- Garrison Keiller
I confess to nothing except being in a good mood today.
Sorry my posts have been so long lately. And also they've been angsty. But today is just a brief note. And what is it a note to say, you may ask? Well. First off, Matt had a birthday! He did, in fact, live to be 21. Did he get wasted? I have no idea. Call him up and ask him, in totally indignant tones (and be as loud as possible, just in case he did, in fact, get drunk, and you can be the first person to intentionally aggravate his first hangover).
I said "first," so there should also be a "second," but I forgot what it was going to be.
Oh! Happy J-term Break.
Trentadue giorno to l'Italia
"A veterinarian's and a taxidermist's. . . either way, you'll get your dog back."
- Garrison Keiller
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Thursday, February 01, 2007
"i'm a twilight princess"
- Aaron
Alternate title: "They are radiant angels, they are earthly slaves. They are predators moving in their endless days." (Guess where it comes from! Bruce Cockburn? How did you know?)
Today I started my dragon lady rewrite. It took, thank goodness, less time than I thought it would to create my outline. Hopefully I will be able to stop being such a slacker slash idiot, and write a really good story [crosses fingers]. Any volunteers for critique, if I have something to send you in the next couple of weeks? I'm considering changing my modus operandi. I think I might try writing a "chapter" and revising it directly afterward, until it meets my requirements, rather than rewrite the whole thing and then slog through the whole thing for yet another rewrite. Is that something anyone has tried? Does it work for you? (This leads me to a humorous thought. I write kind of like I cook - by consensus. "What goes in chilli? Does anyone know?" And then I don't follow anyone's directions in particular, not even when I have a cookbook.)
And here's the question: Can I do this? I mean, if this book turns out to be as bad as Christopher Paolini, will someone please tell me? I'm just a little worried that because I get good grades in my writing classes is no reason, really, that I should be good at writing books. Or poetry. Or, frankly, anything that's important. It only means I happen to be good at writing essays at a college level. And I continue to think that what matters in college is not necessarily what matters to real people in real life. . . .
I had a really bad nightmare last night: I came to visit a friend at Messiah, who seemed happy that I was coming, but when I got there was definitely not happy to see me, and ignored me, and ate breakfast with someone else, and then made fun of the fact that I like books so much. You're laughing that that's my nightmare? Well, Mom did too, so maybe I should have expected it. Probably serves me right for ranting. (I guess that's my method of transitioning into being apologetic for ranting? Only I'm sort of not.)
Also, here's a question: people laugh when I pray (not, I think, intending to be mean? Avery said tonight that he wanted to record my prayers. A "Mackenzie's night to pray podcast," was Aaron's idea. Truth is, there's only so far the 'right' phrases will take you, and I got tired of dealing with them somewhere along the line). But here's the question: Is my vernacular, then, one which is unsuited to serious things like books? Or is it OK if people end up chuckling a little at my narrative? I mean, which is worth more? To be taken seriously, or to have people enjoy the style of the book as a quirky representation of the way I actually tell a story? Would you read a book that went sort of like I pray?
Italian numbers, thank heaven, are logical, and don't require you to add or subtract (like roman numerals and French).
Trentatre giorni to Italy
Alternate title: "They are radiant angels, they are earthly slaves. They are predators moving in their endless days." (Guess where it comes from! Bruce Cockburn? How did you know?)
Today I started my dragon lady rewrite. It took, thank goodness, less time than I thought it would to create my outline. Hopefully I will be able to stop being such a slacker slash idiot, and write a really good story [crosses fingers]. Any volunteers for critique, if I have something to send you in the next couple of weeks? I'm considering changing my modus operandi. I think I might try writing a "chapter" and revising it directly afterward, until it meets my requirements, rather than rewrite the whole thing and then slog through the whole thing for yet another rewrite. Is that something anyone has tried? Does it work for you? (This leads me to a humorous thought. I write kind of like I cook - by consensus. "What goes in chilli? Does anyone know?" And then I don't follow anyone's directions in particular, not even when I have a cookbook.)
And here's the question: Can I do this? I mean, if this book turns out to be as bad as Christopher Paolini, will someone please tell me? I'm just a little worried that because I get good grades in my writing classes is no reason, really, that I should be good at writing books. Or poetry. Or, frankly, anything that's important. It only means I happen to be good at writing essays at a college level. And I continue to think that what matters in college is not necessarily what matters to real people in real life. . . .
I had a really bad nightmare last night: I came to visit a friend at Messiah, who seemed happy that I was coming, but when I got there was definitely not happy to see me, and ignored me, and ate breakfast with someone else, and then made fun of the fact that I like books so much. You're laughing that that's my nightmare? Well, Mom did too, so maybe I should have expected it. Probably serves me right for ranting. (I guess that's my method of transitioning into being apologetic for ranting? Only I'm sort of not.)
Also, here's a question: people laugh when I pray (not, I think, intending to be mean? Avery said tonight that he wanted to record my prayers. A "Mackenzie's night to pray podcast," was Aaron's idea. Truth is, there's only so far the 'right' phrases will take you, and I got tired of dealing with them somewhere along the line). But here's the question: Is my vernacular, then, one which is unsuited to serious things like books? Or is it OK if people end up chuckling a little at my narrative? I mean, which is worth more? To be taken seriously, or to have people enjoy the style of the book as a quirky representation of the way I actually tell a story? Would you read a book that went sort of like I pray?
Italian numbers, thank heaven, are logical, and don't require you to add or subtract (like roman numerals and French).
Trentatre giorni to Italy
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
tidings of magpies
I have nothing really to say. I just wanted to share the amazing alternate title for a flock of magpies. Tidings of magpies. How much cooler is that? ("And the storm brought tidings of magpies clustering down into our oak trees.")
Also, a random fact: Last year, I posted an average of .50410958904109 times per day. (I've resolved to live up to the new shirt Avery gave me - "Math is Delicious - now with more integers!" - by using math in my every day life.)
24 days until Italy.
Latest Italian phrase: io sono americana, mas io parle un po l'italiano (non molto bene).
P.S.
Me: I'm really thirsty!
Aaron: Me too!
Me: We could be thirsty twins!
Dad [walking into the kitchen and throwing his fist in the air]: Damn the torpedoes!
Aaron: Full speed ahead!
P.P.S.
It is now 11:06 p.m., and I have had an epiphany. You know what drives me nuts about praying "heal so-and-so if it is your will Lord," or "heal this marriage if it is your will Lord"? Beyond, that is, larger questions of predestination and free will and what on earth God really wants from us - those are questions I think I will never be able to answer. And anyway, they're not practical questions, I don't think.
No, the problem is this: tacking on that little "if it is your will" seems to evince a complete disbelief in the power of prayer to make change. I mean, what's the use of praying at all if we don't think it will make any change to God's opinion or plans? What about Moses, who changed God's mind and kept him from destroying Israel? or Abraham, who prayed and convinced the Lord to save Lot? Pretty sure they didn't tack on a little wimpy "oh, if it please you sir" on the end. What ever happened to that kind of prayer?
Someone is bound to respond: but we're just seeking to emulate Jesus in the garden, when he sublimated his will ultimately to the Lord's. But I would remind you that Jesus praying the Garden of Gethsemane was not just some quick five-minute walk-in-the-park prayer.
Anyway. Think about it. It is now 11:12, and I am not certain that I will be able to sleep.
Also, a random fact: Last year, I posted an average of .50410958904109 times per day. (I've resolved to live up to the new shirt Avery gave me - "Math is Delicious - now with more integers!" - by using math in my every day life.)
24 days until Italy.
Latest Italian phrase: io sono americana, mas io parle un po l'italiano (non molto bene).
P.S.
Me: I'm really thirsty!
Aaron: Me too!
Me: We could be thirsty twins!
Dad [walking into the kitchen and throwing his fist in the air]: Damn the torpedoes!
Aaron: Full speed ahead!
P.P.S.
It is now 11:06 p.m., and I have had an epiphany. You know what drives me nuts about praying "heal so-and-so if it is your will Lord," or "heal this marriage if it is your will Lord"? Beyond, that is, larger questions of predestination and free will and what on earth God really wants from us - those are questions I think I will never be able to answer. And anyway, they're not practical questions, I don't think.
No, the problem is this: tacking on that little "if it is your will" seems to evince a complete disbelief in the power of prayer to make change. I mean, what's the use of praying at all if we don't think it will make any change to God's opinion or plans? What about Moses, who changed God's mind and kept him from destroying Israel? or Abraham, who prayed and convinced the Lord to save Lot? Pretty sure they didn't tack on a little wimpy "oh, if it please you sir" on the end. What ever happened to that kind of prayer?
Someone is bound to respond: but we're just seeking to emulate Jesus in the garden, when he sublimated his will ultimately to the Lord's. But I would remind you that Jesus praying the Garden of Gethsemane was not just some quick five-minute walk-in-the-park prayer.
Anyway. Think about it. It is now 11:12, and I am not certain that I will be able to sleep.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
the crescent moon is rising slow
So I've been thinking how weird it would be to be related to a writer. Or married to a writer (where you're sort of related, but not exactly). Particularly if the writer is a writer of non-fiction or poetry, they'd feel the urge to write about all the important family things, even some of the more intimate things that frankly, family members might rather not be discussed with the public. Like what if you went through a divorce with a writer? And the writer wrote about it? Everyone who read those books or poems would know the writer's version of the story, and it's bound to be unflattering to the other party.
And, let's face it, family members who have inside knowledge would have different visceral reactions to hearing certain stories or incidents retold. They might not understand where the author is getting their opinion, or they might be hurt that the author chose to retell this particular thing - maybe even twist it completely out of context, because writers do that. That's one of the first things you learn in college - get over worrying if it's true or not. You wrote it down, it becomes art, so it's a completely different artifact from the experience which occasioned it. If the story works better when you change the details, then you should change the details.
So how does an author draw from the important experiences of life, but still protect the privacy of their family? It's an interesting question. And it introduces a disconnect. Which should give way in any given situation? Your work or your family? Which has more value? Isn't it stereotypical that the families of writers never read their work? Maybe that's why. But that's a disconnect too. 'Cause every kid wants their family to be proud of them. Obviously, I'm not married, so I can't say how it is with a spouse, but I'd imagine that having a spouse value your work is also important.
Maybe this is why there are so many more fiction writers than creative non-fiction or poetry.
Also, does anyone else experience a sense of severe shock when viewing a picture of an author for the first time? They inevitably look nothing - nothing at all - like their writing.
And, let's face it, family members who have inside knowledge would have different visceral reactions to hearing certain stories or incidents retold. They might not understand where the author is getting their opinion, or they might be hurt that the author chose to retell this particular thing - maybe even twist it completely out of context, because writers do that. That's one of the first things you learn in college - get over worrying if it's true or not. You wrote it down, it becomes art, so it's a completely different artifact from the experience which occasioned it. If the story works better when you change the details, then you should change the details.
So how does an author draw from the important experiences of life, but still protect the privacy of their family? It's an interesting question. And it introduces a disconnect. Which should give way in any given situation? Your work or your family? Which has more value? Isn't it stereotypical that the families of writers never read their work? Maybe that's why. But that's a disconnect too. 'Cause every kid wants their family to be proud of them. Obviously, I'm not married, so I can't say how it is with a spouse, but I'd imagine that having a spouse value your work is also important.
Maybe this is why there are so many more fiction writers than creative non-fiction or poetry.
Also, does anyone else experience a sense of severe shock when viewing a picture of an author for the first time? They inevitably look nothing - nothing at all - like their writing.
Monday, January 29, 2007
"full of stone-sober people who are drunk on liturgy"
- Kathleen Norris
I've been reading Kathleen Norris's Cloister Walk in preparation for living in a convent, and it's actually really good. I wasn't expecting to like it (basically because I don't like nonfiction books in general, and if it's shelved in the inspirational section, count me out). It makes a lot of connections between the poetic life and the monastic life, which I think helps articulate why so many poets I know really like liturgy. Also it talks about the basic concepts behind the vows of celibacy that I've never heard discussed before in the light of monastic tradition. I'm about halfway through, and it's interesting enough that I might actually finish it (not something I can say about many nonfiction books). I am not so optimistic about Brunelleschi's Dome.
Aaron is sick today. Hopefully he will get better soon, 'cause it's some nasty kind of flu crap. Definitely not cool.
Mom told me a funny story today. So, in the true ecumenical spirit (pretty sure I used that word completely wrong) I'm going to share it with all of you, including my own special little embellishments.
ZOMBIE DUCK
Once upon a time there was a man. This man, like many men in America today, drove a car. One day, as he was driving along, jiving to his music, he ran over a duck and killed it stone dead. He thought, Why, this is a plump duck. It would be a shame to waste it. So he took the duck home and put it in his fridge for dinner at a future date. His wife thought Oh great, a bloody dead duck in my fridge waiting to be plucked and cleaned and cooked, but she was fond of a good duck l'orange herself, so she put up with it.
Two days later, when she opened the fridge to pour out a delicious glass of her favorite beverage, the duck raised its head.
The wife considered screaming "ZOMBIE DUCK!", slamming the fridge door, screaming her lungs out and then fetching her husband's shotgun to finish the undead creature off, but ultimately rejected this reasonable course of action. Instead, she took the duck out and rushed it to the veterinarian, somehow making the gargantuan leap of understanding to realize that the duck was, in fact, completely and absurdly alive.
At the vet's, they took drastic measures to save the life of the eponymous duck, even performing surgery. Unfortunately, the duck had a rare allergic reaction to the anesthesia the vet administered. Still, the duck decided that since it had survived being hit with a car and spending two days in a refrigerator without dying, it was not going to let a little medication mishap prevent it from flying south once again. So it lived. And lives on, to this day.
Except that a small minority believes it is undead to this day.
I've been reading Kathleen Norris's Cloister Walk in preparation for living in a convent, and it's actually really good. I wasn't expecting to like it (basically because I don't like nonfiction books in general, and if it's shelved in the inspirational section, count me out). It makes a lot of connections between the poetic life and the monastic life, which I think helps articulate why so many poets I know really like liturgy. Also it talks about the basic concepts behind the vows of celibacy that I've never heard discussed before in the light of monastic tradition. I'm about halfway through, and it's interesting enough that I might actually finish it (not something I can say about many nonfiction books). I am not so optimistic about Brunelleschi's Dome.
Aaron is sick today. Hopefully he will get better soon, 'cause it's some nasty kind of flu crap. Definitely not cool.
Mom told me a funny story today. So, in the true ecumenical spirit (pretty sure I used that word completely wrong) I'm going to share it with all of you, including my own special little embellishments.
ZOMBIE DUCK
Once upon a time there was a man. This man, like many men in America today, drove a car. One day, as he was driving along, jiving to his music, he ran over a duck and killed it stone dead. He thought, Why, this is a plump duck. It would be a shame to waste it. So he took the duck home and put it in his fridge for dinner at a future date. His wife thought Oh great, a bloody dead duck in my fridge waiting to be plucked and cleaned and cooked, but she was fond of a good duck l'orange herself, so she put up with it.
Two days later, when she opened the fridge to pour out a delicious glass of her favorite beverage, the duck raised its head.
The wife considered screaming "ZOMBIE DUCK!", slamming the fridge door, screaming her lungs out and then fetching her husband's shotgun to finish the undead creature off, but ultimately rejected this reasonable course of action. Instead, she took the duck out and rushed it to the veterinarian, somehow making the gargantuan leap of understanding to realize that the duck was, in fact, completely and absurdly alive.
At the vet's, they took drastic measures to save the life of the eponymous duck, even performing surgery. Unfortunately, the duck had a rare allergic reaction to the anesthesia the vet administered. Still, the duck decided that since it had survived being hit with a car and spending two days in a refrigerator without dying, it was not going to let a little medication mishap prevent it from flying south once again. So it lived. And lives on, to this day.
Except that a small minority believes it is undead to this day.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
airplanes are more universal than potties
- Jenn
I. . . feel better, actually. Not sure why. It may be due to the fact that my headache is gone.
Aaron is 18! Wooh! I totally remember when he was like 5. Dude, I remember when he got the training wheels off his bike. = )
Epic Movie. . . not really worth seeing. Although when they installed Lucy onto her throne, and announced her title? That was amazing. But Emma? Yeah, I do like that movie an awful lot. And props to Abbi for watching it with me yet again. Jane Austen books somehow get really good adaptations. And yes, I'm aware that liking Emma makes me both really girly and really literature-geeky, but I'm at peace with that.
I exchanged dollars for some euros last week. And got a CD version of Italian, so I can hear what it sounds like! Also I resolved never to be reincarnated as a cow. And I realized that a semester is not that long of a time. It's not like I'm planning on moving permanently to Italy. Or even for a whole year. So it will be OK even if I freak out and become completely socially inept. Yes?
I know this post should be less self-absorbed. But really nothing ever happens here. I just think a lot. So when exciting things happen in Italy, I will be ten times more interesting.
[Aaron: "Just say: I'm not self-absorbed. I'm introspective."]
27 days till Italy.
I. . . feel better, actually. Not sure why. It may be due to the fact that my headache is gone.
Aaron is 18! Wooh! I totally remember when he was like 5. Dude, I remember when he got the training wheels off his bike. = )
Epic Movie. . . not really worth seeing. Although when they installed Lucy onto her throne, and announced her title? That was amazing. But Emma? Yeah, I do like that movie an awful lot. And props to Abbi for watching it with me yet again. Jane Austen books somehow get really good adaptations. And yes, I'm aware that liking Emma makes me both really girly and really literature-geeky, but I'm at peace with that.
I exchanged dollars for some euros last week. And got a CD version of Italian, so I can hear what it sounds like! Also I resolved never to be reincarnated as a cow. And I realized that a semester is not that long of a time. It's not like I'm planning on moving permanently to Italy. Or even for a whole year. So it will be OK even if I freak out and become completely socially inept. Yes?
I know this post should be less self-absorbed. But really nothing ever happens here. I just think a lot. So when exciting things happen in Italy, I will be ten times more interesting.
[Aaron: "Just say: I'm not self-absorbed. I'm introspective."]
27 days till Italy.
Friday, January 26, 2007
a shrewdness of apes
Whoa! I so totally started learning Italian today! I can now say, buon giorno, buon sera, buon notte, and mi chiama Mackenzie. Unfortunately, I have no idea how to pronounce any of that. Um... or spell most of it, actually.
My Italian address is going to be:
[my name], Gordon College Program
Insituto San Ludovico
Piazza Ranieri 5
05018 Orvieto, TR
ITALY
If you want to write to me, I would love it. If not, then that's OK too.
I think I have officially hit the freaking-out period for the Italy trip. There's a lot to get done and a lot to prepare for before I leave. Also, I've never traveled internationally by myself before. Does anyone know if they repeat announcemenets on international flights in English? I'd hate to miss my connection flight from Amsterdam to Rome because I don't speak Italian or Dutch. Also, do airports in Italy have the same kind of luggage-collection system once you get there? Are the signs for the exits etc. in English as well as Italian? Where do I meet the Orvieto person? Aaaaahhhhhhh!
Also, what if I'm not competent to go grocery-shopping those first couple of days when I'm there? What if I don't know the right words? What if I offend the nuns? What if I have a nervous breakdown? What if. . . .
My Italian address is going to be:
[my name], Gordon College Program
Insituto San Ludovico
Piazza Ranieri 5
05018 Orvieto, TR
ITALY
If you want to write to me, I would love it. If not, then that's OK too.
I think I have officially hit the freaking-out period for the Italy trip. There's a lot to get done and a lot to prepare for before I leave. Also, I've never traveled internationally by myself before. Does anyone know if they repeat announcemenets on international flights in English? I'd hate to miss my connection flight from Amsterdam to Rome because I don't speak Italian or Dutch. Also, do airports in Italy have the same kind of luggage-collection system once you get there? Are the signs for the exits etc. in English as well as Italian? Where do I meet the Orvieto person? Aaaaahhhhhhh!
Also, what if I'm not competent to go grocery-shopping those first couple of days when I'm there? What if I don't know the right words? What if I offend the nuns? What if I have a nervous breakdown? What if. . . .
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