"see this film, it only had one scene. my recollection fades - it may just have been a dream."

Hi, my loves.

So I am a little bit obsessive lately about my professors. How did they get to be professors? I wonder. How come they're so good at what they do? How can I get into grad school and then be a rocking professor? Out of curiosity, last week (due to an attempt to link to a Daniel Finch website in my last Jesus College blog post), I googled all my art professors to see if they had websites. I learned all sorts of things, like which professors have the same names as dead British earls, and which professors have the same name as famous movie stars. I even found some of the websites I was looking for.

I get excited when professors (like Matt Roth) have facebook. Or, if any of them kept blogs, I would so be there. Barring that, an attractive, cleanly designed professorial website is pretty rocking too. The art faculty does a pretty good job, although some lack current work, and some didn't have a website at all.

Compared to the English faculty, their websites positively rock my world. Of course, with words it is a little different, because by posting them on the internet you are technically publishing them, and with creative work that can lead to lack of later paying publication. However, I still think English faculty should have websites. They could provide links to publications in which their work appears, particularly if it appears in an online journal or magazine. They could indubitably blog, perhaps about their creative process or as a form of sketching, and their blogs would indubitably be well-crafted. They could provide a photograph of themselves and their curriculum vitae. English professors, however, should not design websites themselves (or, as I sadly discovered, they end up horrendously ugly).

So, here, for your enjoyment if you are curious, are a few of my favorites among professorial websites I discovered (these are, actually, the ones not under massive construction or lacking current work. . . um, and of course, they exist):

Ted Prescott (my favorite in terms of color and layout)
Dave Kasparek (This site has its quirks. . . but I love the ability to select a project and simply scroll through images of it on the right, versus selecting thumbnail images. Also, the sheer quantity of his work displayed here dwarfs anyone else.)
and Don Forsythe (I wish that it contained new work. . . but it is a little bit under construction.)

I am. . . waiting. Yes, waiting is a good word. Waiting and trying to clear my life so that when this semester starts there will not be things hanging over my head.

"there's a movie - normally i'd call that a film - but it moved me. . . and that didn't rhyme with film."

Today is fall again, or close. Do you know those days when you can hardly sit still? When running would be a relief, even though I hate running, because at least if I ran I would be able to be out there, seeing and feeling the wind and listening to bugs (even though I hate bugs). Or do you know those days when every bit of sun that touches your skin delights, and every breath is a joy, and even tiredness and hunger feel great because you are suddenly feeling in tune with your body?

Do you ever wake up surprised? It isn't at anything particular. . . just surprise, welling up from the collar bone and into the eyes, so every sound and bit of light registering on your brain pathways elates.

That is the closest I can get to describing fall.

Last week, I wasn't ready for classes to start. This week. . . I am still not ready for classes to start. But I am kind of excited to be in the studio. I am excited to see all my friends again. I am excited to get feedback on my ideas from my professors. And I'm tired of waiting, you know? If it's going to be hard, I'd rather start it right now, while I am feeling capable.

This weekend exactly suited me. I disconnected from pretty much everything I didn't want to do (answer e-mails, blog, clean the apartment, run errands). I mapped out, at least in my own mind, the likely trouble points of the semester, and I am already making decisions about what is important to me; I know, at least in theory, which of my classes are priorities, which areas are likely to be problems in terms of maintaining my mental health, and what my goals are in terms of keeping my relationships healthy.

I'll tell you another thing that suited me about this weekend. I got white pine! I found a board whose dimensions and grain I really liked, and I started carving (thanks to Greg's table-saw skills). I'm relieved to find that Greg & I can be in the same space working at the same time without (at least on my end) a sense of conflict. And come to find out, when I get over myself and stop being afraid to discuss my ideas with Greg. . . well, I feel positive about the results. I hate to discuss my ideas with anyone before I have examples to show them (although I did change this habit a little bit in Orvieto from necessity), and I felt that discussing them in that infant stage with Greg would be particularly complicated. I'm not saying it will be OK every time. . . but. . . I'm keeping an open mind about bouncing ideas around with him in the future. Between the two of us, this idea refined to something I'd be quite excited to see in a gallery. And you know, not only would I be excited to see it in a gallery, it's something that I feel is me, authentic. I never had anything authentic to say with art before this past spring semester. Do you know how freeing it is for your voice to find you, and for it to sound loudly?

And even the end of the weekend, coming back late last night and walking into my deserted apartment. . . well, even that was good, because I wasn't afraid of it. (Italy really did help me in a lot of ways.)

So that was my weekend, loves. How was yours? Does anyone know their projected arrival times on campus yet? Or is that way too far in the future to bother with?

"i am an opera singer, i stand on painted tape. it tells me where i'm going, and where to throw my cape."

Once again it's Friday! That means you could, if you were so inclined, check here to see my latest Jesus College blog post. Y'know, just on an optional basis.

Talking to Professor Perrin and Daniel Finch got me thinking. Well, honestly, it got me panicking a little bit, in among tons of excitement and inability-to-sit-still-because-I-can't-wait-to-start-work-on-senior-ish-things. So you know what I did? I sat down and wrote a manifesto for myself. I taped it to the front of my sketchbook, and I'm also planning on posting one over my desk. I'm also posting it here (sorry that it sounds so PR-ish. . . a side-effect of my summer job!), so the rest of you can help hold me to it. . . .

Manifesto for 2006-2007:

1. To be transparent and open, challenging myself to understand, invent, and use my voice,
2. By the end of the year to make work that earns the respect of my peers and mentors,
3. To behave in a way in the studio and classroom which promotes communal creativity and earns the respect of my peers and mentors (aka. . . don't have breakdowns and cry in class. Don't feel threatened by how far behind everyone else I am. Just take every opportunity to learn and encourage, and take criticism with a willing heart),
4. To know myself and to not be afraid (to stand up for myself and claim the things I need in order to be a healthy and happy individual, like enough sleep, adequate meals, social time, and the right to reject suggestions that don't mesh with me as the person I want to be when I grow up),
5. To live as though I were full of faith, even when I am thoroughly in the dark,
6. To give voice to "the middle" - those things which bridge "high" cerebral & ultimate experiences/causes and the "low" mundane myopic details that refuse to catch the attention (these are the things I'm beginning to define as worth giving voice to).

Do I feel vaguely like a communist? Despite that I wrote a manifesto. . . no. But good try.

Yay the weekend! I will be spending it, once again, at Greg's house. So expect no posting. I'm gonna take advantage of this as the last really calm weekend I'm likely to have for the next three months. . . .

And today, for your viewing delight and as preparation for the weekend's joys, I give you many youtube linkages:

Andy Warhol Not Rolling a Joint

Like old cold war informational movies? I highly recommend Duck & Cover (brought to my attention by Andrew). It's almost 10 minutes long, but so worth every second. . . .

Also, since of course Duck & Cover is so ridiculous. . . there's Duck & Cover 2007 (A Parody).

Have a good weekend, loves. Can't wait to see you all again when you move in next weekend!

this is that old dream i told you about, twenty years ago

You know, yesterday an odd thing happened. I was sitting at work, working my way through a quote database, listening to Badly Drawn Boy - whom I really actually love, but maybe especially One Plus One is One - and I felt content. Really good things happened yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. The rain made me feel mopey for a while, but yesterday. . . I actually loved my physical surroundings for the first time since Italy, I felt that there was something authentically worth looking at.

This weather reconciles me.

And I'll tell you something about this soft-edged world: when it rains, when it is overcast and misty and gray, when only the ground immediately touching my feet feels solid, I wonder if I could reach far enough so that my own outlines start to blur and fade into that mystery, that other-dimension, the place this spark on the green leaves comes from, where rain kisses my skin into sudden live awareness. Everything is mutable here.

I talked to Jenn a couple of days ago, and suddenly realized why I'm so attracted to humorous or quirky pieces of art. Wasn't it Tolstoy in Anna Karenina who said "Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way"? Well, this is my thought (and it has almost nothing to do with his): everyone is serious in much the same ways, but everyone is funny in their own ways. So, wishing to develop my own little sort of brilliance so that I can be an artist someday, it's no wonder that I am attracted to humorous or quirky pieces of art, because humor is so individually dictated and brilliant in authentic, unexpected ways.

P.S. I saw Daniel Finch today! I love that man! I'm so excited he's teaching my advanced studies class. . . . Talking to him really is (as Susan Getty puts it) like drinking three cups of espresso.

I Am in Need of Music
Elizabeth Bishop

I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling fingertips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream-flushed to glow!

There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.

Black Rook in Rainy Weather
Sylvia Plath

On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain-
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident

To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall
Without ceremony, or portent.

Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Lean incandescent

Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent

By bestowing largesse, honor
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); sceptical
Yet politic, ignorant

Of whatever angel any choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant

A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content

Of sorts. Miracles occur.
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance
Miracles. The wait's begun again,
The long wait for the angel,

For that rare, random descent.

everybody needs to know it's the year of the rat. every day we've got to hold on, 'cause if we hold on we could find some new energy

Alternate title: "what if I kept on singing love songs just to break my own fall?"

Well. I'm here to announce that I am moderately well-adjusted after all. At least, I went to sleep alright last night all by myself and didn't cry or get freaked out or anything this time. Here's hoping that the rest of the week goes just as well. And by the rest of the week, I mean, "until Katie and Elena move in sometime near the beginning of September." Keep your fingers crossed for me, loves. I'm not so good at this, but I'm trying.

Can I just reiterate, one more time, that I loathe the female reproductive system whole-heartedly? With a passion rivaling the heat of forty suns. Maybe people who've actually made use of it and had sex/gotten pregnant (intentionally) like their reproductive systems, but honestly, the rest of us could do without them. The End.

And now, for something completely Ogden Nash:

Reflections on Ice-Breaking
Candy
Is dandy
But liquor
Is quicker.

Samson Agonistes
I test my bath before I sit,
And I'm always moved to wonderment
That what chills the finger not a bit
Is so frigid upon the fundament.


My Dream
This is my dream,
It is my own dream,
I dreamt it.
I dreamt that my hair was kempt.
Then I dreamt that my true love unkempt it

Good night my loves. Sleep well.

a gray sky, a bitter sting, a rain cloud, a crane on the wing - and I will hang my head, hang my head low

I like this thing where I don't blog over the weekend. It feels like a real break to me. And sometimes I then have fresh thoughts to bring to you. (Sometimes.)

It's fall. At least that's what my nose is telling me. Rain persisted almost all weekend, and today is drizzle-gray again. Normally I find rain quite restful and peaceful, but I admit, right now it just makes me feel dreary. And also pretty sleepy. I am having trouble thinking in general today; do you know that kind of operational fog that makes you feel fragile and detached from your body? So if this post does not quite make sense, I apologize. I am trying my best to make sense.

Walking to Eisenhower on my way to acquire caffeine or sweet, hot-chocolate-y goodness to alleviate this afternoon's dragging, I saw two funny sights. The first was a campus events worker watering the hanging baskets. These baskets are meant to beautify campus with their blooms (and they do a pretty good job). The way they watered them? With a giant hose-thing that sprayed with such force it spun the basket all the way around and knocked off a ton of flowers. Go figure. Beautify the campus, but in the process of upkeep, knock off half the blossoms. The second funny thing? A veritable army of campus events personnel marching past Boyer Hall with grim faces. Maaaaaaybe I'm just crazy, but I kind of started laughing.

Alternate title for this post: and when we sing i hear another devil dies

(You can't see me, but this thought is so important that I turned off my music, so that I can think clear-headedly about this idea and the words I'm using. That's how serious I am right now. Unfortunately, this post is going to sound religious. It's something I try to avoid, by and large, because I always end up sounding trite, but here goes anyway.)

I kind of always laughed when anyone started talking about "freedom in Christ," because I didn't have anything to be free from. (I think kids in general tend to think that they are already free.) I think now, though, that "freedom in Christ" might just be the freedom to change yourself, the freedom to change your mind, the freedom to be honestly who you want to be.

And by "freedom" I think I mean "reason." Christ provides the reason to change oneself, change one's mind, be honestly the person one wants to be. When you have motivation to change, you could say that you have freedom to change. Christ also, at least according to conventional wisdom, provides an aid to change oneself. (I don't know if that's the kind of aid that's all in your head, or if actual spiritual aid is somehow involved. The jury is still out, in my opinion, over how closely God involves himself with us.)

And I suppose that implicit in the idea of freedom, particularly freedom to change, is the overwhelming possibility of screwing up.

Anyway, I'll cut to the meat of the question: if the honest pursuit of freedom (and I guess I'm talking particularly about "freedom in Christ" here, freedom in the religious/moral/spiritual sense) necessarily implies mistakes, then as long as we don't get sidetracked from that pursuit, should mistakes be a big deal? Should we demand our redemption have angst and blood involved? Or can it be as soft and sudden as fall air coming through August?

This leads me to an odd question (it wasn't the point of this post, but I'm thinking now, so I'll keep going). Generally the church agrees that Christ forgives us moral mistakes. He forgives things like murder, even. But does God do professional forgiveness? Let me put it like this. If, as I think, art should be a place of freedom too, does that imply that Christ forgives us our artistic mistakes? For instance, I make a lousy stone sculpture. I have a hard time forgiving myself for creating something so hella ugly (it was a serious mistake). But can't that be forgiven just as easily as harboring a grudge against my neighbor, or lust, or something like that?

Um. . . I think I just trivialized freedom. But then again. . . if freedom doesn't apply to the little, trivial things. . . I'm not sure I'm really interested, seeing as my life is made up of little, trivial things.

Am I crazy? Is this whole idea stupid? Someone please let me know.

i was standing on the surface of a perforated sphere

Well! Today was an adventure. The photo shoot for the President's Report happened down in Climenhaga, in Miller Auditorium. I've never spent much time on stage down there, but today I did - documenting the documentation, mostly (Donovan Witmer did the photography, Christina Weber organized, and Dan Custer and I took video and photos of the whole photo shoot process). The cover design adopted, as its theme, a conglomeration of faculty, employees, and students ala Annie Leibovitz's Vanity Fair covers (except without the Hollywood stars).

I learned a lot, hanging out in the wings and running a video camera (or trying to slyly take notes in my sketchbook. Pretty sure I fail at slyness, though). Most of it was just little stuff - the tone of talking to large groups of people that you're photographing, what gets best results, how planned all that body language that seems so natural is. I learned how much equipment you need to get such a simple-looking effect, and how much knowledge successful people have imbibed through years of work, and they just whip it out instantaneously. Also, I learned that sometimes a photo shoot containing seven people involves just sheer blind luck to get the perfect photo.

What hit me in the face the hardest, though, during my day of aiding the photo shoot (basically as a gopher) is this: I am so little prepared to face the real world. I haven't got hardly any skills. Like, wow. Also, I lack social grace, which seems to always come in handy.

On the other hand, I felt an immense vitality going into this shoot - so many people with so many ideas and so much experience. You know how some people seem flat and dull, like they just never pay attention? And other people are vibrant and full of vitality, eyes wide open all the time? I want to be one of those vibrant people who's full of vitality, and I want to be out in the real world acquiring that vitality and vibrant experience.

Sure, I'm not ready to graduate in an actual "skills acquired" kind of way (I'm sure as heck not ready to face my senior show even!), but I'm ready to graduate in an I want to get out there and learn all this stuff and be kick-butt at what I do someday kind of way.

I guess I just need to be stubborn enough to keep working with what I like even when I feel totally inadequate. And. . . if there's any character trait I do have in abundance. . . it's sheer stubbornness.

The End.

P.S. Countdown to my apartment: 1 day. No more of the other countdown - this is my 600th post. I'd planned to do something special for it, but silly photographs are trumped by actual thought. Sorry.

that rock looks nothing like a bunny . . . neither does that one! what're the odds?

And now for something entirely different. Today my theme is wombats. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, wombats. Because wombats rock my socks off. Particularly



THE LOVE WOMBAT!!!!!

And now a poetic interlude:

The wombat lives across the seas,
Among the far Antipodes.
He may exist on nuts and berries,
Or then again, on missionaries;
His distant habitat precludes
Conclusive knowledge of his moods,
But I would not engage the wombat
In any form of mortal combat.
- Ogden Nash

Check out all the crazy wombat facts you can find!

Or, if scientific knowledge about wombats is not your style, check out a webcomic. = D

This is how I tell that Jesus College is gearing up to begin yet another academic year: a thousand mass mailings start hitting my inbox, a new one about every five minutes.

That is a gross exaggeration. But one which feels accurate. I'll have to start counting my e-mails again by "real people e-mail" and "mass e-mail." = )

what if charles darwin had access to sorcery?

If you have any websites of writing prompts which you like/think are good/use frequently/ignore vehemently, please send me the links, either via e-mail or via posting a comment.

Thank you. That is all.

Well, except for this. Go ahead. You'll laugh your pants off.

P. S. Apparently my roommate blows bubbles while she's on the phone with her boyfriend. . . weird? Yes. She's literally a bubble-blowing MK who says "No I miss you more." Of course, maybe I should not be so hard on her, because she is one of the few people I know who asks absolutely nothing from me, not even small talk. We're both sitting in the room today, listening to music and reading. It's fabulous. I don't feel obligated to talk one bit.

that weatherman is a liar, he said it'd be raining. but it's clear and blue as far as i can see.

Look! Messiah students have been frolicking for all of time! [Brought to you by the Absurd Photos from the BIC Archives Marathon]

I wrote a silly/banal poem for today, because my thoughts rhymed:

So often you just write long enough to get the junk out of the way
and discover the kernel of what you really want to say.

That's why writing and art take so freaking long, I think. Because so much of this is just sifting through the surface thoughts to find the real, authentic, interesting, worthwhile bit (and sometimes, to be honest, you can't find it at all). For instance, I wrote a whole eight paragraphs on my way to this blog post about church membership, when what it really boils down to, at base level, is this: people take church membership too lightly. Membership ought to be permanent, and you shouldn't leave just because of a few church leadership problems or because gossip or slander has become such a problem (honey, it's always been a problem, it always will be a problem, no matter what church you're in. Get over it. Do what you can, in your little sphere, to stop it and provide a good example, but get the hell over the idea that it's going to be better anywhere else. It won't be).

A few interesting tidbits:
Ever heard of an AltoidCam? [It's totally cool because it's unobtrusive, versus most pinhole cameras, and also because the focal length is so little, it's totally got this fish-eye effect that's cool and eerie when paired with the normal pinhole light-etchings.]

Would you like to see a few black and white photos? [I'm not sure why - but something about some of these photos I found interesting. Some are just kitschy and/or ridiculous, but there's some good kernels here in my opinion.]

Also, if you are a fan of Postsecret, check this out.

This Friday is going to rock. In addition to moving into my new apartment (where I can stay for a whole nine months), I will get paid, and I will get my new debit card. Rock on Friday.

Countdown: 5
Countdown to my apartment: 4 days

the dust has only just begun to fall, crop circles in the carpet

So. On Fridays I am going to be updating my blog for Messiah College. In consequence, I probably won't update this blog on Fridays, except to link you to my post over there. I hope that eventually this gets easier. I spent four hours this morning working on that post, and I don't even think it's very good.

Also, I guess I'm experiencing fundamental doubt that my voice is worth hearing or is interesting in any way, shape, or form. The alternative, though, not talking, is worse. If I can't be an artist or a writer because nobody cares about what I have to say, I'd rather find out now.

I wish that my template on blogger looked that amazing. Ten zillion points to anyone who can tell me how to make it so.

Alright. I'll talk to you later my loves. I'm going to Greg's house this weekend, so I probably will not access the interwebs.

[Yes, I know, the conversation I put in the MC post is pretty much fictional. But I needed a segue.]

spin me 'round again and rub my eyes

Messiah College is paying me to blog. Does that make me a professional blogger? If so, I would laugh hysterically. And then totally roll with it.

I gotta say, though, blogging is intimidating when you've got Devin Thomas to follow. He wrote a kick-ass first blog post. Frankly, I'm realizing, I have no idea how to make myself interesting. Oops. I do, however, have some (for me) innovations regarding post format which I'm excited to implement (heh, that was totally marketing-speak).

Dan Custer (my fellow work-study in the Office of Marketing and Public Relations) and I brain-stormed today for a title and subtitle for his blog. In the end we came up with: "Choose your own adventure: the art of risk at Jesus College." Along the way, he provided yet another example of why my co-workers rock:
Dan: "What if we used a different word for adventure? We need to find some cinnamons for adventure."

Tonight it is absolutely pouring. Just southwest of us there are severe thunderstorm warnings, and a girl walking down the hall is talking very loudly about the possibility of tornadoes. If it cools off, I would be pleased. Something about the colors when it rains is compelling. Maybe it's just that they seem deeper against a nearly charcoal-grey sky, or maybe it is that they are literally saturated (hah, bad pun. I win).

Maybe I should go stand in the rain. It usually makes me feel better.

Or maybe I will start work on all those ideas that keep hitting me as the most inopportune moments at work. Yes? Yes.

can i take this, really, can i finish this? these years and all these creatures

I have too much change in my life. I decided this last week, my satchel jingling merrily as I walked from Eisenhower to Old Main. I mean, I sound like Santa and all his reindeer! Some little kid is going to come running out of the Early Learning Center and give me his list!

My diabolically clever plan for dealing with the excess of round metal pieces in my life? Start using exact change. Exact. No matter how ridiculous it seems. Every time I buy a cup of coffee, I'm that dude standing in line shuffling through a handful of change. $.99 cup of coffee? $.99 exactly comes out of my wallet (this morning I handed nine dimes, a nickel, and four pennies to Matt, who looked properly impressed at my change-counting prowess).

I think that officially counts as a quirk.

I feel bad that I haven't been entertaining you lately. So, for your reading enjoyment, a few points about why I have awesome coworkers:

Dan: "Wouldn't it be nice if we could have the Matrix, and just plug in and learn everything that everyone's learned before us? It would make life seem like it had more of a point."
Me: "I took this class once where we talked a lot about collective consciousness and collective wisdom and the possibility that one day we'll be able to tap into this huge overmind thing."
Susan: "That would be wikipedia."

Dan: "Have you used any of these fine-tip sharpie markers recently? I love these things. If Jesus had to use a sharpie marker, I feel like he would use these."

Countdown: 7

Countdown to my apartment: 9

P.S. My favorite typos of the day:

". . . peace can be neutured."

". . . an increased sneeze of place . . . ."

once upon a time at the foot of a great mountain . . . .

Welcome to the first annual bizarre photo marathon, starring bizarre photos from the Brethren in Christ archives at Messiah College. Who would have guessed that there was so much life bursting through the files of the basement of the library?



"Duh. . . aztecs?"

"Holy s***, a pyramid? Where?"

"Man, those aztecs sure know how to get high."
(bad pun. . . get it? Get high. . . build high buildings?)

Countdown: 8

Countdown to my apartment: 10

P.S. Happy birthday Mom!

if you feel discouraged that there's a lack of color here - please don't worry, lover. it's really bursting at the seams.

The Satanic Verses is disarming.

In the end, it is both disarmingly definite and disarmingly sweet. Honestly, I was touched (and very surprised. Salman Rushdie excels, like T.S. Eliot, at preparing one meter and then in the next line of the poem changing the rhythm unexpectedly, leaving us off-balance and open). And as always, when there is a good ending, I sort of fell in love with the book. In the case of Salman Rushdie and the Satanic Verses, I do not feel an easy love - nor do I feel any sense of complete understanding. I'm kind of like someone who develops a passion for cacti because they bloom so prettily once a year in the wet season, against all odds and expectations, Lord knows why. So I guess that makes me a semi-ignorant cacto-phile (That's a semi-ignorant person who loves cacti, not someone who loves semi-ignorant cacti). . . except with books?

Once upon a time, in Photo II, there was a girl who resolved never to go anywhere without her camera and an extra roll of film, because she thought that she could grow faster as a photographer if she always looked everywhere for a good photograph. Then, months later, in the summer, when she was wrestling with lack of inspiration, she resolved to start carrying it around again every day, even though she might look mildly retarded, because you never know when a great photograph is going to jump out and bite you in the bum.

Today I had a funny idea for some artwork (as usual, it's a convoluted intersection of things, so bear with me). Greg's church is doing some sort of little show about the intersection of worship and art. As I thought about that today, I was compiling an index of quotes from The Bridge, one of which happened to be: "God's self-disclosure is rich and polychromatic." Okay, I thought. So maybe artwork can be an act of worship in bringing us to recognize the rich and polychromatic nature of his self-disclosure. But how would you represent that visually? Being me and being part of some crazy wired-in generation (they're always changing the names for it - I can never keep track. It's never something as easy as "Generation X" or "the Baby Boomers"), I turned to Google for the answers, and ran an image search using the word "polychromatic." What came up? Polychromatic slides of cancer cells. Oh, the irony. The nature of God's self-disclosure = (according to Google) polychromatic slides of cancer cells.

Needless to say I kind of discarded that idea. But also it made me laugh (whatever that says about my personality).

Alright my loves. This euphonious colloquy is illimitably coming to an end. Hopefully my incorrigible, sempiternal posting is not merely gasconade nor indicative of turpitude and hopefully it does not indurate your obdurate hearts. (See how my vocabulary has grown from working in the Publications Office?) Maybe you even like some of my posts a little, smidgen bit.

Quotes of the day:
"Through the stranger, we receive 'honesty and insight into our plastic worlds.'"

"Life's greatest happiness is to be convinced we are loved."

Countdown: 9

Countdown to living in my apartment: 11

i don't get many things right the first time, in fact, i am told that a lot

So I'm liking Ben Folds Five. Not so much just Ben Folds, but yes to Ben Folds Five. I mean, who wouldn't love a song that says:

"Next door there's an old man who lived to his nineties
And one day passed away in his sleep
And his wife; she stayed for a couple of days
And passed away
I'm sorry, I know that's a strange way
to tell you that I know we belong
That I know that I am the luckiest."

It's strange and quirky, and also really sweet.

Is it alright to be a passionate person, even though it makes me unbalanced?

How uncertain am I allowed to be? Am I allowed to renege and re-negotiate and talk myself in and out of things until I figure out what I really mean or want or need (because the exact nature of this re-negotiation is sometimes unclear)?

I am disappointed to find out that even though I made it through Italy and feel much more adult (by which I mean capable in more situations)there are still going to be those hard days, when I am not sure that it is going to be OK to keep waking up.

Of course, I am counting this as just another situation that, theoretically, I'm then that much more capable of dealing with. We'll see how that works out.

Funny story: Chad borrowed Matt's Settlers of Katan game last Sunday. . . I was supposed to return it the next day. Somehow it is still sitting here in my room next to my clock, waiting. Um. . . I'll get that back to you this week, Matt. Cross my heart.

Countdown: 10

"Beneath the stars came fallin' on our heads
But they're just old light, they're just old light"

the weight of water, the way you told me to look past -

I need to get more sleep.

This is what I swear to myself. Then I stay up blogging. But I guess when I have something on my mind, I have something on my mind.

Also, I had two cappucini and a latte today, so I'm rather full on caffeine.

I love the feel of early morning. Ironic, no? But when I am able to get enough sleep, early morning is such a quiet, attentive time, literally new.

I think that I am going to live a green life. Green, as in sustainable, although not necessarily in any way related to the environment. College students court burnout a little too closely.

Come to find out they did not change the combination to get into the darkroom yet. = D

I am so excited for our apartment next semester. If I can avoid a nervous breakdown, I think that I will learn a lot.

Creative frustration, I am reminded, kills a lot of other joy, or at least makes it more challenging. So I am going to take better care of that side of my life, because it affects a lot of others.

In December 2004, I posted 48 times. How absurd is that?

Good night. Sleep tight.

i loved you first

- Regina Spektor

"November soldiered on. more snow fell, a lot of it. students retreated to their rooms, some to try out what they'd learned at the sex lecture, most to get cracking on the papers that were due before thanksgiving break."

I forget where I found that quote, but I kind of liked it. It made me chuckle.

I think that today I've had enough of artistry. I just need a little plain speaking, a little conversation with you. I'm full up and don't have anything poetic left at all; I don't have any imagery to share with you. I'm not worried about striving for inspiration. Right now, at this moment, what's right in front of me is enough, without interpretation and without embellishment.

I can move into my apartment next Friday! That thought makes me excited. Also: Today I get my first paycheck! That is a much-anticipated event, let me tell you. Also, Elena is coming this weekend!

Also, for the first time, I filled my ipod full. And. . . I didn't even fit all the music I wanted on there. Hmm. This may be indicative of something. . . .

My most recent idea for senior show is this: maybe, even though I love photography, and even though I rearranged my schedule crazy-like last fall to be able to work it, I won't do photography for my show. Is that insane? It's definitely bucking expectations. But I'm kind of over wanting to do what's expected of me. What's the point of being a senior if I can't start directing my own course a little?

My other most recent idea is for a short series of woodblock prints. And actually, I think it's a pretty good idea. Maybe not phenomenal, but good enough that I want to pursue it. And you know, since Advanced 2-D studies next semester should be all about the work that I want to do, and discovering my voice and all that stuff, maybe I can even complete it in that class if I can't get it finished in this last month of summer. Printmaking is, after all, a two-dimensional art.

I'll miss the way weekends are this summer. I always look forward to them so much, the sleeping and the hanging out. Time for poetry if I want to write it, time for reading, time for conversation, making meals. But you know, I figured out that I could get all B's next semester and still my cumulative GPA would be above 3.6. So, given that the requirement has dropped to 3.4, I'm basically golden. I can relax a little, if I can manage to convince myself that it's alright not to do my absolute best at everything, if I can talk myself into not wanting all A's. = )

Alright, I think I'm done here. I'll be away most of the weekend, so I may not update.
Love to all,
Mackenzie

P.S. The President's Report had a title: "Embracing life: Integrated learning is key." Only I saw it out of the corner of my eye and thought it said: "Embracing life: Integrated learning is sexy."

P. P. S. "Sometime I don't think we necessarily need to hear God speak - what has been given to me has been God speaking." - Fellistus K. Munakombwe

Countdown: 11

that solo's awful long, but it's a good refrain

Countdown: 12

Alternate title: you are my sweetest downfall

First, a celebration: They lowered the GPA requirement for my scholarship to 3.4! Can you say, "Mackenzie's getting some sleep after all this semester"? Wooh! I mean, seriously, party at my place. Adesso.

Working in the publications office has made me think in headlines, some comical, some absurd in their seriousness:

In perusing Relevant Magazine, Messiah student experiences WTF moment
Is everyone producing Christian movies on crack?
Pretty sure that when Kirkus Books gave The 13th Demon the review "an unsettling blend between the macabre and the evangelical," they didn't mean it as praise. Nonetheless, praise they boasted it as, putting it on their Relevant Magazine ad. Why?

Italian study-abroad experiences better equip Messiah College student to face life challenges
Student re-evaluates sources of inspiration
One thing has changed since I went to Italy: I am no longer afraid to sleep alone. Is it contradictory that after the most communal, close-knit semester of my life, I am not afraid to be by myself?

Inside the building it is always winter. I face a wall, a wall surrounded by flourescent lights. It is difficult to run when to run means either to get up at 6:30 a.m. or to miss dinner, and in consequence, I am not able to hear the notes my body rings.

Yesterday evening I sat in my room on my roommate's bed and watched the dark clouds sober as night came to hand. I'm looking for imagery here, along the rain-soaked road, in the woman dancing between puddles clasping the umbrella close on her way to the fishbowl. Since coming back to the states, I feel cut off from something, I feel a lack of awareness of my surroundings (once again a disconnect between the cerebral and what I perceive as the creative, between my body and my profession), I feel separated from earth. I'm trying to look more carefully, to understand where beauty resides here, what I can strike (lightly) that will resound into good work. There must be something vibrant here to touch.

Messiah College student experiences disorientation through Salman Rushdie's Satanic Verses
Welcome to the weird and wacky world of postmodernism!
The Satanic Verses is a frightening book. Not scary-frightening, but disorienting-frightening. I come out of it with a sense of confusion over what is what and what is solid and vibrant. It is an awfully long book, a protracted exercise in doubt. From one moment to the next I am never sure who will be exalted, who will be humanized by hatred (or whose halo will be gone because of love), who will suddenly lose what's important (that does seem to be the constant. What we love is not attainable, it will be taken from us, no one understands love to begin).

Lightning strikes Messiah's campus Sunday night
Tree outside Eisenhower is scarred
Dan Custer came into the office after lunch: "Have you seen the tree outside Eisenhower that got struck by lightning?"
Me: "No, where?"
Dan: "Up the hill from here, on the sidewalk outside Lottie. It's friggin' sweet!"
Me: "oooh. . ."
Upon examination, the scene of the lightning strike is, in fact, beautiful. Splinters of wood shower the ground around it. Three stripes of bark are gone, one stripe reaching all the way from the top of the tree down into the ground.
"Did I ever tell you about the time we watched that storm?" Susan Getty says. "We were on the front porch, and splinters from this lightning-struck tree flew from the back yard past us and embedded in the ground. If we'd been on the other porch we could have been seriously hurt."
But what a beautiful thing. . . driving through the rain and seeing the lightning fork down in front towards campus, later finding only fragments. I expected to see a sudden glass tree on our lawn, lightning forcing the wooden material brittle - so clear and beautiful, sap still sluggishly working its way up under the skin of the tree.

"Do you think it will die?"

Female student witnesses family conflict in Weis
Incident causes internal conflict in student

Wednesday, July 25, in the middle of a grab-some-milk-so-we-can-make-cappucino trip with Greg, I heard an exchange that made me stop.

"Don't get close to me," a man told his wife (in the middle of Weis, as his children argued), "Or I'll smack you in the middle of the floor later."

Oh,

I thought.

Oh.

And as much as I would like to think that I ached for that family, I think I actually just ached for myself (I know, not pleasant to realize how callous). I'm sure that woman didn't launch life thinking, "Someday he's going to hit me, and we'll fight in the middle of the grocery store and our kids won't even pay attention because that will be the norm, and my son will have a bad mullet."

Do you know what I'm getting at?