Latest Articles by Sarah Canice Funke
Why has this once vibrant blog trickled down to a few posts a month when previous output once reached the three or four post-a-day range?
Whither the golden years of How to Disappear Completely? Why have we descended over the hill? A few reasons, more or less accurate, come to mind.
1) Grad school was probably the peak of this blog. There was more freedom and flexibility in grad school. Professors didn't care how long it took you to write the paper. Just hand it in by due date. So if I were stuck on a problem, the creative juices could get a jumpstart over here. And sometimes another jumpstart. And another. Now, at work, it's not general policy to drop your stalled project for a brief blogging session.
2) A dwindling community to write for. Ah, the giants of my blogging world, those inspirational bards have all but faded away. Where are Linnea, Evan, Rachel H. (now B.), Tuggy and my ever so witty roommates? At least Carrie and the Fingerpost still remain faithful.
3) Lack of motivation to do in my free time what I've been doing all day. Of course writing grant proposals isn't nearly as entertaining as reducing your life to bullet points. But now that I stop and think about it, doing a little creative writing, or at least humorous writing, is probably something I need to get back into doing, pronto. My life has felt rather blah of late and I think it is partly due to the lack of creative stimulation those starving little right brain cells have been receiving. So as not to totally leave the left brain cells out of the mix, perhaps I'll schedule a little quality blogging time every day and force myself into it. Be prepared for some revival over here.
4) Other outlets for expressing myself. Now that I can talk to Evan in person, I don't need to write copious blog posts to try to snag his attention...
Waaay back in college, I used to take several catnaps in between classes in an effort to counteract the sleep-deprived life of the undergrad. Frequently during these power naps, I would experience a recurring dream in which I couldn't wake up. My eyelids would be glued shut and I would strain and strain to open them because I had to go to class in a few minutes. But I was totally and utterly frozen. As I struggled to move, eventually my body would shudder and my eyes jerk open. Phew. Just in time for another lesson on metaphysics...
After I graduated and experienced more regular sleep, these dreams faded from my life. Until yesterday. After going to bed rather late, I was greeted by the early-bird sun at 5:45AM. I tried to go back to sleep, but I knew I had to eventually prepare for the morning prayer I had signed up to lead at work. So I tried to open my eyes and wake up. No such luck. Back to the old straining and semi-panic. I was eventually able to lift my head, my eyes still glued shut. Fortunately, I was able to get those pesky eyelids to function, and made it off to work.
Fascinated by the topic of recurring dreams, and what they might signal about circumstances in your life (I am also prone to recurring dreams in which my teeth fall out), I googled the subject and found that I had never been dreaming at all.
Instead, I was experiencing a condition called sleep paralysis. Basically when your body isn't getting enough REM sleep, it goes into automatic mode and forces the body into REM even while you are still conscious. The body normally can't move during REM, unless you happen to be a sleep-walker (which I am not). Suddenly, it all made sense. Now to just get more regular sleep...
Lately my life seems to be full of frustrations over petty things.
I remember once writing an entry on worry which listed everything bothering me from who to marry to which toothpaste to buy. Now I can't find the entry, but the simple act of outlining anxiety was therapeutic.
1. So for now, my main worry is taxes. I have income from two countries and differing deadlines for both. I won't be filing IN Canada, thank heavens, but still I wait breathlessly for them to send me a statement.
2. I also worry about moving. When will I have time to go out and find a mattress? Maybe I can wing sleeping on the floor for a few nights....?
3. I am thankfully almost done with this fundraising course. But the next course starts immediately. When will this ever be done?? And do I really want to be in development for the rest of my life? My professor thinks I should get certified. I enjoy what I do now, but being in a different office could totally kill the experience.
On the bright side, I can't qualify to apply as a Certified Fund Raising Executive for 4 1/2 more years!! So I can put that worry aside for now. And my sister is coming to visit me in March! And she writes me letters on candy boxes and maps.
Last night at the library, I found Lilies of the Field on the shelf. Providential? This morning it is snowing. Our own winter lilies that do not worry what they shall wear have fallen from the sky-fields.
If I were a disciplined person, I would be finishing my homework right now. But I've passed the busy weeks and I'm sliding into the final stretch with very little on my plate. The absence of panic means I type meaninglessly while I wait for House to lend legitimacy to my procrastination.
Life these days consists of hitting refresh on the "Boston area Radiohead tickets" webpage on Ticketmaster. And I discovered that Colin Meloy must love me, because he decided to come back to Boston after the whole Decemberists tour got canceled last fall. So I have tickets to that, too.
Other potential trips include New York and DC. And I'm moving. Did I mention that? Down the block a bit. I'll still be only a T's length from Cambridge and the bookstores and music I've come to associate with head-in-the-sand elitism--the stuff I'd grown to know and love in academia. Not really, but I find myself occasionally escaping to this familiar channel via a quick train trip across the Charles River to the "other side of the tracks."
The other day I discovered that MIT's bookstore has a sizable collection of music and cognition texts, all with authoritative titles such as "The Origins of Music" and "What We Mean By Music." I was tempted to buy the "The Idiots' Guide to Mashups" but the software was only compatible with PCs. Stupid techie bookstores. They need to get with the Mac program.
And now I leave you with a good note for the night. Animal Collective. In French.
In the vague recesses of my memory, I knew that "some famous pianist" had suffered from focal dystonia, but today I discovered who it was precisely: Leon Fleisher. And his ailment afflicted his right hand as well. I'm really excited to know that someone out there retired from the performance industry all together, went through brain surgery, wrote literature for the left hand, and.....came back in the end. Maybe there is hope for me, although can't say that I would be thrilled about brain surgery. hmmm.
You know you have finally reached maturity and adulthood when you can dash screaming through the house, wrestle your sister into a headlock, roll wheezing on the floor as headlock is reversed, otherwise create total pandemonium, and your mother never once utters the admonition: "No running in the house!"
Sigh.
A birthday is an excuse to be, for a limited time, suddenly humbled by unexpected popularity.
28 Facebook greetings
Winning online scrabble with Ashley R. by one slender point.
A phone call from Jenny I.
A voicemail from Anna and a Scrabble tile barrette that spells my name. Apparently my name is worth 8 points.
2 cards from grandparents, arrived today.
Glossy spread 40th anniversary Rolling Stone, with centerfold featuring "The Universe of Indie Rock." Also arrived today.
Momentos from Christa's trip to Stratford (Canada).
Several generous gifts from my parents including a bag full of every Home Depot item I could ever use such as the stud finder.
A taste of Frambroise.
The chill of Sweeny Todd (and the delight of actors-turned-orchestra, bringing music out of the pit and onto the stage).
One whole extra hour of birthday (yay for daylight savings!)
A CD mix, a book of Spanish poems, a collection of Tin-Tin comics.
And a poem.
"For me writing has always felt like praying, even when I wasn't writing prayers, as I was often enough. You feel that you are with someone."
~Gilead, Marilynne Robinson
I am starting to get stir crazy. Or rather just feeling antsy for the routine of the daily grind. Which makes me less patient when it comes to the job search, but I suppose the search itself is the grind at this moment.
Fortunately I can always while away the hours with Classical Concert Review Madlibs...
Voice mail personal greetings are an opportunity for expressing one's own personal style. And so people who call my cell phone will have some Cake and greet it, too.
But really, incorporating "No Phone" into one's voice mail greeting seemed like such a no brainer, expressing as it does my sentiments towards cellular communication in general.
Note: To those who call me rather frequently, I have shortened the intro considerably. I suppose even Cake gets old after a few...hundred...times... EDIT: My dad just informed me that pushing # skips the voice mail message all together. Technology has a solution for everything...
I've also added a picture of a salamander to How to Disappear Completely's url: 1) I've always had a certain fascination with salamanders, not in the least diminished by the ban imposed by my mother when she found one escaped and rather dried out critter in her closet. 2) The salamander curves its body into an "S" shape, an initial that also signifies the author of this blog (and if one is really imaginative, the shape resembles a lower case "f," signifying both my initials).
Fashion Bulletin: Father's Day ties can be arranged around one's neck to look like really cute scarves.
Brought to you by the public service for diversifying uses for the old standard gift.
Have a Happy Father's Day everyone. If you're a dad, be loved. If you are not a dad, tell yours that you love him.
I don't often dream, but sometimes the last thing I encounter for the day will reincarnate itself into a rather amusing episode. Last night I dreamt I was going camping with a few people. I recognized one as a former classmate, but not one that I could even really claim as an acquaintance. She reminded me of the stereotypical "homeschooler," but as I talked to her, she revealed that her family not only owned Looney Tunes, but the Rolling Stones. And so she was wanting to know which songs were really popular (for marketing purposes, I suppose).
"Well," I said. "Everyone loves the Keith Richards gems: (I Can't Get No) Satisfaction....You Can't Always Get What You Want...."
I woke up feeling I had left something out. Was I getting the Stones mixed up the Beatles that I had to pit one artist against another? Apparently while Evan's dreams make him smarter, mine just make me confused. The ancients blamed indigested meat for lucid dreams. I blame half-digested blog entries...
I do have to say though, that if Warner Brothers puts Brown Sugar behind Porky Pig, I want full credit...(and would LOVE to do an in-depth study on any and all race/gender issues entailed within....not)
After a conversation regarding the Thorn, I realized I don't care much for my poetry. But then I realized that I don't care much for poetry in general. At least not poetry proper. I prefer poetical language. The poem proper is encased in glass, with halos of artistic light streaming from its hallowed pedestal. Admiration may be withheld, but is always expected. The context demands attention. Yet poetical language slips out the back door. Banal prose sheds caterpillar skin, creeping into sunshine light. China serves the best guests, but we must all use the everyday dishes. Why not surprise with a splattering of color?
A reverse Warhol effect: rather than demote art into the oblivion of the everyday, poetical language colors the everyday into the honor of the unique. Function becomes formality, a ritualistic acknowledgment caught outside the bounds.
Why don't I just say "poetical language makes prose seem more interesting; poetical language has more functions than poetry proper and thus carries potential for a wider audience"?
Because one way was unexpected. And what spark did your imagination receive?
It is a well-known fact that playing the guitar wins friends and influences people. But it is a lesser known fact that namedropping Paw Tracks artists will make you immensely attractive to a certain demograpic...Black Dice, my friends, is the password to popularity. Just something I've discovered in my oh-so-vast experience.
How to Be More Popular
AC and Black Dice fans may already know this, but Terrestrial Tones represents the union of both camps. Or rather the artistic combination of Avey Tare (Animal Collective) and Eric Copeland (Black Dice). I haven't heard a lick of TT music, but just thought I would throw that out there...
****************
And not so experimental......
Upon hearing Sunlandic Twins, my dad asked "Is that the band you are going to hear in Denver?" "No," I replied. "This is Of Montreal." "Oh," says my dad. "I thought they sounded too nice to be Animal Collective."
Something fell off the RV with a clatter. "Is Sarah listening to music again?" says my dad.
And upon hearing The Crane Wife, my dad says, "Sarah, are you sure you like the Decemberists? They sound too good to be indie...."
A family friend is using Crane Wife #3 as a processional in her upcoming wedding, substituting a violin for the vocals. Such cleverness inspires me. I was never much for planning my own wedding millions of years in advance, but that was because I didn't see the potential for variation. Now I wonder how to be unique and tasteful (i.e. using something like the Star Wars theme would be unique...but...um....well....you know....a trifle too geeky for my taste...)
But Crane Wife #3. I think I might actually cry to that. Although taking the lyrics out is a good move.
*****************
Unrelated (except perhaps as a reverse role model for popularity):
House makes so much more sense not in French.
Here are a few pictures from my trip to Europe, summer 2003.
I like posing with statues. San Marco Piazza, Venice
A castle in Germany somewhere...
I told my family that Jackson Pollack's art was housed here. They were not impressed and told me that I could take a picture of the outside...haha. Maybe someday I will visit this museum.
Some more pictures, from my childhood....B.C., or before college.
Playing dress-up. Weren't we beautiful?
A homeschool social studies project...guess which country I was studying...
Ten years ago, with my llama.
My dad's mom and the three of us girls...
Wandering around the Redeemer campus makes me nostalgic for Covenant. But then, wandering around Covenant's campus makes me nostalgic for Covenant. It's not like I will ever be a student there again. And so visiting is always bittersweet.
Change is a thing that obscures the bad and solidifies the good forever in our memories...
This scarf was the only green thing I had to hand. But me great-great-grandfather was a Sullivan. And you don't get a middle name like Canice without a wee bit o' the blarney blood in ye. Happy St. Patrick's Day! Drink a Guinness on me, now won't you?
There is a Cathedral named after me in Kilkenny. I've been there. It's still standing, after 800 years.
| What type of person do you attract? Your Result: You attract geeks! Your stunning intellect and love of sci-fi and video games allures the geeks like nothing else. Maybe it is the sparkle in your eye that makes them want to text you, who knows. Geeks make good partners, but tend to be arguementative. If you are a TRUE geek magnet, you will know if that was spelled correctly, and actually care. If it is a bad-boy/bad-girl you are seeking, you are barking up the wrong tree, unless they are just 'bad' behind a PS2 console. | |
| You attract Yuppies! | |
| You attract artsy people! | |
| You attract unstable people! | |
| You attract rednecks! | |
| You attract models! | |
| What type of person do you attract? Quizzes for MySpace | |
I don't love sci-fi or video games, but I'll take the stunning intellect bit. And I DO care that argumentative was spelled wrong.
And I'll take what I can get:
You are either native and stupid, or you are foreign and knowledgeable.
"And did those feet
In ancient times,
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
In England's pleasant pastures seen?"
Well, no, but it's a cracking good tune.
How English are you?
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And I haven't lived here for nearly two years without learning a little something. I feel quite proud about this, actually....and yes, I really would go to timmy's if I found a toonie...
You rock, you are an almighty Canadian through and through. You have proven your worthiness and have won the elite prize of living in a country as awesome as Canada. Yes I know other countries think they are better, but we let them have that cuz we know better than they do, eh?
How Canadian Are You?
Quiz Created on GoToQuiz
As our friendship progresses, Sarah and I find ever more proof that we are really twins separated at birth. Honestly, how many of the population at large have the talent to be in love with Lord Peter Wimsey AND Johnny Depp at the SAME time!?
Yes, she has even considered wearing it in the shower. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
Will funke be able to survive the frigid cold? Will her hat stand the relational strain? Will spring come too late?
For all those in suspense, dying to know how this pans out, stay tuned....
Dorothy Sayers noted in The Documents of the Case that literary persons generally write even their private letters in a style meant for an audience. And while I hardly claim to be a writer, I nevertheless suffer from all the writer's faults. I originally wrote this as a private email, but now I bring it to an audience...Hey, someone else might know the answer to the question, right? Actually, I really just feel that a blog is a better place for indulging narcissism....
Do you have any idea how to get something in the sidebar to be centered? The default appears to be align left, but I wanted to make it centered. It would make me feel better about life in general if I could achieve a centered sidebar. People are always telling me I need to find my center, but how can I do that if my sidebar is aligned left? Unfortunately I am too lazy to achieve my goals through the dint of sheer hard work and perseverance and wrestling with the CSS inner circle of worthy and chosen few. So, I ask you instead. Any insights you might provide to aid me in the pursuit of life, liberty, and aesthetically pleasing sidebars would be most appreciated. Appreciated in great quantities. We are talking not waves but tsunamis of appreciation here. Anyway. Have a nice day, and I mean that the way that Walmart people mean it; it's more meaningful that way. (Um, Zoolander reference again. Dang, you need to watch that movie. :) ) <---and that's NOT a smiley with a double chin, even if it looks like one. Ah, next time I will use brackets. That might make closing parenthetical remarks of a jesting nature a trifle less awkward to look at. Nope, it is just as bad. Dashes? Should I use dashes? Still no dice. Why is there not a better convention here? Why does no one else suffer from the same emoti-punctuation clashes that I do? And why am I talking to myself in an email addressed to someone else? Forgive the indulgence of eccentricity....
I am the walrus,
Sarah
Hair Styles
I am contemplating going short. But I am also too lazy to style (i.e., blow-dryer, gel, etc.) every single day. Any suggestions for a no frills look?
My mom suggested trying on her costume wigs. That might scare me away from short forever...
I told my mom that cevangeline had once gone short at school and that I had really liked the results. And my mom, thinking instead of Wit, thought that a little too short. But talk about no frills maintenance...
The Messiah is my favorite piece of music ever. Ever ever ever. It's what I would take with me on that hypothetical desert island. And narrowing my music love down is so hard. But the Messiah is my musical Bible...
Sorrow, triumph, glory, anguish, hope, transcendence, awe, judgment, and grace. It's all there. All there together. Those Baroque composers really knew how to effect their Affects. Not to become one of those stodgy old past-dwellers, but I think that contemporary church composers could learn a thing or two from their 17th/18th century counterparts. Because music is very effective at engaging the heart and soul. BUT it should not arouse just any old emotion, but the appropriate emotion, in its proper place. So many songs do not indicate which feeling is proper for the proper time: joy, sorrow, repentance, hope, faith, love. The emphasis I suppose is on spontaneity, but the result is an emotional rush of sameness, and that is hardly spontaneous.
And that's the way I feel about it, which often gets convoluted with the way I think....
(the INTJ in me....again coming after more insightful conversations with Natalie...)
...but a long time ago, I signed up with e-harmony so I could take their personality profile...because, well, I like finding out what people who have never met me have to say about my identity. And at the time they told me "We're sorry; you have no matches." And so I promptly forgot I was signed up with e-harmony. Then last night and this morning I received a total of six invitations to begin communications with Canadians scattered across the country (although a good deal of them seem to be concentrated in Alberta...which is Canada's Country Music capital and automatically makes me extremely suspicious regarding potential "aesthetic" compatibility...).
Anyway, it's nice to be popular, but I feel that I need to get out. Internet dating services have worked great for one of my friends (and is sending her to Colorado, and how could you go wrong, there?), but for me...I doubt I could "fall in love" with someone without seeing how they interact with people besides me (ah yes, I place a high degree of importance on observation, because, according to my personality, people need to make sense to me, and so I feel I have to "figure them out" if I really want to understand them). The initial attraction I suppose could come, because (I think I've mentioned before), I find verbal word play rather sexy. But as far as a long-lasting relationship goes? I need context.
This is perhaps why I've never really been in favor of the blind set-up, either.
But I've brought this up before.
EDIT:
....and another invitation to begin communications. Did a group of Christian Albertans decide to register en masse??? This is scary...
And another thing: these "introductory emails" tell you what common interests you share. And certainly the common interests are ones that I share with quite a few of my close friends. But on paper they seem soooooo trivial and uninspiring: religious faith, music, friendship, and reading. Blah. What a boring person I am. What a boring person we all are.
Talking to Natalie refreshes my spirit. With her Meyers-Briggs prowress she explains me to myself. She unlocks the secrets of other people's minds. The world feels less inexplicable now. And "well-intentioned ass" is my new favorite descriptor of the INT(J or P) personality. Ha!
Happiness is listening to Highway 61 Revisited while adding a section on Bob Dylan to my thesis.
UPDATE: "[The beat poets'] jargon was to prove one of the major sources for Dylan's extraordinary speech--it was not long after he arrived in the Village that he began layering the hillbilly with the hipster." [Mike Marqusee, Wicked Messenger: Bob Dylan and the 1960s, (New York: Seven Stories Press, 2005), 36].
And I got this from Diber, since it is my goal in life to be more like her (well, it is my goal in life to more like a lot of people).
01. Bought everyone in the bar a drink
02. Swam with wild dolphins
03. Climbed a mountain
04. Taken a Ferrari for a test drive
05. Been inside the Great Pyramid
06. Held a tarantula
07. Taken a candlelit bath with someone
08. Said “I love you” and meant it
09. Hugged a tree
10. Bungee jumped
11. Visited Paris
12. Watched a lightning storm at sea
13. Stayed up all night long and saw the sun rise
14. Seen the Northern Lights
15. Gone to a huge sports game (and survived the crush afterwards)
16. Walked the stairs to the top of the leaning Tower of Pisa
17. Grown and eaten your own vegetables
18. Touched an iceberg
19. Slept under the stars
20. Changed a baby’s diaper
21. Taken a trip in a hot air balloon
22. Watched a meteor shower
23. Gotten drunk on champagne
24. Given more than you can afford to charity (I should give more)
25. Looked up at the night sky through a telescope
26. Had an uncontrollable giggling fit at the worst possible moment (once during Anna's presentation to my church regarding her upcoming missions' trip to Uganda, she said, "Most students even return." And of course she meant "most students who go to Uganda like it so much they go on the same trip another year," but it sounded as if she meant "most students survive and come back to the states in one piece" and so I dissolved in quite the giggling fit that raised comment after the presentation.)
27. Had a food fight (With marshmallows, no less)
28. Bet on a winning horse (although, I have bet on a horse. Once, when my family spent a day at Del Mar. I don't even remember if we won anything or not.)
29. Asked out a stranger
30. Had a snowball fight (I've been in those insane wars with iced snowballs, stuff it down the back of the necks techniques, and screams of bloody murder. I've dumped people in snow banks. Yeah. I kind of get a little overly competitive in the snow...)
31. Screamed as loudly as you possibly can
32. Held a lamb (that I helped birth)
33. Seen a total eclipse
34. Ridden a roller coaster (and I hate roller coasters, too)
35. Hit a home run
36. Danced like a fool and not cared who was looking
37. Adopted an accent for an entire day
38. Actually felt happy about your life, even for just a moment
39. Had two hard drives for your computer
40. Visited all 50 states (Still haven't been to Maine.)
41. Taken care of someone who was drunk.
42. Had amazing friends
43. Danced with a stranger in a foreign country (if Canada "counts")
44. Watched wild whales
45. Stolen a sign
46. Backpacked in Europe.
47. Taken a road-trip
48. Gone rock climbing (Rock-scrambling. And nearly died. Well, maybe not.)
49. Midnight walk on the beach
50. Gone sky diving
51. Visited Ireland
52. Been heartbroken longer than you were actually in love (c'est la vie)
53. In a restaurant, sat at a stranger’s table and had a meal with them (only with my family, though)
54. Visited Japan
55. Milked a cow (can't remember if I have milked a cow, but I have definitely done goats and sheep, so that counts)
56. Alphabetized your CDs (Actually, I organize more by genre and sound than by alphabet, though)
57. Pretended to be a superhero (who hasn't?)
58. Sung karaoke (kind of. I really want to experience karoke the Asian way, though. I've also belly danced in a restaurant before...)
59. Lounged around in bed all day
60. Played touch football
61. Gone scuba diving
62. Kissed in the rain
63. Played in the mud
64. Played in the rain
65. Gone to a drive-in theater
66. Visited the Great Wall of China
67. Started a business (A brief stint with selling crafts)
68. Fallen in love and not had your heart broken (is this even possible?)
69. Toured ancient sites (I guess Roman ruins are ancient enough)
70. Taken a martial arts class
71. Played D&D for more than 6 hours straight
72. Gotten married
73. Been in a movie
74. Crashed a party
75. Gotten divorced
76. Gone without food for 5 days
77. Made cookies from scratch
78. Won first prize in a costume contest (Twice, actually. Once for my costume as an ant from the proverbs. And once for my stint as Lord Peter Wimsey. The picture is floating about my blog somewhere).)
79. Ridden a gondola in Venice (we waved at the gondoliers and saved our money for the Venetian glass)
80. Gotten a tattoo
81. Rafted the Snake River
82. Been on television news programs as an “expert” (Yes. I appeared on a morning talk show with my llama.)
83. Got flowers for no reason (there is always a reason for getting flowers!)
84. Performed on stage
85. Been to Las Vegas
86. Recorded music
87. Eaten shark
88. Kissed on the first date
89. Gone to Thailand
90. Bought a house
91. Been in a combat zone
92. Buried one/both of your parents
93. Been on a cruise ship
94. Spoken more than one language fluently well enough to have a decent conversation
95. Performed in Rocky Horror
96. Raised (raising) children (child)
97. Followed your favorite band/singer on tour (If going to another concert by the same artist counts, even if there is a year in between. Oh, whatever. It doesn't count)
99. Taken an exotic bicycle tour in a foreign country
100. Picked up and moved to another city to just start over (well, I guess I've always had a reason for moving...usually school.)
101. Walked the Golden Gate Bridge
102. Sang loudly in the car, and didn’t stop when you knew someone was looking
103. Had plastic surgery
104. Survived an accident that you shouldn’t have survived
105. Wrote articles for a large publication (I guess Suite101 doesn't count?)
106. Lost over 100 pounds (well, not all at once. I wonder how much I've lost and gained and lost over the years)
107. Held someone while they were having a flashback
108. Piloted an airplane
109. Touched a stingray (after what happened to Steve??)
110. Broken someone’s heart
111. Helped an animal give birth
112. Won money on a T.V. game show
113. Broken a bone
114. Gone on an African photo safari
115. Had a facial part pierced other than your ears
116. Fired a rifle, shotgun, or pistol (My dad's shotgun. Was the most traumatic experience of my life. I shook, cried, gave the gun back, and haven't touched one since.)
117. Eaten mushrooms that were gathered in the wild
118. Ridden a horse
119. Had major surgery
120. Had a snake as a pet
121. Hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon
122. Slept for more than 30 hours over the course of 48 hours
123. Visited more foreign countries than U.S. states
124. Visited all 7 continents
125. Taken a canoe trip that lasted more than 2 days
126. Eaten kangaroo meat
127. Eaten sushi
128. Had your picture in the newspaper (My sister did. Colorado Springs Gazette. With a llama, no less)
129. Changed someone’s mind about something you care deeply about
130. Gone back to school
131. Parasailed
132. Touched a cockroach
133. Eaten fried green tomatoes
134. Read The Iliad - and the Odyssey (I've read bits of both. I feel like I already know what happens, so it is low on my priority list.)
135. Selected one “important” author who you missed in school, and read
136. Killed and prepared an animal for eating (well, my dad killed the turkey. I just helped pluck. And only once.)
137. Skipped all your school reunions
138. Communicated with someone without sharing a common spoken language
139. Been elected to public office
140. Written your own computer language (yeah, right)
141. Thought to yourself that you’re living your dream
142. Had to put someone you love into hospice care
143. Built your own PC from parts (again, yeah, right)
144. Sold your own artwork to someone who didn’t know you (If selling crafts counts...)
145. Had a booth at a street fair (Yay for Black Forest Community events.)
146. Dyed your hair
147. Been a DJ
148. Shaved your head
149. Caused a car accident
150. Saved someone’s life
Words, where are you?
Treasure hunting
Goose chasing
X marks the spot,
And then go missing.
Why not come out and play?
Why run away
Just when I need you?
Hide-and-seek
In the dark.
And then go fishing.
Playful teasing
School ground banter.
But no one knows
How I really
Feel?
***************
In dreams, words come freely.
I speak.
You hear.
We understand
Each other.
And what is heaven but this?
To know even as fully known.
But I speak the mystery of Christ and the church.
So I tracked down M. C. Kostek, a Velvet Underground scholar/fan. Over the course of several years, he has published about five fanzines for the VU entitled What Goes On?" and I was able to purchase a couple back issues. They arrived today...encased in an LP cover to Rush's Moving Pictures album. That, my friends, is the most amazing postal idea I've ever seen. Next time I go thrifting, I am totally going to stock up on LP covers.
This is a post about how tired I am. It is not edifying in any way.
I stole someone's parking spot at school when I arrived for fencing practice. I could plead lame excuses, but none really justify such lazy behavior. I suppressed pangs of guilt and compensated by vowing never to do it again.
A beginner at fencing practice asked if I was okay. "You look so sad. We're gonna be fencing in a couple of minutes!" My head hurt too much to really argue with him.
All we varsity members did was teach the beginners how to attack. But I still felt vaguely nauseated. I still feel vaguely nauseated and my head hurts.
I have no energy.
I don't feel like eating anymore.
So I don't cook.
I eventually eat unappetizing mish-mash.
And then I don't feel like eating anymore.
And I have no energy.
So I go to bed even though I can't sleep.
The sermon today was on Hebrews 12:18-24. Sundays, it seems, can be days of melancholy for me. Perhaps because the week catches up to me and I finally stop to remember all the things I had tried to forget.
A general sense of malaise today.
A heart empty.
Wanting and not wanting.
Afraid to ask.
Afraid to get.
Afraid to lose.
Desire pulling and pulled apart.
Leave Mt. Sinai
Where burdened hearts tremble.
Love lost in Law.
Failure inevitable.
Approach Mt. Zion
Where law-writ hearts love
In failure crucified.
When Love came,
It cautioned us:
Do not be afraid.
The tidings are of great joy.
Perfect love casts out fear.
So asking, waiting, losing, gaining: if Christ be on our side
Whom have I to fear?
Let love come or not come.
But fear, remain behind.
My new goal in life is to write more letters. Back in high school, I used to keep up correspondences with a variety of friends. The longest running commitment entailed a serial story. I once typed up all the story bits into one document and the manuscript still floats about the shelves of my closet back home. But once I got to college, my letter loyalty sputtered and then died out all together. Now I am faithful but to those who are faithful to me: namely, my middlest sister Anna and Jennifer Wharton, both of whom are extremely loyal folks and abhorant of the Technological Age.
On a higher level, Hackenfriend and I have a good thing going where we consistantly write half-letters to each other and then hand-deliver them when we see each other once a year...
But writing letters is a necessary art. For one, it forces me to improve my sadly degenerated hand-writing. And another bonus: stamps. You can't get colorful stamps or stickers on an email. And emoticons just don't cut it.
So I resolve to employ more snails this semester.
PS This new roommate of mine is divine. She knocked on my door around 11:45 and said: "I just made too much lunch. Would you like to join me?" And so we had chicken with a fabulous tomato and green bean sauce and mashed pototoes with the skins still mixed in. She really had to twist my arm on that one. And then I washed up and noticed she had bought new soap. Palmolive, my favorite. Perhaps I am displaying signs of triviality but it's the small things, man. It certainly is the small things in life that make this heart rejoice.
I missed my Dutch Reformed church over the summer. I missed the tall blondes who dwarf me even when I am wearing heels. I missed the Dutch peppermints (but not the occasional licorice) passed around during the sermon. I missed the apple farmers. I missed the soup and buns with Dutch cheese served as college student lunches. I missed being the "diversity" student....
I have decided that being a returning student is the way to go. You already know your way around the city. You know which profs to talk to. You understand the system. You already have a church with people who know your name and are glad to see you back.
Yes, I think I'll be a returning student for the rest of my life.
Visiting Covenant friends causes pain. Each of you has a piece of my heart and when I am with you, my heart and body are together again and I am happy. But when I leave--my heart is wrenched out, and the burning hole in my chest smokes like the bullet from a point-22. Later, distractions ease numbness and I miss my absent heart less.
This is all a little dramatic, but it helps. On a scale from koala bears to hurricanes, it helps like a raspberry chocolate smoothie and a long talk with Hackenfriend helps.
*************************************
Memorable quotes:
"I used to tell myself that there was more to life than boys. But then I decided-- there really isn't. Get over it." ~Rachel
"He really is nice. You just can't tell." ~Natalie
"I used to think I had discovered the secret to contentment. Then I realized I'd simply forgotten what I was missing." ~funke
"So what have you been up to lately that I haven't read about on your blog?" ~Evan
"Um...I woke up this morning. I haven't put that on there yet." ~funke
By the way, to people who read my blog: THANK YOU!!! For you, I did not have to perform the "this-is-what-I've-been-doing-for-the-past-two-years" song and dance routine. What a relief to be able to talk about something besides myself. Like gender. :)
--Sarah Funke
I do not think of myself as a woman who relies on quotation. I prefer to call it "word recycling."
So please realize that 80% of the material on this blog is recycled material (but 97% of all statistics are made up on the spot).
My sources?
Fully one quarter must surely come from The Importance of Being Ernest (either the play or the film).
Another quarter from Emma (either the book or the film).
Another quarter from Napoleon Dynamite, Charley's Aunt, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, Mikado, An Ideal Husband, Zoolander, Princess Bride, and Gaudy Night.
The last quarter is my own material. I quote myself sometimes to persuade people that what I am saying has already been said and need not be said again.
********************
Redrover and I once talked about motivations for writing. I am sure that no one gets half so much pleasure out of my blog as myself. That sounds narcissic. But what we meant is that even if no one else reads, we still have fun writing. It is the primary motivation for why I write. Well, that and hyperlinks. You can't do hyperlinks in a journal.
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Listening to The Name of this Band Is Talking Heads, it slowly occurred to me that the skips I heard derived their source from the badly damaged library copy in my player and were not part of the song itself. I have been listening to far too much experimental music lately.
***************
Mount Everest is back on the map. Or rather, back from vacation. Jeremy, I hope this clears the mystery up.
********************
Someday, I will say something theological or philosophical on this blog again. The problem is that I always think of theological discussions in the midst of the pastor's sermon, but by the time I find myself by a computer again, I have forgotten.
Ah.....I will come back and say something more coherant later. That is the real reason why I haven't said anything philosophical or theological. I have been writing too fast this week. Nine hour days in the office: too tired to think, only enough energy to recycle words.
Currently rocking the house at very high decibels: The Hunter by Blondie, an album interestingly good for dancing salsa and merangue.
I haven't done anything too drastic to my hairstyle since the time I was spray-painting my dad's snow blower, forgot to cover my head, and ended up with red streaks in my hair. But last night I highlighted my hair. Rather my mom highlighted my hair. She deserves 10,000 extra Mom of the Year points since the whole process took about 5 hours. We were aiming to retain my natural hair colour with blonde highlights. We accidentally did too many highlights and now it looks blonde with brown streaks. But I think I still like it. My mom says my hair hasn't been this light since I was four. I believe her. But honey-blonde with brown eyes is kind of an interesting combination.
See photo for details.
And since I am now a blonde, I was pleased and delighted to discover a positive blonde joke in my inbox this morning.
The Blonde and the Bank Loan
A blonde walks into a bank in New York and asks to see the Manager. She
says she's going to Hong Kong on business for two weeks and needs to
borrow $5,000. The Manager says the bank will need some kind of security for
the loan, so the blonde hands over the keys to a new Ferrari. The car
is parked on the street in front of the bank, she has the title and
everything checks out. The bank agrees to accept the car as collateral
for the loan.
The Manager and the tellers all enjoy a good laugh at the blonde for using a
$200,000 Ferrari as collateral against a $5,000 loan. An employee of the
bank then proceeds to drive the Ferrari into the bank's underground garage
and parks it there.
Two weeks later, the blonde returns, repays the $5,000 and interest which
comes to $15.41. The Manager says, "Miss, we are very happy to have had your
business, and this transaction has worked out very nicely, but we are a
little puzzled. While you were away, we checked you out and found that you
are a millionaires. What puzzles us is, why would you bother to borrow
$5,000?"
The blonde replies...
"Where else in New York can I park my car for two weeks for only $15.41
and expect it to be there when I return?"
One thing I realized about blogging is that it is like my diary: I need to write down all the important events in my life, otherwise I should probably forget all about them.
That said, I am resurrecting the blog before the week is out with the lame excuse that perhaps I'll try to manage a longer absence another time. I know: the typical addict's insistance that she can stop whenever she wants to, until she actually tries and has to come crawling back. Part of my reason for quitting cold turkey was a severe depression brought about by blogger comparison: I write too much, I thought. I've actually deleted posts because I had already written two or three entries for a particular day. But blogs are the only outlet I have for writing about whatever I want to write about, without any sort of coherant thread except the fact that this is my space.
But I digress. I have much to say after my enforced silence.
Monday night was a welcome home party for the Flying Dutchman. I was happy to see him back. After all, who else's brain can I pick for information on theories of cognition and linguistics?
Official relationship announcements were made at this group gathering of CoSpgs people: besides announcement of courtship between two members of our little circle, we also got the official statement that Flying Dutchman has a W & M girlfriend (I've seen her on facebook and she seems pretty cool...as much of an academiafreak as her boyfriend). I'm kind of relieved when some of my guyfriends get girlfriends; it saves on awkward conversations with Inquisitive Others. Without the tangible reality of nonpossibility represented by the fact that they are "attached," my protestations that we are "just friends" ring somewhat hollow. Not that I really got too many inquiries in this particular case, but in general, I find it easier to be friendly to members of the opposite sex when they are attached. I think this general awkwardness has something to do with reading too much Elizabeth Elliot when in high school and applying her principles far too legalistically in my life. I know that I've treated some persons of whom I thought the world with cold distance. A good rule of thumb, though, goes back to the "easier to be friendly to those with girlfriends" scenario: would I treat them any differently if they did have a significant other? And since usually I do more for those outside the realm of potentiality, I have been freed up in other areas. I hope. Maybe I am just in denial.
Part of this freedom has to do with a realistic facing up to my singleness. I used to think that I didn't need lots of guyfriends, just one serious boyfriend. But what if a girl never has a boyfriend? She wakes up to realize she has cut her heart off from half the world. It's sexist in one sense. And maybe my heart's been broken because I let it feel. But the heart picks itself back up and beats again. In PE we learned that a muscle must be broken down before it can rebuild itself in stronger tissue. Maybe that is metaphorically true of loving others.
on the subject of my name:
memo.
as many of you could not have failed to notice, i have been traversing the internet world under the guise of my last name. and several of you have begun to refer to me by said handle. however, i have but one request to make of all those who adopt this self-promoted nickname.
please spell it with a lowercase f.
the capital F seems so angular and forbidding.
the lowercase f is so agile and forgiving.
i am funke.
that is all.
pray continue.
Yes! It's time for another article at Suite101.com, this time on music by one of my favorite composers, Stravinsky (although I guess I write on all my personal favorites...).
Also, Bob totally just nailed my Myers-Briggs personality: INTP. I was kind of frustrated with Myers-Briggs, because I always came out as something completely wrong, or else sort of close, or else just...strange. But Bob seems to know me a bit better than I know myself, which I think is probably one of his strengths (knowing people). This profile description is so accurate, it's scary. How did they have time to follow me around???
"This fascination for logical wholes and their inner workings is often expressed in a detachment from the environment, a concentration where time is forgotten and extraneous stimuli are held at bay. Accomplishing a task or goal with this knowledge is secondary." When I was a child, my mother was afraid I would burn down the house about my ears and only notice when I was already dead. Smoke would literally be pouring from a very burned pot on the stove while I nonchalantly turned pages in whatever book happened to absorbing all my attention at the time...I've arrived at functions without shoes because I was holding a book as I got into the car and simply forgot to put them on...when I learned how to drive I didn't know where anything was even though I'd lived in Colorado Springs for 10 years already..sometimes my family has to say my name five or six times before I snap to attention with a dazed "huh?"...I never mind waiting in doctor's offices or in long lines because I amuse myself with my own thoughts...
Here's another profile. Less close than the first one, but there are some accuracies in there.
I think that I am probably the only N in my family...
Everyone else is far too practical and/or concrete.
I think that Anna is very much an ESFJ...
I am highly tempted to say Christa is an ESTJ: it for the most part fits her practical, administrative gifts.
My mom is most likely an ESFP.
My dad...still thinking...probably STJ something, but capable of N-ness...
And I just want to surmise a guess that the Hackenbizzl is an INFP...
Bored last night, I took a few photos of my wardrobe and myself. Perhaps it is narcissic to take photos of oneself, but I didn't really have any other subjects handy, and I am not so creative when it comes to still life.
Disregarding the convention of captions, I will leave it to the viewer to determine which is the wardrobe and which is me.
EDIT: I finally figured out how to change the spacing for the text in my banner. Now my titles stay where I want them to stay. The fact that they seemed to wander all over was always one of those flaws that I meant to fix, but never had the motivation to invest much time in. However, as I was fiddling around with the banner on Brae's blog, I inadvertantly stumbled across the secret. So now my blog looks prettier, too. I'm happy.
I think I write best when I'm lonely.
My parents are beautiful. The doorbell rang today and these showed up. After several amusing attempts at self-photography, I managed to preserve these floral beauties for all posterity in a somewhat decent format.
Franz Ferdinand AND Death Cab for Cutie are playing in the SAME concert this April in Toronto. I need to figure out if I am going to be here or not. Maybe I should just buy the ticket and worry about the travel details later.
Edit: So NO tickets are available! Sold Out signs proliferate!
MAD. MAD. MAD. There's some dyslexic cussing for you...
Speaking of Death Cab, I've also been listening to The Postal Service over and over... I.....am thinkin' it's a sign...
| You Should Date A Swede! |
 It's more about a steady partnership for you, not unrestrained falling Your Swede will give you the unwavering love you crave While making up some mean pancakes and meatballs on the side! |
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| ||||||||||
| You fit in with: Buddhism Your ideals mostly resemble those of the Buddhist faith. Spirituality is the most important thing in your life. You strive to live by all of your ideals, and live a very intellectually focused life. 20% spiritual. 40% faith-oriented. | ||||
| ||||
| Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com |
 Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com |
sarah funke will have to write: |
I will not lie about my multiple personalities |
'What will you have to write on the chalk board?' at QuizGalaxy.com |
| Your walk is: Curiously Proper  Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com |
| sarah funke -- [adjective]: Smelling like turnips at all times 'How will you be defined in the dictionary?' at QuizGalaxy.com |
| ||||||||||
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I was fated to love the guitar, especially the acoustical guitar. It's my mother's fault, really. She played the guitar in high school and college. After I was born, I slept in the open guitar case (not on a regular basis, but we do have photographic evidence that once, at least, the case formed my crib). My mom didn't have much leisure while we were growing up, but her chorus book and acoustic guitar provided much of my childhood background music.
I was briefly interested in taking up guitar at one point, but F Major and my small hands quarreled, and I left the guitar to take up with the ukelele instead. My grandfather had given me an instrument he no longer played. I figured out my own chords (good piano background). I never became excellent on the instrument, but I get by, once composing a birthday song for a friend's 18th day of reckoning.
I can handle cheesy, sentimental guitar music much better than I appreciate the same on piano. Most of the music I like has guitar of some sort in it, but more often than not, the acoustic guitar that harmonized my youth is the dominant sound.
If the 19th century was the century of the piano, then the 20th century can perhaps be called the century of the guitar, the new instrument of the everyman. More portable than a piano, but with its capability to produce chords and multiple lines, the guitar accompanies the social music of our day (although the piano still forms an important staple).
The Myers-Briggs personality test has me befuddled...
I bring you the Funke-Funke personality type, which would never suggest such bizarre occupations as embalming or correction officer. (I'm sorry, Career Development. That test we took Freshman year still has me scratching my head). This particular personality type works only for the originator. Please do not try applying this to oneself at home....
The Absent-Minded Social Performing Professor:
Work hard to please the people I admire. I have an opinion regarding everyone, but if I don't like you, I usually keep that to myself. Unless you are just overwhelmingly obnoxious. Then I tell my best friend. I don't warm up to sharing truly personal stuff at the drop of the hat. Thus, people tell me stuff because I listen. I hate confrontation. I hate interrupting people. I hate demanding things. Fear of failure is probably my biggest weaknesses.
Competitive streak that I can usually suppress unless pitted against overtly competitive people. Some intense moments! I crave a thrill, but usually in a controlled environment: no jumping out of airplanes without a parachute for me.
Yes, rules are important, but that is because of my competitive streak. If there were no rules, then there would be no standards for judging, and I would never know if I had excelled or not. I tend towards the rush-up-the-mountain-we'll-look-at-the-view-from-the-top kind of goal-orientation. People who take forever to make decisions or to catch up frustrate me, unless I happen to respect them or admire them a lot (such as my sister Anna). Then I learn from them.
I hate being late. When external circumstances sap my time away and cause a late arrival, it stresses me no end.
Sense of humor: one-liner, usually referential (and thus sometimes misunderstood---not every has read all the same books, watched the same movies, or been indoctrinated in the same philosophy courses, it seems!), sometimes borderline caustic, often introduced in tense situations as a way of bringing perspective, many times esoteric, even absurd, but generally geared towards pleasing people (making them laugh). If I am ever subversive, it is through the disguise of humor. The people I find funny are those with a snappy wit.
Need people. Must have them round me. Must please them. Must have confirmation. I work harder if you tell me you like what I did then if you tear it to shreds. But I also work harder if you tell me that it could be so much better if I did x as well. A healthy balance between positive and constructive criticism works best for motivating me.
Love the esoteric, the abstract, the artworld. But I love it when things makes sense. And I will make things make sense, even if they really don't. Rationality and explicability appeal to me, but often I want to have my cake and eat it, too, viewing the world in paradigms of paradox. I like looking for sameness (how things are related), but appreciate the distinction of diversity.
I would never survive in industry, because the mechanical repetition bores me, and I wander off into day dreams that create severe safety hazards.
Decision-making is often gut reaction, rationalized later. The decisions I've been most happy about were the ones I reasoned out later. The carefully planned choices are usually the ones I ended up changing down the road.
Fear of sentimentality. Rip my heart out. Don't make it bleed painfully to death.
Most attracted to people with introverted existential angst, with a creativity that oozes into everything they touch.
I have been inspired to recount my musical memoirs, or musical biography, rather. Perhaps one might even call the following account a genealogy of sound:
My earliest memories of music involve asking curious questions regarding my mom's music (Mom, why are those women's boots going to walk all over me? Why is Jack hitting the road?) or else listening to my mom sing popular songs with the words changed to fit the situation at hand (imagine my surprise when I discover these songs later in life, usually with quite different words--"Wait a minute. That's not how it goes...."). Rather than answer her children's curious questions regarding obscure lyrics, my mom simply stopped listening to pop music. Instead, Psalty the Singing Songbook, Colby (a singing computer, I vaguely recall), and Music Machine became standard listening fare for the family....in addition to Children's Guide to the Orchestra type of material. Classical music with plots was especially attractive to me: Peter and the Wolf, The Nutcracker. I joined the church choir when I was 11 or 12, mostly because all my friends were in choir, and music was a social thing for me. Music, at a young age, sparked involvement: dancing or singing along. I rarely just listened.
About the time of junior high, the popular singer in my circle was Amy Grant. And I listened to quite a lot of Amy in those days, as well as Mary Rice Hopkins. You'll notice that I never ventured beyond Christian or classical genres at this point. (Edit--I take this statement back. Perhaps because of my mom's theatre background, or perhaps because of the theatrical tendencies of some good friends, the material from musicals also formed an important staple of this period in my life: Camelot, Fiddler on the Roof, Sound of Music, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, Phantom of the Opera, The King and I, Finian's Rainbow, The Wizard of Oz, My Fair Lady....the list goes on.)
However, in junior high, I also began to take piano lessons. Becoming immersed in a predominantly classical repertoire, I turned snobby connoisseur: CCM was trash. No more Amy Grant. I sneered at Rebecca St. James' lack of vocal clarity. Steven Curtis Chapman and Michael W. Smith were innane. Newsboys were edgy (although I think I was attracted to their quirky lyrics even back then--now I will freely admit that I like them). I admired Twila Paris, but rarely listened to her alone (we had different music for family listening and for individual listening). I knew better, because I had TASTE. And so I listened to my Chopin and my Bach. 20th century music, for all I cared, might as well have been composed by a party of cats dancing on the piano, or by an orchestra falling down the stairs. Copland I could handle. But the rest lacked Beauty. Somewhere along the line, listening began to involve aesthetic rapture (I don't know how to describe this, except as the Romantic notion of Sublime).
I also liked stuff that was "older": Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby. Classic jazz like Ellington. But I never really explored much beyond that.
Then I went to Covenant. I was a music major. I met people who actually liked Stravinsky. These were intelligent folks. What was up? I listened with their ears. I embraced 12 tone rows and prepared piano. Modernity was suddenly hot stuff. Post-modernity (Glass and Reich) even better. But I was still running in High Art and Intelligentsia circles. All these composers conformed to my idea of TASTE. Listening involved intelligent comprehension of structure and form (or subtle subversions of those forms).
I made non-music major friends (yes, I had to double major in order to do this). What did they listen to? Suddenly, I was immersed in the electronica minimalism of Radiohead. I felt ignorant. "What else was out there?" I wondered. I asked. I got answers. And thus I broke into the indy scene: Giant Sand, Chocolate Genius, some Belle and Sebastien, White Stripes, Sufjan, Decemberists.....I ate it up.
My mom rediscovered her high school years and helped me find old new sounds as she returned to her "pop" repertoire: Simon and Garfunkel, Cat Stevens, Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young, The Supremes, Gladys Knight and the Pips. I had heard so much of this stuff before....it came flooding back. At this time, I also got some Elton John: my dad, who claims that his only musical talent is in having musical kids and who never listens to anything but mariachi bands on his own, could name nearly every single song on the "Best of Elton John" CD I had picked up from the library....by the second measure.
And somewhere in there, I discovered the Beatles. They made me dance. They made me think. They made me love and cry. I felt as if I, too, had been taken by storm, though that historical Ed Sullivan show had occurred years before I was even born.
I went exploring further.....Led Zeppelin, Jefferson Airplane, David Bowie, Nirvana (although, I could only handle some of their stuff--"From the Muddy Banks of the Wishkah" was too abrasive for me. I did like "Nirvana," though).
Post-college, I made more music-loving friends: Nightwish, Metallica, Apocolyptica, Franz Ferdinand, and Johnny Cash ended up on my CD shelf. I was introduced to Rammstein, but never really got into them.
My sister suggested Avril Lavigne. Now, my youngest sister and I have very different musical identities. I consider her stuff to be too mainstream and "poppish" for my taste...but I gave Lavigne a listen. Now I own her stuff, too.
I wonder, now, as I am innundated with post-modern philosophy, whether or not TASTE is over-rated.....can music be good even if it is only fun? Or must it be well-crafted? Are our decisions of taste less than objective? How many times have I said something was good because someone else told me it was first? And I still can't get into country music because it reminds me of hicksville (with which I'd rather not be associated. I am a snob yet, you see). Do we have to listen to music in order to appreciate it? Or can music serve a vital role as the background panels of our sonic existance? The stuff that fills the malls, the restaurants, the host-and-hostesses' living room--that is the music that intrigues me now. Music is everywhere: why is it there? What is it there for?* Why do we lock some of it up in concert halls or seal it under indy labels and call THAT the good stuff?
*(And why the heck can we not get ringtones for our digital watches? :P )
An IM conversation with a friend whose taste gravitates toward the Romantic Sublime. We usually disagree on aesthetics, but in this conversation.....
*************
Me: So I had a Romantic moment the other day.
Friend: Good. I am glad to hear that your soul isn't completely dead. :p
Me: My soul is silly.
Me: So I hide it most of the time.
Me: But every once in a while, it emerges.
Friend: So what was this Romantic moment?
Me: It snowed on Friday. I walked home in the snow. Everything was so still and peaceful and calm and expansive and I wondered how there could be so much beauty.
Me: And then my hair sparkled.
Me: From the snow.
Friend: !
Friend: You are a poet!
Me: ?
Friend: Those are things that poets would notice, that's all.
Friend: But you probably convinced yourself that it was all meaningless and illusion and went home and listened to Cage. I know how you are.
Me: Well. Er. Yeah. It just seems rather silly to say stuff like that.
Friend: Perhaps because words can't adequately describe it.
Me: Yes and no.
Me: Poetry has remained popular for a reason....
And so forth...a rambling conversation on the difference between 20th century poetry and Byron....word play, imagery, etc.
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Is there a disjunct between words and feelings? Are words really inadequate to describe ourselves? Perhaps because of the fall and even Babel, we can't correlate our words and world perfectly any more. And yet, I sometimes wonder if I am only experiencing "the sublime" because the poets tell me I should feel a certain way. If I had never read poetry, would I ever feel anything? And is feeling really connected to the soul, anyway? Hmmm. I probably ought to undergo some Therapy for Those Overly Analytical Persons Who Can't Just Enjoy the World without Wondering Why. Maybe this is why I don't describe my feelings that often. They get lost somewhere in the shuffle.
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A treasured compliment I have received was "Sarah, you look like Geniveve," given once when I was wearing flowers in my hair.
Flowers in my hair.
Ribbons down my back.
And the desire to be beautiful.
All there. I confess.
On the one hand, this seems sentimental and silly. On the other hand, Romantic. I realize that in this extended entry I have wandered a bit, conflating Romantic with romantic, the sublime with the concrete. But I believe that they feed off each other and ultimately , as C.S. Lewis might say, are to be found in Christ. And yet, the symbols, though lesser, can bring great joy.
All things hold together in Him.
The igloos were beginning to melt, but fortunately, a dusting of snow yesterday and today set all that to rights. The temperature finally dropped below 0 (don't forget we freeze in centigrade here). A band stuck out the inclement weather to provide the student centre with some salsa (?--maybe it was mamba..I don't know my latino music very well)...battle the cold with hot music, I say.
I walked home in the snow. I liked the frosty look, but discovered that taking a picture of the backside of one's head is more difficult than one might think. I apologize for the glare in this picture, but it was the best of the lot (i.e., my head was actually in the picture).
I got a camera for my birthday and am still having fun figuring out how to use it:
The shelf over my bed.
Fragment of poster on my wall: Thom Yorke (Radiohead).
Fragment of another poster: John Lennon (Beatles).
Fragment of a teatowel hanging on wall: University of Oxford Seal.
One of my fellow graduate students is Chinese. Her name is Snow. Sitting next to her in class is always an aesthetic experience. As Brae has noted, the Chinese ARE gracefulness and beauty.
Yesterday, Snow gave a presentation on Edward Said and his analysis of Orientalism, or the Idea of the East that the West creates for itself. Besides feeding us drinks and sweets (rice paper fruit paste cookies, on the one hand, and fortune cookies--orientalized food--on the other), she gave everyone a name card with our names in Chinese, and a postcard with a picture that depicted some aspect she had tried to match with our personalities. Mine was a picture of a graceful Chinese woman, in pen-and-ink. "'Sarah' [the name] reminds me of Sharon Stone," Snow said, "so I gave you a sexy and beautiful picture."
I was extremely touched.
Some days you just want people to tell you that if you jumped off a cliff, they would miss you. I call this George Bailey Syndrome (from It's a Wonderful Life).
From a post-it note affixed to the wall above my mom's sewing machine:
"Stressed" spelled backwards is "desserts."
On the same post-it note, in my dad's characteristic scrawl:
"Happiness" spelled differently is "muffin."
Learning how to serve is learning how to live. Dying precedes living. What happens to the self when it dies? The shrinking self outgrows bounds, spills into life for other selves.
The system restrains individuality, but can you really stand out without a tradition?
"Take me out of me into...a new way to be human. To a new way to be human. You're a new way to be human." I like Switchfoot's portrayal of the Incarnation and the life of sanctification.
My friend Ruth Moon is a genius. Between the two of us, we solved all my problems regarding how to return to Oxford at an affordable rate: I simply need to find a sexy Brit to marry, and then I can float through the system of higher education by virtue of my highly subsidizable status (as UK citizen). The plan is flawless, one truly inspired by the fates themselves.
So, if any of you happen to know of any eligible UK bachelors out there (Scottish most highly preferred)....
I am reading Foucault. Possibly talking on the phone. Trying to find my perspective, which went AWOL sometime this evening...
*I went to campus today, fully intending to go to the grocery store on the way home.
*I walked home instead of taking the bus.
*I passed by the used bookstore before I reached the grocery store.
*I entered the used bookstore.
*I left the used bookstore.
*I never made it to the grocery store.
*My wallet was lighter nonetheless.
Conclusion?: you decide what happened....
In other news, it's strange to google "Dovstoyevski" and have your blog come up within the first five matches...
"The antithesis runs through it" is a stupid phrase.
It makes sense.
But then I end up believing everything.
Which is the same as nothing.
So it boils down to this:
Believe something.
Even if you're wrong.
Post-modernism, I love you.
Post-modernism, I hate you.
We should see less of each other.....
I realized this morning that I don't like explaining things sometimes. So I spend time online watching links to Nightwish music videos that a friend sends me, and then discussing existentialism and a theology of pain. This instead of talking to my roommate who is a biology student. I have created a ghetto of Christian humanities into which I let only a select few, those who already share a basic foundation of philosophy, music, or theology backgrounds. Self: Flee Thine inward tendencies!
The floor is slanted. So I've instituted a nightly ritual of shoving my mattress back onto the bedframe before retiring for the evening. Otherwise, I might end up in not-bed in the morning.
Sometimes I use my blog to wade through muddled thoughts, but then I encounter the crisis of what to do with the entries later. I usually unpublish them, storing them in the dark recesses of "Draft" statushood.
Which leads me to the crisis of figuring out the telos of this blog. What's it all about? It's my blog. I guess I can do with it as I want. I avoid politics, considering that enough of you out there excel in the opinion-making business. I benefit from you, but lack any desire to join the ranks. The topic of this blog generally happens to be some sort of napoleonic "whatever I feel like doing, Gosh!" Ego-centric, perhaps. Or maybe only a result of the egocentric predicament. I have the odd sensation, though, of being outside looking in....at....me? Is this me in this blog? Obviously I wrote it. And yes, if people really want to know something about me, they can deduce it from these entries. A scary thought. One loses control, because anyone can read them. Indeed, it seems anyone does.
Thus, one gets ideas of what one ought to be like, and tries to project that image, spouting explanations of "blog privacy" and "it's selfish to drivel," but in the end, I realize that my rationales all boil down to self-protection.
On the other hand, I run into the fear of changing my blogging style just to keep up with the hip trend of Cyber Vulnerability. The following is an excerpt from a comment I left on a friend's blog, regarding honesty in the blogworld:
"Someone once told me that honesty is something we expect from others, but rarely give ourselves. I don't mind being honest--but only when appropriate. I've had friends who told me everything so excessively that I felt as though I was their blanket they carried everywhere...and I was getting pretty soggy. So I decided not to be quite so open myself. But then I find that other friends want to know about you and find closed lips hurtful. As in all of life, there is a balance somewhere. Finding it in the blog world, where you have little idea regarding your true readership, is difficult."
So, I have decided that if I write something personal, then I will place it in the extended entry. Somehow, adding an extra step of access gives me the delusional feeling that only people who particularly care about reading what I wrote will venture forward to the finish.
See Moot Thoughts and Musings for an explanation of what to do. I am too lazy to do hypertext, so use the link in the sidebar.
10 years ago. I was 13 and in junior high. My family had just joined 4-H and bought a herd of sheep. We delivered the lambs ourselves. Some friends of friends sponsored us with two friendly llamas, one of which would eventually become mine. Junior high and high school were awkward periods of my life, and working with a llama was therepeutic. The two of us won Grand Champion in the Obstacle Division at the County Fair that year. My llama was the only one who would walk through a puddle of water, just for me.
5 years ago. I was a freshman at Covenant College. Meeting people was intimidating, but Bekah Tuggy and Jenny Brown soon became dependable, steadfast friends. Somewhat legalistic, somewhat unsure of myself, I was stretched a lot that year. (Although sophmore year would be the worst.)
1 year ago. I graduated with a double major in music and philosophy and had to decide what to do next. I google searched "Music Criticism Graduate Programs" and found McMaster University in Hamilton, Ontario. My family took a trip to the UK to visit friends and The Promised Land. For the summer, I worked odd jobs for my dad, jobs which mostly included hewing down acres of thistles with our Kubota tractor.
Yesterday. Met the faculty member for whom I will be TAing. Got a Canadian bank account. Rode the buses. Attended an Academic Integrity class. Watched The Importance of Being Earnest.
5 snacks I enjoy. Chocolate chips. Peanut butter pretzels. Tea. Lime tortilla chips. Gorp.
5 songs I know all the words to. I am going to interpret "all" to mean roughly 80-90%. 1) "O Where Are the Simple Joys of Maidenhood?" from Camelot (and the other songs from that musical as well as Sound of Music and Fiddler on the Roof). 2) "Hello Goodbye" by the Beatles. 3) "O Sacred Head Now Wounded." 4) "Now someday it may happen" from The Mikado. 5) "How to Disappear Completely" by Radiohead.
5 things I'd do with $100 million. 1) Create more scholarships for music and philosophy students at Covenant College. 2) Fund more theater projects at Covenant. 3) Improve the library's collection, especially the sound recordings. Improve the library building. 4) Move to Oxford and study the rest of my life away. 5) Fund Compassion International. Fund mission trips and cross-cultural experiences.
5 places I'd run away to. 1) Switzerland/Austria: Vienna, Innsbruck, Geneva. 2) Boston. 3) Colorado. 4) Oxford. 5) Southern California.
5 things I'd never wear. 1) Leggings. 2) A toupee. 3) A cowboy belt buckle. 4) Leopard skin anything. 5) A thong [should I even say that on a public site?].
5 favorite TV shows. 1) Gilligan's Island! 2) Leave It to Beaver. 3) This show called SquareOne that I watched religiously as a child and that featured a miniseries called Mathnet in which Kate Monday had to solve mathematical crimes... 4) Jeopardy! 5) Fraser
5 biggest joys. 1) Having interesting conversations with interesting people. 2) Being introduced to new music. 3) A used bookstore. 4) Getting a letter in the mail. 5) Introducing other people to new music.
5 favorite toys. 1) My computer. 2) Lincoln logs. 3) Legos. 4) Old dolls with trunks and umbrellas. 5) Dollhouses and miniatures.
5 people I want to pass this on to. Tuggy. Hackenstar. Academic Prostitution. Bob. Evan.
Surely someone can guess which character I am representing in the picture two or three entries prior to this one?
...The original hangs on my wall. I found it as I was moving in. The context was a Halloween Alternative Party hosted by my church. I am standing on the stairs of my house prior to departing for said party. Driving in spats is more difficult than one thinks. Especially if the "spats" are just pieces of paper taped to a pair of black clogs. Of the rest of the accessories, my personal favorite was the walking stick, or rather, a 3-iron pilfered from my dad's little used set. I leave it to my investigative-minded friends to determine whose identity I have stolen, what?
I'd like to become an eccentric old spinster who chases donkeys off her driveway and provides shelter for misplaced royalty and orphan boys. [Maybe I'll even correct the grammar of unruly children as I reminisce about archaic punctuation practices such as the hyphen.] Indeed, I would much rather end up as a second Miss Trotwood, but I have a feeling that Miss Haversham is my lot in life if I don't expunge some cynicism from my outlook on life.
Romanticism...I don't know what to do with it. Some days I am the brothers Cheeryble and other days I am nothing more than Ebenezer Scrooge.
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[I have also noticed, from using various other computers, that the layout of this blog is very much dependent on the browser used. I renounce any responsibility for layout quirks encountered while using Internet Explorer. Use Safari if you can.]
Expectations. Reality. Disillusionment. Discovery. Hope. Affection.
...Love...
[I am refering to moving to a new city and developing geographical attachments, but I suppose applicability could be farther reaching than that.]
Ahh. The things I do in secret...
Warning: expect to read lots of sighs in between the lines (sighs being a semiological indication of Romance).
Songs that I find Romantic...(cue sigh).
*And I Love Her...the Beatles
*Sail to the Moon...Radiohead
*Engine Driver...the Decemberists
*Half of a man...Chocolate Genius
*Wachet Auf...Bach
*Jupiter...Holst
This will do for now: ecletic, I suppose, and yet, I think there is a unifying element nonetheless...
I have decided that people who are effusively complimentary 1) really don't impress me and 2) actually scare me off.
Why is this so? Well, first off, when someone tells me repeatedly statements that run along the lines of "what would the world do without you?", I start to wonder "Who the heck are you talking about?" Familiarity may breed contempt, and having lived with myself for 23 years might put me at a disadvantage, but really, come on, no one is ever THAT great. Thus, I start to distrust the truthfulness of the overabundant complimenter.
However, on the flip side, if they honestly think that I am so great, then they obviously don't know me well at all. They are building a fantasy friend instead of getting to know the real one. Such grandiose expectations tend to make me nervous. A pedestal is a prison. One is catalogued and shelved, distanced for easy comprehensibility and admiration. Indeed, only a mere whim distinguishes the pedestal from the pillory.
Life is very strange.
While the major part of the day keeps me upbeat, cheerful, vibrant, positive, happy, and Tiggerish, the close of the day takes a serious toll on my emotional well-being. Minor problems that have been successfully ignored during the daylight hours suddenly, like Clara's toy nutcracker, swell into larger-than-life proportions. Insignificance, worry, and depression swarm round me like giant rats. I can't handle them all, so I go to bed.
The morning light sweeps all cares away. "What was I so worried about?" I wonder. Carpe diem. I advance to battle all obstacles with mounting optimism.
The music of the night plays a disturbing melody; the one who listens fades into a phantom shadow. I will sing for daybreak.
I just watched Phantom of the Opera last Sunday night; hence, the source of my subject title.
The following was a comment I posted on Evan Donovan's blog in response to his rationale for frequent blogging:
I empathize with your desire not to be forgotten by Covenant-ites. When feeling especially lonely for friends back in Chattanooga, I send out random, bizarre emails. My hope is that by cluttering up peoples' inboxes, I will be remembered, even if the duration of memory lasts only as long as it takes for a reader to click the "delete message" icon.
The ancient Egyptians built their pyramids; I, too, must pursue immortality through incessant memorial-building. To the crumbling stone of ancient temples, I add the fading ruins of comments strewn across the univers
