shame, or somehow force me to do the research. We'll see.

Since we are meeting at our house on Church Avenue, I thought Church Street Book Club was an apt name. Having a name is important; otherwise I don't know how we would strike fear into the heart of our enemy or even have a rallying cry. We're working on a theme song.

We just had our first meeting. We ended up at fifteen members, which is about maximum capacity. I only expected about half that many, so I was pleasantly surprised. At the meeting I handed out a questionaire to see which of the books I was interested in reading the members had already read. Here's the list:

The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger
Franny and Zooey by J. D. Salinger
On the Road by Jack Kerouac
Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut
The Crying of Lot 49 by Thomas Pynchon
Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers
The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner
American Pastoral by Phillip Roth
Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov
The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion
Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce
Freakonomics by Steven D. Levitt
Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe
The Night in Question by Tobias Wolff
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime by Mark Haddon
Life of Pi by Yann Martel
Another Bullshit Night in Suck City by Nick Flynn
A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole

Not a bad list, if you ask me. The result of the questionaire is that we're reading Slaughterhouse Five first. It's one of my favorite books, so I'm pretty excited.

It begins like this:
Listen:
Billy Pilgrim has become unstuck in time.
It ends like this:
Poo-tee-weet?

Soulmates

Last night, Sara and I were eating from a tub of Ben and Jerry's together and she spilled chocolate on her shirt. This is annoying because she tends to do this often, and I am the one who cleans the stains out of her shirts (how domestic!). I took her shirt and went into the bathroom, and then I heard her following me in to defend herself. She insisted that she really wasn't that messy, and then I turned to see:


Lovely. Absolutely lovely. For those of you who have known me long, these antics might seem familiar.

The Human Buzz of Some Vivid and Happy Transaction

To prepare for the comprehensive exam for my master's, I was given a reading list that I could choose my books from. The list specified that some books had to be read, but other times it had a list of several from which I had to choose 3 or 5. When I was narrowing down the twentieth century American literature section, one of the professors on my committee began by stating that he assumed that I chose White Noise by Don Dilillo, but I didn't. The reason for that is that I hadn't read White Noise yet, which for someone who supposed is focusing on twentieth century American literature is surprising. Thus, after I finished with the exam, I felt sufficiently shamed to go check it out from the library. It's a book that I've wanted to read since my last year of undergrad, so this has been long overdue.

Here I should say that whenever I talk about books that I'm reading, I'm likely to quote from them or to reveal something about them, so if you don't want to have your reading experience spoiled, you might want to skip these posts. I'll try not to mention anything that would ruin the book for you, but still, consider yourself forewarned. Now back to White Noise.

So far it's been quite delightful. I'm only a third of the way through it, but it has lived up to my expectations. Like most post-modern literature, it's about life in our modern world that is so saturated by mass media and consumerism. Also, holding with the trend of postmodernism, it has a somewhat whimsical view of reality; exaggeration and the outlandish are expected and everyday experiences are cast in a new light. It recalls William Thackery's observation that "the two most engaging powers of an author are to make new things familiar, familiar things new." That certainly seems the case with Delillo.

Two passages stick out to me as I think about the novel. In the first, one of the main characters, who is a professor of cultural studies, is reflecting on America while in a supermarket:

"Dying is an art in Tibet. A priest walks in, sits down, tells the weeping relatives to get out and has the room sealed. Doors, windows sealed. He has serious business to set to. Chants, numerology, horoscopes, recitations. Here we don't die, we shop. But the difference is less marked than you think."

I remembered this first passage after reading the next one. Later, the main character, Jack, who is also a professor, comes across a colleague outside of work. On campus, Jack is one of the more famous professors, achieving almost celebrity status among colleagues. Devoid of his flowing academic robes, and his pomp and circumstance, however, Jack's formidable presence has diminished. His colleage tells him, "you look so harmless, Jack. A big, harmless, aging, indistinct sort of guy."

What follows is one of the best passages I've read in a while. Jack consoles himself by a frenzied shopping spree that spans a page and a half:

"We moved from store to store, rejecting not only items in certain departments, not only entire departments but whole stores, mammoth corporations that did not strike our fancy for one reason or another. There was always another store, three floors, eight floors, basement full of cheese graters and paring knives. I shopped with reckless abandon. I shopped for immediate needs and distant contingencies. I shopped for its own sake, looking and touching, inspecting merchandise I had no intention of buying, then buying it..."

As the passage progresses, both the characters and the language itself build in intensity and crescendo out of control, ending in:

"Voices rose ten stories from the gardens and promenades, a roar that echoed and swirled through the vast gallery, mixing with noises from the tiers, with shuffling feet and chiming bells, the hum of escalators, the sound of people eating, the human buzz of some vivid and happy transaction."

I'll post again about the book after I've finished it.

The Wonder of Blank Pages

When my brother and his wife returned from India a couple of years ago, they brought me a beautiful leather-bound journal, with feathery, hand-made pages. The smooth and crisp outside, combined with the sleek, faintly colorful pages make it enjoyable just to hold and to leaf through the pages. The feeling of new books (Penguin makes the best!) and journals is one of my few tactile pleasures. However, I found the pristine blankness of its pages intimidating. I couldn't bring myself to write in it for weeks because I didn't want to mar its beauty.

I've found the same dilemma with this blog. I created it a couple of weeks ago, but I haven't been able to write anything. I wasn't really sure that I wanted a blog, but my long-unused creativity has clamored for some outlet too long for me to ignore. In my newfound freetime (I just completed my masters in English at the University of Arkansas), I've decided to chronicle my thoughts on life, literature, and God. Also, as a recently married man, I thought it would be helpful to muse about love and this mystery we call marriage. Hopefully these musings will offer some illumination and a chance to stay updated about my life.

In case you are curious, the inspiration for my blog's name came from my favorite poem by Robert Frost, "For Once, Then, Something."

Others taunt me with having knelt at well-curbs
Always wrong to the light, so never seeing
Deeper down in the well than where the water
Gives me back in a shining surface picture
Me myself in the summer heaven godlike
Looking out of a wreath of fern and cloud puffs.
Once, when trying with chin against a well-curb,
I discerned, as I thought, beyond the picture,
Through the picture, a something white, uncertain,
Something more of the depths--and then I lost it.
Water came to rebuke the too clear water.
One drop fell from a fern, and lo, a ripple
Shook whatever it was lay there at bottom,
Blurred it, blotted it out. What was that whiteness?
Truth? A pebble of quartz? For once, then, something.

I love the last line of this poem. The abstract, ethereal "truth" swings to the concrete "pebble of quartz," from the height of significance to supreme inconsequentiality. Few poets could manage that in a single line. I love too that the speaker finds that even the pebble of quartz, in the long absence of graspable meaning, would be something.

Perhaps, too, in our daily lives we might come across a pebble of quartz if we would only watch for it. If we looked and listened, we might even come to find something deeper.