A Single Layer

Looking for good new year's resolutions? In high school, I had these taped to my closet doors. Some kind of inspiration?

Today, Emily and I drove to Concord. (well, she drove. i sat in the back...) We were depositing our grandfather here, and have now somehow misplaced him. He's around about in his home... and we are wondering where. Dinner later, sleep and back again tomorrow. Tired, back sore, ready for Christmas vacation again.

So Christmas comes and Christmas goes, and the world the holy child is born to rests, as ever, full of dark so deep that all the Norman bishops in the land with all their candles aren't enough to drive it back an inch. - from Frederick Buechner's Godric

Now there was a man in Jerusalem called Simeon, who was righteous and devout. He was waiting for the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit was upon him. It had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not die before he had seen the Lord's Christ. Moved by the Spirit, he went into the temple courts. When the parents brought in the child Jesus to do for him what the custom of the Law required, Simeon took him in his arms and praised God, saying: 'Sovereign Lord, as you have promised, you now dismiss your servant in peace. For my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the sight of all people, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.' The child's father and mother marveled at what was said about him. Then Simeon blessed them and said to Mary, his mother: 'This child is destined to cause the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be spoken against, so that the thoughts of ma

thank you

Come, if you will, on a Friday night, whether or not I am paying attention. Break me from my reverie, rend earth from sea and sea from salt. Separate the self and shame showing them two not one, then name me - the better half - after yourself, the Son. Come, if you will, in any form. Preferably not that of a woman, lest in my pride I pretend to understand you. Lion or lamb you have been. And as man I have loved you both less and more than I ought - for love is not an easy word. Child and criminal the same, your Spirit a dove and a flame, water and light and the breath of life, barefoot, berobed, bejeweled, begot. Come if you will, appear as you ought - only stop me in my tracks. Still the cycle. Break the back of the beast. Release the wolf from my mind. Temper the time. And whether or not it kill me, show me your face - swallow me like a seed into your breast or your belly. Bury and carry me, embryonic, with or without rebirth - only Come.

you gave your body to the lonely

An Advent Monologue by Walter Wangerin Jr. (I think I posted a segment of this a year or so ago. Here's the whole. If Rev. Wangerin take issue with this posting, I will gladly recall it. If you would like the book it comes from, go here .) I love a child. But she is afraid of me. I want to help this child, so terribly in need of help. For she is hungry; her cheeks are sunken to the bone; but she knows little of food, less of nutrition. I know both these things. She is cold, and she is dirty; she lives at the end of a tattered hallway, three flights up in a tenement whose landlord long forgot the human bodies huddled in that place. But I know how to build a fire; and I know how to wash a face. She is retarded, if the truth be told, thick in her tongue, slow in her mind, yet aware of her infirmity and embarrassed by it. But here am I, well-traveled throughout the universe, and wise, and willing to share my wisdom. She is lonely all the day long. She sits in a chair with her bac

in case you missed your liturgy

let us revisit my favorite christmas song , shall we? this time, i actually own the album(s).

F. B. Meyer, from The Way Into the Holiest 'He shakes all things, that the material, the sensuous, and the temporal may pass away; leaving the essential and eternal to stand out in more than former beauty. But not a grain of pure metal shall be lost in the fires; not a fragment of heaven's masonry shall crumble beneath the shock...'

I rode the devil's back - or perhaps he rode on mine. The trees were hung with arms around While I held on with vines. The leaves they fell in fingers, The grass grew up like teeth, The shiver from my horror didn't stop the imp beneath. And as we ran I felt his hand Dig furrows in my motley skin - Fishing for worms between the bones, Fondling my organs till they were all exposed And sprouting - toadstools, lichen and moss Making much of my body a great, twisted fungus. 'The horror!' I cried, but it came like a croak - Something was crawling up from my throat! A black millipede with uncountable feet - My eyes rolled like rocks - I choked, hacked, Spewed, sneezed, puked it out. Please , I whispered, wake me up from this dream. I will learn how to live. I will do anything. The devil turned to smile - he was wearing my lips - He leaned to my face for a kiss, a caress. Do you bargain with me ? he seethed in my ear. My market's of souls. I barter with shame and fear. Do y

in case you're still wondering what to get someone for Christmas, here's a catalog of gifts guaranteed to be worth your while.

my interest in Salvador Dali decreases in leaps and bounds as the years go on. there's only so much crazy i'll allow from an artist before it's just self-indulgence. but i cannot help still loving this painting. perhaps it displays itself like leonard cohen's praise: 'there's a blaze of light in every word / it doesn't matter which you heard / the holy or the broken halleljia.' so be it. here y'are:

'How Sweet the Name' - John Newton i include this in my random advent postings, because the last stanza has been playing in my head for several days now. looking forward to the day when my own weak efforts will be blazoned by the sight of him, my unfaithfulness and inconsistency burnt to bits and only this remaining - the unsurpassable greatness of knowing Christ Jesus our Saviour. how sweet the name of Jesus sounds in a believer's ear! it soothes his sorrows, heals his wounds, and drives away his fear. it makes the wounded spirit whole and calms the troubled breast; 'tis manna to the hungry soul, and to the weary, rest. dear name, the Rock on which i build, my shield and hiding place; my never failing treasure, filled with boundless stores of grace! Jesus, my Shepherd, Savior, Friend, my Prophet, Priest and King, my Lord, my Life, my Way, my End, accept the praise i bring. weak is the effort of my heart, and cold my warmest thought. but when i see you as you are, i

'a nation' - czeslaw milosz - 1945 The purest of nations on earth when it's judged by a flash of lightning, But thoughtless and sly in everyday toil. Pitiless to its widows and orphans, pitiless to its old people, Stealing a crust of bread from a child's hand. Ready to offer their lives to draw Heaven's wrath on their foes, Smiting their enemy with the screams of orphans and women. Entrusting power to men with the eyes of traders in gold, Elevating men with the conscience of brothel-keepers. The best of its sons remain unknown, They appear once only, to die on the barricades. Bitter tears of that people cut a song off in the middle, And when the song dies away, noisy voices tell jokes. A shadow stands in a corner, pointing to his heart, Outside a dog howls to the invisible planet. Great nation, invincible nation, ironic nation. They know how to distinguish truth and yet to keep silent. They camp on marketplaces, conversing in wisecracks, They deal in old door handle

Reading Les Miserables (very slowly), I am fascinated by the Bishop's encounter with the dying revolutionary in the first book. The revolutionary, named only G--, debates the justification of the French Revolution with the uncharacteristically indignant priest: 'Monsieur, forget not this; the French revolution had its reasons. Its wrath will be pardoned by the future; its result is a better world. From its most terrible blows comes a caress for the human race.... Yes, the brutalities of progress are called revolutions. When they are over, this is recognised: that the human race has been harshly treated, but that it has advanced.' Strange words, looking back. The wrath of the revolution has never been pardoned. We have only condemned it more and more ardently as time has passed - even though we would have condemned the persistence of the monarchy just as vehemently had it not been cut short. The French revolution had its reasons; so did the gulags; so does the Sudanese gove

last year i thought about making this and didn't. this year i really am. rock on. this is also, as far as i can remember, my first self-referential hyperlinked blog post.

thankful for the taste of coffee new each morning and for clementines and oranges, citrus in each varied form thankful as my sister sits upon my slumbered feet thankful as my brother barrels through the sea to me the clouds lumber bustling barrels across the sky grace, expanse, and breath, and rain - stupify (my mother used the word flummoxed in a sentence) (and chris discusses agave nectar across the table) big dogs and bad cats - cornucopia hats apples for candles - bottleneck handles blankets on my angled bed bobbypins netting across my head wind for weather, walls blow down merry and honesty rebuild the town thankful for pages for binding and books for worlds that remind me how he looks when he offers saving grace with his eyes love with his smiles, patience with sighs in this world it comes in the clouds and the rain, the bad cats, big dogs, and citrus the same love in measurable things, in weights and in flavors the tangible kisses of the concrete saviour

I need to work on capitalizing in my blog posts. When and why this started to slip, I don't know. But I correlate the disappearance of capitalization with an increasing self-consciousness about my own words. A sort of 'please don't take this seriously or hold me accountable for my words' approach to blogging. Rather like my actual speech - when I start thinking that I'm not saying anything important or interesting, or if I think my words might be easily contested or disapproved of, I let them mumble away into silence. Let's not do that here. I know I'm always hyperlinking over to firstthings , which is silly since anyone actually interested in their articles would just read them regularly all by themselves. But yesterday, Reno was discussing this British band Show of Hands and he said something that seemed to clarify what I was frustrated about in previous post. (Removing random articles is not the same as uncapitalizing. It's more cute than careless. At

i figure, if i don't check this for several months, i can spend a nice chunk of time reading nothing but its sweet, cynical pages without the inconvenience of realizing 'i read this already. why doesn't he post more? grr...' yes, 'grr' can be a realization, too. anyway, i am interested in the bit about white people in harlem objecting to the churches. the anti-religious tendencies of our po-po-mo america (that should be a new word. popomo. 'we get there fast and then we take it slow...' ahem... anyway) are really getting to me. i'm not offended or surprised. it just seems like someone, somewhere would recognize that it's just not very smart. maybe it's because my faith has always been so deeply entrenched in the process of enlightenment (not the 18th century kind), transcendence, exploration, mystery and revelation, inquiry, discovery, translation. there's nothing impulsive about it, nothing irrational - though much beyond explanation -

found somewhere on here

'Have no fear of robbers or murderers. Such dangers are without, and are but petty. We should fear ourselves. Prejudices are the real robbers; vices the real murderers. The great dangers are within us. What matters it what threatens our heads or our purses. Let us think only of what threatens our souls.' - Victor Hugo, Les Miserables

To begin with, I should clarify that I rather like Rob Pattinson. He seems like a good actor - from the little one can tell in Harry Potter - and I cringe inwardly at the simultaneous fandom and hatedom he receives from Twilight. There are two camps, and people tend to shift back and forth between them. The first is relatively predictable: he's the newest hottie, and everyone wants a poster of him on their bedroom wall (their are thousands available in various newspapers and magazines distributed over the course of the last week, so this is easy to accomplish). Cringe. The second is like it: he is NOT hot, not like Edward, not in the least, what are they thinking, he looks creepy not dangerous, he's supposed to be like a god, what are they thinking. Cringe. Poor fellow. Here are some alternative casting options. Too late, I know, but we all love airing our opinions regardless (and be sure to check out the photos before you assume): Jensen Ackles Ben Barnes Lee Pace

i really need to stop posting other people's posts of other people's posts, but in this case , i just can't help it. i laughed.

first things does children's books!!!

all i want for christmas are victorian film adaptations and frederic buechner books . i'm super easy to please.

fire burns Montecito yesterday

Think of it as a symptom rather than a cause. The euthanasia movement reflects a profound nihilism that has been spreading like a cancer throughout the West for the past hundred years. The extent of our societal illness was described succinctly several years ago by the Canadian journalist Andrew Coyne. Writing in the wake of widespread public support for Robert Latimer, a Saskatchewan farmer who murdered his twelve-year-old daughter Tracy because she was disabled by cerebral palsy, Coyne wrote: “A society that believes in nothing can offer no argument even against death. A culture that has lost its faith in life cannot comprehend why it should be endured.” -Wesley Smith, First Things

studying marxist literary theory in a classroom in scotland has little to do with understanding the workings of a socialist society, especially one that exists solely in the minds of the riled and disgruntled masses who have been raised so closely to the fat and mead of capitalism that they cannot tell where the good and the bad really come from. (long sentence with hazy meaning, i know.) so i like it when other people talk about it realistically and thoughtfully. it's refreshing.

to whom it concerns, i'm so small and square and awkward i have never once considered telling you what i think or h0w i feel in my mind there is no room for wondering over your response what is worse i know you'll never read this even though every post is a post-it sized hope for your distant attention. remember the dream with you at the top of the stairs or the one where you dove and washed me over with the wave of your weight against the water? please note, this is no poem but prose with a twitching return my insecurities. i wonder what i would write without wishing you for my reader knowing i would never dare to ask for your attention let alone affection. my imagination is just not that elaborate.

the crazies are slowly starting to sound more credible to my tired ears.

i've wandered and wandered far over the bens and wandered still further through cavernous glens because i was told with enough fortitude that you would find me or i might find you. but i've waded through rivers and drunk from the ponds, i've hunted with wolves and i've sifted through loam for my food and my bed - and then came the rain, that soaked me right through till the sun blazed again. once my skin shone as pale as a moon or a rose - now i'm burnt to the marrow, i am red to the bone. and all for a promise i could not achieve, you'd no power to keep, they'd no right to give. these twenty-five years of growing steadily wild, i know i should've spent some as a child, but i had no borders, no frame to stand in - no walls to define - no skin determined. now i hide and i hedge. i shift and i skulk. when hungry, i forage. when tired, i drop right where i am. take this heather off, this heather off of my lap. i'm tired of trying to find a softer way th

Funny how every time I go to my blog, I'm disappointed to see it's not updated. Like there are two of me, one who is a blogger and one who is a browser. I feel your frustration, schizophrenically. At the moment, I am sitting in comfy my-morning-is-free attire eating oatmeal (the yummy flavored kind from a package) and drinking coffee from one of Mom's William-Sonoma mugs. They are beautiful mugs. They make coffee taste better - no joke. And I am browsing through Greek recipes, trying to figure out what to make for dinner tonight. I am cooking for friends. Haven't done this in quite a while. And I am listening to Greg Laswell , because it's hard to get tired of him. He makes for good morning music. Especially late-in-the-morning, I'm-up-but-still-considering music. And I really was going to say something significant in this here blog post. Maybe next time. Oh yes! I remember. Very significant. I carved a pumpkin last night, and let me tell you about genius!! I ha

i guess i figured we hadn't had any pictures lately. no context for this one, but if you like it, find more here: http://community.livejournal.com/laceandflora/921436.html

I haven't really posted much lately about my actual life, and it seems overdue. Very overdue. I have already mentioned how I took the GRE last Saturday. I followed that up with an evening of book-snagging at the SCIBA Author's Feast. I was hungry, sore, and bone-tired by the end of it. But I did meet a lot of good writers, including the elusive Pseunonymous Bosch, the hilarious Dean Lorey, and the dignified, worldly-wise David Benioff. Oh yes, and Dean Koontz. It was good stuff. The next morning, I drove to Carmel. Didn't get there till the afternoon, of course, especially since I slept in a bit. My brother had called in the middle of the night, so I still didn't get more than six hours of sleep. With only five hours of sleep the night before, this was becoming a problem. I drove safely, however, and made it just in time to dig Kathy out of the sand and bury Chaeli in her place. I was there for about eighteen hours and slept about five. It was beautiful and cold and coz

So I took the GRE subject test in English Literature this Saturday. Found my way to USC alright, got lost on campus, walked in ten minutes late, remembered that this is California - even the GRE starts half an hour after the posted time to accommodate our laxity - and proceeded to prove my literary worth after ZERO hours of study. Read a wide, self-satisfied grin right here. Actually, that's not exactly true. Tara and I read two or three poems on the floor of my bedroom a few days before. One of them is posted below, and was not remotely helpful - only personally inspiring. The other one was featured on question 23, or thereabouts. I know, I know - I'm not supposed to reveal the contents of the exam to a single soul. Like they're really going to rehash that one with that very number and everything. Whatever. Anyway, what I really should have done was asked Tara to write out little blurbs for each big-name in literary theory. Something catchy and rememberable. That would ha

Love among the Ruins by Robert Browning Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles, Miles and miles On the solitary pastures where our sheep Half-asleep Tinkle homeward through the twilight, stray or stop As they crop― Was the site once of a city great and gay, (So they say) Of our country’s very capital, its prince Ages since Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far Peace or war. Now,―the country does not even boast a tree, As you see, To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills From the hills Intersect and give a name to, (else they run Into one) Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires Up like fires O’er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall Bounding all, Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed, Twelve abreast. And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass Never was! Such a carpet as, this summer time, o’erspreads

watching the clouds across the sky soak up the spectrum of the setting sun, i cannot agree with you, milosz, that words have anything to do with these things. enough with naming. the clouds confound my vocabulary, dancing as they do in twos and threes toward the hills. the peninsula appears like a volcano denying itself, all things being sucked into its peak as quiet fire and smoke, a happily repentant pandora's box. i want no lover here on the beach to admire the scene with me. i want a gaggle of children, wide eyed and open mouthed. they would not distract but understand. they would see the panther and giraffe, the distant dragon lit with its own breath, tongues of fire, a beautiful woman, and at last a flock of giant storks, weaving and wending their way into the mouth of the mountain. i went to the beach to cry a little (or a lot), being unnaturally tired - nothing more. but this was more than me by far, and i forgot to tear until beneath the panoply above i saw two kayaks swim

I have figured out why we grow palm trees at the beach. Because their narrow trunks and lack of low branches don't block the view! I am so clever...

Up before the crack of dawn to well-wish away my marathon-bikers, I follow these activities with hot chocolate and a curl-up in my dad's recliner. My cat is mad at me for a variety of reasons, namely for pinning her against the wall with the back of the hall door after she clawed up the oriental rug by the front door. So we are not on good terms at the moment. I am hoping she will forget both her misdeeds and mine - mine are so many more, and she is so well aware of them. Perhaps it is my hypocrisy that keeps her clawing up the rug. They learn by our example. Should I tell you what I'm reading? That seems to be the theme of this blog. American Gods by Neil Gaiman. I am not sure how well I'll do with finishing it. It's good, but it's more in the style of Pynchon than O'Connor, and I don't know how I'd do with Pynchon without a deadline. That's not true. Gravity's Rainbow has been sitting on my dresser for weeks, unopened, unread. There you go. I

out in the darkness a lighthouse flashes on the point. my heart goes out to it, battering toward it against my ribs like a startled bat. the lighthouse, my lover, all things indistinguishable. i hover three inches over the earth, all things refracted through my distraction seem surreal, unreal, being temporal. not that i grow any nearer heaven, only further withdrawn into my own imagination, now tired from lack of fruition. all things favored or feared, otherwise unacknowledged: the yellow mug, the severed limb, and the myriad of faces i religiously forget - these categories rule me. while under it all (or over, or choose your position, your preposition) this strange flotation making a mockery of my material - calling out from the earth like a mythic beast, teasing me with alternating delight and perturbation - should i enter a monastery or an institution? is this mysticism or delusion? (incidentally, i still sin like a Gomer, laugh with my mother, grow tired and hungry, forget the hou

Dear Nathaniel, I am microwaving pie that Mom bought up in Oak Glen this week on her way home from the orthodontist. As I put it in the microwave, I was full of sadness that I was not in Oak Glen with her. Why did I not go? I was working. I want to see the trees turn. I want to wander slowly through autumnal gift shops. Under the water, you cannot sense the approach of the seasons. Even here it is difficult because, after all, it's California. But I can still sense it. After three seasons in Illinois and one in Scotland, it must be with me for good. Or at least for a while. Because I am all abuzz with eagerness for fall and winter, for turkeys and dried leaves and Santa. I should start cooking again this fall. Fall foods are my favorite. Baked squash dripping with melted butter and brown sugar, pumpkin soup... this year, if I have enough money, I will put together a holiday dinner for my friends. And we will drink Scandinavian mulled wine, which is the most wonderful thing I have e

It's not the planes I love. It's the hangar.

today i am blogging about emily. mb: so, emily, what do you want to tell the blogworld? emily: they should all come and help me paint my house. mb: you have a house? tell me about your house! emily: it's a darling little bluish grey three bedroom two bath with hardwood floors and a yard. mb: how long have you lived there? emily: two! whole! weeks! mb: how are your cats adjusting to the change? emily: they're a little crazy, but they always were! mb: what is one major decorative change you will make to your new abode? emily: well, we already painted the kitchen a nice alpaca color, which isn't too major... (interrupted by beep from the oven signifying the end of the scones' ...never mind. they need another minute) and we'll be painting most of the other rooms as well. other than that, it's just small things here and there. mb: where do you find your greatest inspiration? emily: pottery barn. no, i'm kidding. my greatest inspiration for what? what are you putt

If Cynthia Voigt had written science fiction, it probably would have looked something like The Hunger Games . In Suzanne Collins's newest novel, we meet a protagonist who seems remarkably familiar. Like Voigt's heroines, we understand her story because she seems so much like ourselves - no matter how strenuous or bizarre the circumstances, we feel certain our story would be the same. We, too, would have those resources, that practicality, that certain sensitivity that separates us from the masses. I don't say this critically - it is the book's strongest feature that it identifies with every one of its readers and says 'this could be your story.' It is not just its portrayal of Katniss Everdeen, the novel's heroine, that is familiar. The story takes place in a post-apocalyptic North American nation, Panem. It is a country held together by fear - a fear instilled by the capitol into each of its twelve districts and maintained by a yearly event called the Hunge

I am very good at having favorites. Every week during storytime, I tell the kids: 'this is one of my favorites!' and then inwardly roll my eyes. They are all 'my favorites'. But there are a few that really are. The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane , for example. Or Lewis's Till We Have Faces . I could read these books twenty times over and still feel that they are new to me. Among my true favorites, there are few picture books. Not because I am a snob about chapters, but it's difficult for me to put picture books in the same category as chapter books to begin with - and then to compare them? It just seems awkward. But let me tell you about The Rough-Faced Girl . If I can. The little blurb on the inside flap calls it a Cinderella story, and I suppose it is that. More than suppose - there's a girl who sits by the cinders, who is mocked by her two proud sisters, who is chosen by the 'prince' instead of them, who is rescued from penury and obscurity b

First I read this by Walter Ong: In contending with Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Derrida is of course quite right in rejecting the persuasion that writing is no more than incidental to the spoken word. But to try to construct a logic of writing without investigation in depth of the orality out of which writing emerged and in which writing is permanently and ineluctably grounded is to limit one's understanding, although it does produce at the same time effects that are brilliantly intriguing but also at time psychedelic, that is, due to sensory distortions.... then I pick up The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins and read this: Nervousness seeps into terror as I anticipate what is to come. I could be dead, flat-out dead, in an hour. Not even. My fingers obsessively trace the hard little lump on my forearm where the woman injected the tracking device. I press on it, even though it hurts, I press on it so hard a small bruise begins to form.... This is my dilemma.

Eve, or september 12th. i know it's a shame, the proportion of the pain, but there's one thing i can do on this day that has both name and gain. i can take this bitten body warm between my two palms, and cleaning house from top to bottom, give her balm. what's one more mourner or less on this day of second deaths, and what has my grief got to do with the towers and the rest? i have not lost a soul, just the trust of this small thing warm and shaking, claw and purring from the pain - not from the trains or the rains or the memories of mayhem one september - this twelfth, all i see is the calm misery pouring out of these two animal eyes as she twitches and whines with hives and parasites between my palms. good grief knows when to weep over one thing at a time.

via http://ffffound.com/ p.s. i am so beyond over this layout. if anyone feels like helping me pimp my page to better reflect its content, please tell me how to outdo blogger's paltry template selection. my internetal creativity is nonexistent.

mom: 'all these halloween ideas. more different ways to make a bug out of food...'

watch me bust at the seams to offer you praise and if my dance seems epileptic, know my heart is full of grace, full of grace. my sparkles are gangley and gauche cheap cheesy kitsch and unholy but holy's your business - it's you drawing breath from my lungs. in this near particular, all I can give is a song that will break all your crystal will rise to the rafters and ruffle the wings of the owls. and everyone watching cries what a shame! that such music should come from one so overweight that these notes make their way through my messes of hair or emerge from between these crooked teeth. they'll wonder in silence because they are decent enough not to announce it in front of themselves (let alone their neighbors): how could He be quite pleased how the Lord be satisfied or the man with the microphone brazen to try to ignore all our eyes and the skin he stands in thick in the way of the aria fit for a king - such contradiction of praise and praiser oh, we all have our highs w

still working, reading, and sleeping. in that order and with little reprieve. be back soon.

I suppose I always knew it would happen. I work books, after all, and these things are the hottest things going. Of course, that reasoning hasn't made me pick up A New Earth or The Last Lecture , or even Stori Telling - but it does have some sway with my choices. Some. A little. Okay, the real reason I picked up Twilight the other day and started reading it in earnest (I am done now and moving on to the next book after work) was because I was talking to Chaeli on the phone while cruising up the 405 (Jenny B was at the wheel - no law-breaking for me), and Chaeli said: 'You have to read them. It is so good for people to be reading these books right now.' So I thought, 'Alright already. If they're culturally relevant, I'll read them.' Let me clarify, I did not avoid these books because I thought they'd be stupid. I'd read the first few pages and knew the writing wasn't bad. And I was 100% certain I would enjoy them. That was half the problem. They

“ A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects. Robert Anson Heinlein (via ckck ) For more wise words, visit the new link on the right: http://rulesformyunbornson.tumblr.com

Three cheers for the word 'snarky' and for journalists who think! Anne Applebaum of the Slate reports the glaring distinctions between British coverage of the Olympics and... everybody else. Thank you, Ayjay.

Some of my readers may not be aware that my father is a pretty important guy when it comes to homelessness. He's like the godfather of the homeless of Long Beach. Except not as scary. (Note to self: Do not blog after midnight. Sentences become stupid. Metaphors become inane.) At some point in time, everyone of his children - yeah, that would be me and my siblings - has worked for him in some capacity. I typed addresses into a computer and folded newsletters. My oldest sister single-handedly constructed the Long Beach winter shelter last year (slight exaggeration, but she deserves a lot of kudos). My other sister has done smart work for him as well, and it looks as though growing up and getting a 'real' job hasn't quite satisfied. She's coming back, hubby in tow, to ride in the Long Beach Marathon (or whatever it's called), all for the sake of raising money for the Long Beach Rescue Mission. Anyone interested in supporting her ride (she's one of our frequent

Not much blogging going down this week. Jenny B, one of our regular commentators, is visiting just now. This means that a) blog-worthy things will happen, and b) I will not be around much to blog about them. hehehe..... Meanwhile, let's all celebrate as my sister, also one of our regular commentators, is in the process of purchasing her first home! clap hands... On a side note, because I really want to be late for work, is anyone else feeling like this blog template is worse than boring? Does it lull you to sleep every time you read my missives? This might change soon. Whenever I find an html artist with time on their hands - 'cause I'm really tired of blogger's present selection.

For the best latte I have tasted outside of Italy, go to the Portfolio Coffeehouse . I'm not trying to be a snob. I have ordered from them three times now, and every time they have given me the most delicious coffee beverage I have tasted since I flew out of Rome one year and a half ago. Patronize this place. Now. If you hesitate, know also that they provide free internet access and curiously compelling wall art. What's holding you back?

Vroman's Bookstore: Night of the Gun

Further fairy tale business: Follow this link to a 'choose your own adventure'-type fairy tale. It's pretty awful, but since you make narrative decisions along the way, it's hard to know who's to blame for the inanity of the story. Try it out.

Found an interesting site while browsing in front of the Olympics this evening. It's an online journal of fairy tale stuff . It looks pretty legitimate, too. I think I should work for them. Or at least submit stuff. Perhaps I could work this into the fairy festival I'm planning for November.... How? Haven't got the foggiest idea.

A quick flashback (not too far back) to my reading of Wright's Surprised by Hope - a task interrupted by Harry Potter, bad teen fiction, and the celebration of Neil Gaiman's transcendentalism - has me going through Neuhaus's response to the book in my ignored April edition of First Things. Happy in his words, I hop back on the journal's website (I have not been checking it as frequently lately. My sense of self-injury as I nobly tackle faithful loan payments and responsible budgeting by working two jobs has seriously cut down on my intellectual and social pursuits, adding to my impatience with an admixture of self-pity and self-contempt. In other words, I don't have the brain power to keep up with these things.). It seems that Neuhaus is tackling Wright's own issue from an entirely different slant. I am curious. I read his previous articles on the same topic. I find his thoughts are soon to be compiled as a book. I am excited. I wonder if it will really be a Ne

Went to the Aquarium of the Pacific this evening. It was open late, so Mom took my grandfather, and Dad and I tagged along. Saw the leafy sea dragons for the second time ever. If you have not seen these ethereal creatures of the sea, let me show you. You can see a weedy sea dragon here . They're not as angelic, but I think I might like them even more. They're twiggy. Mischievous. I want to make a picture of them.

First there were my scissors. They were small ones, tucked with my toothbrush and other bathroom goods in my carry-on. Because all I had was a carry-on. I was eating Panda Express with you-know-who-you-are and JennyE. in the waiting warehouse of the Denver airport when I remembered that they were in the bag. I left them there with Colorado, and headed to the security checkpoint feeling unmaterialistic and self-satisfied. Then there was the face soap and moisturizer, both of which were 2 oz. too big for the satisfaction of the x-ray machine. 'I have more at home,' I told myself, and refused to be annoyed by the passive aggressive contempt of the security woman who told me that had been the liquid standard for some 2.something years. Well, we all have our bad days. I boarded the airplane feeling unmaterialistic, self-satisfied, and full of dignity despite the slight absurdity of three toiletry losses in an hour. After I returned home, it took only a few days to discover further l

Think you take a long time getting dressed in the morning? Compare yourself to others and feel better about your time. I wonder, who agrees to photograph her every other morning?

I had a thought about blogging the other day, some subject that seemed worthy of these 'pages'. And now, of course, I can't remember what it was. Was it the stranger showering from our sprinkler spigot at three in the morning? My mother saw her from the window, but did not interfere. It seemed an awkward moment to assert property rights. Or was it the teen book I picked up the other day and won't pick up again? A Great and Terrible Beauty , by Libba Bray. It has two sequels and everything. Very unfortunate. It's structured within a post-Victorian British Empire based more on 21st-century prejudices and assumptions of old-world gender-restrictions than actual fact. It seems to try to get away with its diversion from true historical representation by involving itself in a very confused world of dark magic. I say confused, because you find the author has dropped you into it without warning. There were several times where I had to turn back a page or two to find the elu

This post is to officially recognize Jenny B. (don't know how you feel about publishing your name on the interwebs) for introducing me to the works of Neil Gaiman. Yes, I know it took me a long time to come around. It usually does. But am I not here now? and is that not all that matters? Thank you.

Sun 03 Aug ∞ Permalink How easy it is to live with You, O Lord. How easy to believe in You. When my spirit is overwhelmed within me, When even the keenest see no further than the night, And know not what to do tomorrow, You bestow on me the certitude That You exist and are mindful of me, That all the paths of righteousness are not barred. As I ascend in to the hill of earthly glory, I turn back and gaze, astonished, on the road That led me here beyond despair, Where I too may reflect Your radiance upon mankind. All that I may reflect, You shall accord me, And appoint others where I shall fail. —Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, 1972

Neil Gaiman's newest novel The Graveyard Book is coming out this September, and I think we should throw a party. I am not sure if I've ever read anyone as boldly imaginative as Neil Gaiman. And when I say bold, I mean stand-in-front-of traffic-and-wave-your-arms bold. Except not as stupid. Maybe I should start over. Neil Gaiman has written several novels that have been received with wide acclaim from young and old readers alike. His children's novel, Coraline , had me shivering in my seat with spine-tingling fear - the most delightfully enchanted fear I have ever felt. (Perhaps the only enchanted fear I have ever felt.) He co-wrote the screenplay for Beowulf (2007), introducing a startling perspective on the ancient hero with intelligence and sympathy. His novel Stardust was hilarious and riveting and curious and new and old. As was the film, which he also wrote. Everything I have read or seen of his has been a brilliant fusion of novelty and familiarity. His is the stuf