The Girl

Forewarning: For those who have recently (and by recently I mean "In the last two months") begun to read my blog, and have recognized a particular pattern in the posts, mainly the "Studying/Living in Oxford" aspect, this post, while relating with the "Studying/Living in Oxford" aspect, will diverge to slightly more a more personal topic, that of friends. One friend in particular. One friend who is a girl in particular. So, if you'd like to hear more about Oxford specifically, I'd like to direct you to either Wikipedia or to Chao Ren's blog, the other student from Illinois Wesleyan studying at Oxford for the year. He's a jolly, warm man, and has a very big smile.

The beginning of this past week was not the highlight of my time here, for reasons I couldn't identify, analyze, and solve. Reading and writing on Shakespeare has not been overly overwhelming as of late, having found a good rhythm of reading and studying his works. It's fascinating to me how quickly one can learn a new language with diligence and patience; for those of you who have read Shakespeare, you may relate with the sense of learning how he shapes ideas, phrases, characters. It's very much a language of his own. Anyway, the work I was doing didn't necessarily contribute to my being down, "blahhness" as I sometimes refer to it in my mind, a few days ago, though I must say my mind will appreciate the rest of the coming weeks. As I mentioned to this friend the other day, the fatigue I feel isn't the same as the Stressful, Overworked Exhaustion that often accompanies the end of a semester at university back at home as much as it is the Ready to Read and Write and Think About Other Things for a While tired. It's time to rest and cross train, and a blog is certainly an aspect of that process.

So work was part of it, and I also found myself confronting a lot of inertia to overcome in bringing myself to meet with others: I love hanging out and enjoying others' presence, no doubt, yet I find myself in phases of varying desires to be around others. Coming to Oxford, I had built up much momentum in my mind and heart in preparation to form friendships with others, to risk spending time with others that might not be fun or enjoyable or easy to relate with. And others risked that on me. And I have found some very wonderful people, and they have found me, over the past two months. So many wonderful British students, as I've mentioned in previous posts, have welcomed us foreigners with genuine warmth and humor, and for that I couldn't be more grateful. For whatever reason, however, I begin to be dissuaded in my mind from spending time with others, from simply hanging out for the sake of hanging out. It could be that I'm afraid of wasting time, yet this is generally when I start to forget that, as CS Lewis writes in Letters to Malcolm, "Dance and game are frivolous, unimportant down here; for "down here" is not their natural place...Joy is the serious business of heaven."

Instead of figuring all of that out here, though, I'd rather focus on her.

Two days ago, I found myself at quite a low point, feeling as though I had been "going through the motions" of life for some time while here, not relishing what I was doing, where I was, who I was with. I felt off, wrong, crooked. BethAnne and I, according to the schedule we had planned for the week, didn't get to talk on Monday or Tuesday, and I sent her an email expressing much of this, trusting her to be one of the more caring listeners I've encountered, one who always lends a compassionate and helpful ear (or eye, in this case, since she would be reading). Though we didn't talk until Wednesday afternoon, she sent a few kind and warm text messages, letting me know of her prayers and thoughts.

Being away from her for the past two and a half months has been no easy endeavor, the difficulty of which fluctuates week to week. Since she studied abroad in Germany last semester, she's encountered the ups and downs, ins and outs, victories and defeats of studying abroad, and has helped me in ways that continue to instill peace and courage and the freedom of joy that she's learned from others pursuing Godly lives. Her enduring email messages, letters, packages (packages!), patience, and endurance (enduring endurance...yep...) in our friendship lift me in so many ways, and I know it's no easy task for her being apart, either (being in scenic, historic, renown Bloomington-Normal Illinois at the moment). She makes me laugh more than anyone I know. She's an incredibly genuine, hopeful, witful, lovely girl, and I'm often astounded

This message feels like a shout-out to her, and I'm OK with that. One of the Proverbs in The Message translation (the translation I probably know best, for better or worse) goes "Don't draw attention to yourself; let others do that for you," and she isn't one to live, serve, love ostentatiously. So, draw attention to her I will, so that others will know a bit of her loveliness too.

Wednesday morning, I opted, at her suggestion, to rest from studies for a bit to read the Bible, pray, and write (about things other than Shakespeare and such) for a bit, and it was what my soul needed at the time: Rest. Strenghtening. Alignment. When we talked later that day, she helped me to process some of the stuff that had built up on my heart, helping to restore me to a certain levity and breathing-easyness. And she later quick to point out that it was not her that helped me out, that it was God's effect (sometimes I wonder why one of his names in the Bible isn't The Great Untangler, yet Prince of Peace does well to that end), and she's right: we prayed, we talked, we listened. And she helped me in that direction. And she does. I know my life is different because of her being woven into it, and I become aware of that the more I learn her and the more she learns me.

In his song "The Dress Looks Nice on You," Sufjan Stevens sings of his listener, "I can see a lot of life in you/ I can see a lot of bright in you," and this well describes what I see in her, and what I see in those I love, in those who love me. I really could go on about all the things I appreciate in her, and will (away from this blog...), yet want those who know me, who are reading this (I assume it's all people I know, unless I've suddenly become Really Famous), that your thoughts, and prayers (if you pray), and notes and letters and emails and smiles and jokes all help me along, all become "twigs" in this raft I'm building as I continue on down this life-river, as a good friend of mine puts it, and I hope to impart some twigs to you as well. We've each something to toss one another, even if it's simply a good hug.

And sometimes that's all we want.

To Cheese or Not to Cheese, Is It Really a Question?

Ben Franklin, in his delightfully witty Poor Richard's Almanac writes that "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy." And, becoming more immersed in English culture, I'm realizing the verity of this claim. However, I would suggest one small yet crucial amendment to his assertion: "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy, yet beer is nowhere near as wonderful as cheese." Other than peanut butter and jelly (jam, for the Brits) sandwiches, eating most any type of cheese brings me comfort and happiness in ways that never cease to amaze. To be sure, I don't appreciate all of them: bleu, swiss, gorgonzola, and sometimes parmesan are simply too much for this American palette. Yet, gift me with a slice of cheddar, or colby jack, or brie, or mozzarella on a cracker (Triscuit's roasted garlic, especially, if you were wondering) with a dollop of dijon mustard and, like giving a dog a good back scratch, you've made a friend for life.

Almost needless to say, stumbling upon this shop in Oxford's Covered Market quite literally caused my mouth to drop open, stopping in my tracks in the midst of scurrying shoppers clamoring for the wares of the place, any doubts I had about Divine intervention immediately evaporated:

The first time I stopped by the Oxford Cheese Company, I didn't try, or buy, any of their offererings, for I was struck mute and dumb by its magnificence. However, returning last friday with renewed focus I set out to buy a wedge of brie for a dinner with a few friends. After the coureous cheesier (like chocolatier? What is the name of the profession for one who harvests cheese? A dairyer? A derrier?) selected a wedge well-suited for four diners, forgiving my inability to convert pounds into grams, I asked to try a few samples from the other blocks. The applewood-smoked gouda was absolutely astounding. The chili-laced cheddar was eternally exquisite...and firey! I wanted to stay until I had sampled each chunk (except the aforementioned displeasing flavors) yet also did not want to outstay my welcome, or take the opportunity for delight from others, no doubt lingering in the shadows ogling the blocks, waiting to muster the courage to step into the exposing flourescent light and take part in the mystery that is eating cheese.

That night, we enjoyed our brie, our gouda, with french baguettes, sliced granny smith apples, red and white wine, pieces of nitrite-loaded ham, and Americana folk music, stories, laughs, and smiles. It was a night to remember, mixed with both European and American culture, and we were all better for it, not in the least because of that dairy delight.

Oxford, Constantly Causing Me To List

Today marks my fourtieth day in England which means it's time for the much-anticipated "Things I Miss/ Don't Miss/ Am Neutral About" List! Many things are different over here in the UK, especially the people (instead of saying "That blew my mind" when seeing fireworks the other night, a British friend of mine said "That twisted my melon!" Definitely earned the laughs he got for that one), yet I'd like to take a look at the non-human differences over here. May it first be said that I do miss people from home: family, friends from Glen Ellyn and from IWU, yet don't want to attempt a thorough message for all of them - by the time I finished I'd probably be back in town for Christmas break. So, here's what I've recognized thus far:

Things I Miss:
- Free Printing (each page costs 10 pence, about 16 cents, to print here, which severely reduces the opportunity to create a collage of all my favorite footballers', authors', and friends' faces on my dorm room ceiling)
- My Dad's Mini Cooper (the fact that I see, on average, six a day doesn't assuage this pining - it makes me feel more like Tantalus from Greek mythology, forever reaching for that which he can't grasp. I suppose I could steal one...)
- a Real Kitchen with a Real Dishwasher and People Who Regularly Clean Their Dishes (the kitchen in our dorm fits about three people max, and seems perpetually dirty, despite the select few who find some kind of satisfaction in cleaning dishes. I mean, I'm not bitter...
- My Room at Home (in many ways, it's a small sanctuary for me. This deserves a post sometime soon, too)
- Warren (the name of my road bike at home. He's resting in the garage right now.)
- Fall in the Midwest (being my favorite time of year, it pains me slightly to think that I'm missing the turning of the leaves, the Halloween decorations, the brisk breezes, the unique, Ray Bradburyian atmosphere of the Midwest during this time of year. It's wonderful to be alive during the fall.)
- Free-ish Laundry (I include the "ish" because I know it costs my family money when I do laundry at home. I don't see that cost, though...mua ha ha).

Things I Don't Miss
- Traditional Tea Kettles (despite my penchant for the Antique, I've never come across a per-capita electric tea kettle possession like I have here. What an invention! What a reason to wake up in the morning! Westernized efficiency combined with the leisurely delight of a good cup of peppermint tea. Mm-mm)
- The "Non-Guy Fawkes Day Celebrating" Aspect of American Culture (I went to fireworks the other night for this holiday, which were comparable to those we see on the Fourth of July. To end the event, however, they burn a thirty-foot-tall wooden effigy of Guy Fawkes, to celebrate his capture in the midst of the Gunpowder Plot over four hundred years ago. They burn. An effigy. What?!)
- American Roads (there are many cobblestone streets here, another small delight, and one thing I've noticed about them: the lane markers and street signals all seem hand-painted, each a bit wobbly and more detailed than the mechanized stenciling of the streets in the US. The streets feel a bit more personalized here, and sometimes I choose to walk on the sidewalk for that reason)
- American-style Stress (people seem much less hurried and harried over here, they seem to breathe and laugh easier than back home and, surprisingly, I find that students at Oxford, while they take their academics quite seriously, easily turn from their studies to spend time with friends in pubs or wherever else. They are committed, yet not obsessed. I'm sure there are some out there I haven't yet met, though...)
- My Grizzly Man Beard (this month, I planned to do No-Shave November, an endeavor that ended epically last night after a week and a day of growth. It became too itchy and distracting and was hindering my self-esteem. I felt like a caveman, though perhaps someday I'll try to grow a true Mountain-Man patch. The good news, however, is that if my beard were to have grown for a month at the same pace it did this past week, I'd be able to wear it as a coat after a month, thus saving money on winter clothing.)

Things I am Neutral About
- Good Granola Cereal (as described in a recent post, I found some great granola that comes with dried raspberries and pieces of yoghurt. Yum!)
- Literature (though I love my book collection, I'm not sure Oxford can be beat for reading selection and atmosphere...)
- Guitar (though I could use a capo, a benevolent British friend of mine, seeing my in my guitarless agony, offered to lend me his for the term. A Godsend! Now I'm one step further to fulfilling my dream of becoming an Irish street musician.)
- Cool People (though friends aren't interchangeable, and as I mentioned, I do miss those in the States, I've met some truly wonderful, heartening, and fun people here - another reason I'm glad to be here for the year.)

That's it for now, though I'm sure I'll amend this list as the year goes on and I'm continually more aware of differences between here and there.

Exploring Before Dark at Regent's Park

Last weekend, I visited London with a few friends also studying at Oxford through the same study abroad program (Butler’s IFSA). As it turns out, the train ride from Oxford to London isn’t much of a journey, only about an hour or so and the sun was out, which tends to make everything, well, sunnier. Trains are a wonderful travel, no matter the scenery: they’re quiet, smooth, safe – a good place to talk with others or be quiet and think about whatever it is your mind drifts to when you give it the chance to wander. Trains in the UK, and Europe, are especially great, though that assertion might be partly due to the fact that my basis of comparison is the Metra that travels to and fro Chicago. Oh, Metra, some days I want to curse you, some days I want to give you a hug.

The two friends I was with, Anna and Danielle, arrived in London around 1:00 in the afternoon, with exploring on our mind. Our stomachs weren’t grumbling too loudly, since they both bought bagels from a scrumptious, small sandwich shop (The Alternative Tuck Shop – which will earn itself a post very soon) and I packed trusty comfort food: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a granola bar. My failsafe. My solid rock in the uncertainty of this new land. We made our way to the Tube, our destination the Camden Market in the north of England. Upon arriving there, after a stroll through the borough, I was ready to leave. The area must have possessed the highest concentration of street vendors, of food and t-shirt and questionable paraphernalia, of anywhere on earth, Calcutta included. Sensory overload. Olfactory overload.

After wandering about for a good while, we miraculously found a burrito stand attended by a cheerful, heartwarming Irishman, who made us impeccably fresh and well-balanced (is it presumptuous to assume that you, too, are easily irritated at Chipotle’s probably-intentional disproportionate amount of rice-to-meat?) chicken and steak burritos. Score one for team us! A friend of Danielle’s, Grant, who is studying abroad at King’s College in London, met up with us shortly before our delicious discovery, and vowed to guide us to Regent’s Park as the sun’s descent further approached the horizon.

I had been to Regent’s Park while in London upon first arriving in England, yet only while jogging through, not absorbing the wonderful blending of natural growth and human cultivation of its gardens. The Queen’s Garden was our goal, because of its roses that were slowly dying to the impending winter. When we arrived at the gates, I was worn. Traveling, constantly making logistical decisions, accounting for others’ desires, remembering to keep your wallet in your front pocket, checking your surroundings around every turn, remembering directions, pulling off and donning more layers, working within time constraints, makes me tired pretty quickly. Though it had only been six or seven hours, by the time we arrived at the gates of the Queen’s Garden, I was ready to sit and be still and quiet, to fade into the background for a little while, and watch and listen. And, thankfully, that’s what I got to do.

Look at a few of the flowers I found:


It was good to sit on the park bench there, watching a French couple walking alongside one another, the father pushing a stroller cradling a fleece-swaddled napping baby, seeing a dad chase his toddling son through the garden, them both giggling at one another, hearing Danielle’s and Grant’s conversation drift from the bench a little ways away. There’s something restoring that comes from simply listening, seeing, trying to do no more, and no less. The roses were beautiful, and partly because they weren’t in their prime. Many of them were faded, wilted, calling it quits for the season. Yet there were a few that rewarded the patient explorer, full and vibrant, seeming to take one last stretch in the fading sunlight. I smiled in return.

Not Gonna Lie, This Library is Hip

A smallish study break seems a good idea at this point in the day, after having finished one of the three Shakespeare plays lined up for my tutorial on Friday. I was asked to read Henry IV parts one and deux, as well as Henry V, to then write an essay to discuss. Shakespeare, like Classical music or Spongebob Squarepants, seems an acquired taste, for his plays don't always strike one as profound, enjoyable, or even comprehensible at times, which can be surprising given his enduring popularity. Yet, I'm beginning to move beyond all of the predispositions built up over the years of having heard others talk about him and his works, and feel that I'm starting to experience his works for myself, with the help of others, of course. Oxford seems as good a place as any for that to happen.


A lot of this Shakespeare reading occurs in the St. Catherine's library, usually in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that line the upper level walls. The architecture at this college is unusually modern given the general look of Oxford, yet it is a neat contrast with the much older buildings. There is a lot of natural light in the library, certainly designed with that in mind (in a Frank Lloyd Wright-esque way, no doubt), and the place is tomb quiet. Probably the most quiet place on campus, other than the chapel. Oh wait - St. Catherine's doesn't have a chapel (from the website: "The College is one of the few undergraduate colleges in Oxford without its own chapel, which adds to the inclusive and diverse feel of the place," a sentence loaded with implications of views on Christianity...). Sometimes when I'm bored, or restless, I wander about looking at all of the incredible literature sections. It's hard not to be wooed by Oxford's libraries, and I've seen some amazing ones already. Pictures to come.

Anyway, I enjoy coming here in the morning after a solid breakfast, especially if the sun is out. Since one wall of windows faces east and the other west, I tend to switch places after lunch if I return to read or write, like a snow buttercup flower. It's a cozy place, with nooks and crannies, and quite conducive to pondering things, or looking out the window, or spying on the librarians, each of which I may or may not participate in on a daily basis. A fun thing that happened the other day at the Catz library:

An 1866 version of Shakespeare's first folio from 1623, found, hiding in a bookshelf corner!

Quirky People Coming Home to Roost

An aspect of Oxford that I’ve grown to love as I’ve noticed it is the quiet quaintness of this place. The stores, the streets, the proximity of places – there are so many nooks to explore and corners to turn, all of which creates a curious and quietly alive atmosphere. Students, no doubt, contribute to this, what does one call it?, quirkiness. I talked with a friend at dinner last night who told me about a friend of his who, when asked his favorite place in the town said the Ashmolean Museum, where he “can spend hours.” A museum! Not a club, not asleep in his bed, not the dining hall. I’ve noticed that students here seem OK with their peculiarities, more so than students in the States. They aren’t self-conscious when they talk about enjoying reading or writing, or going to plays, and they don’t say it in a pretentious, self-satisfied way. Granted, I have talked with a total of ten British students, and am sure that those with pompous tendencies abound, and students here are still students, with their complaints and stresses and uncertainties about themselves and the future. They are still people. Yet, the community encourages quirkiness, curious individuality, and I like that students go about that in quiet ways.

While walking through University Parks a few days ago, I came upon this curious mound of leaves and sticks beneath a few maples:

A human-sized nest, it seemed to me. Immediately curious, I read the sign planted in the ground nearby, explaining that the creation was the art project of a University student learning about birds’ nest-making processes. So what did she do? Made a nest! Why not? I imagine her walking lightly through a nearby forest, tweed bag in hand, listening to the crowing of birds and crinkling of leaves and sticks underfoot, wearing leather boots and black tights and a grey jumper, a very British outfit, eyes open for medium-sized twigs. She probably spent an afternoon searching, and another afternoon building, smiling at incredulous passersby, sometimes explaining herself to the bolder ones who ask her intentions. I imagine she’s worked on projects before and has moved beyond the defensive posture of one feeling ridiculed by others to a quiet confidence in the joy of her endeavor. And I imagine there are many students like that here, who live into the intellectual and creative freedom offered through the tutorial system, possibly realizing that life itself is about that kind of freedom, to pursue joys and questions and others.

I haven’t yet found a good enough word to express the flavor of life here, and will keep searching for a way. For now, quiet-quirkiness will have to suffice.

The Sweet Ride

So, the thought of a study-abroad-life-blog has overwhelmed me a bit over the past two weeks since I last updated. Perhaps it's the amount of reading and writing I do daily at this academic hub, or all of the things I think about during the day that might be worth writing about but also might be a waste of time, or perhaps it's the idea of a blog, of publishing unedited blurbs from my life for anyone to read that makes me feel a bit discouraged. Needless to say, I have an odd aversion to consistently updating others with my life via an online journal. Yet I still want to document things, to take pictures and make lists and explore little wonderings and wanderings.

I was walking around town the other day when a thought hit me, an idea that fits this conundrum and provides me an avenue for expression and documentation and space to write. So, I'll try it for a bit, though not strictly. Taking from Amy Krouse Rosenthal's style, and sticking to my initial desire set in the first post of the trip, I propose to explore small things and ordinary things and lovely things, one or so at a time.

The Sweet Ride
Let's talk about bikes. Let's talk about the joy of living is significantly augmented with the gift of bike. Let's talk about how good it feels to hop on the pedals on a brisk, sunny, breezy fall day, scarf wrapped and helmet buckled (as dad would have it), heading to the park to read and write, on the left side of the road because it's England, on the one-foot-wide green path designated for bikers and encroached upon by bus drivers. Let's talk about how I wandered around Oxford for three hours one afternoon in search of a used bike, to no avail, and eventually settled upon this magical machine after returning to the bike store twice because they prepared the wrong bike for me:
Let's talk about how awesome it is to attach a bungee cord to the package-carrier on the back to hold necessities such as a water bottle and jacket, or small woodland creature. Let's talk about how good it feels to pass someone who doesn't need to be somewhere as badly as you do, so you stand up on the pedals and pump and smile to yourself as you pass them, and imagine yourself sticking a wheel in their spokes to further insult their lack of vigor which makes you laugh to yourself because that's so uncharacteristic of you.

Though this bike isn't nearly as sleek as the hot rod I have at home, it provides swift access to the downtown area of Oxford, rides quietly, smoothly, and confidently. His name is Spencer, and he is a reliable friend in a territory becoming, with his help, more familiar each day.

826? More Like Great26!

Two summers ago, while in Sandwich, Illinois, I came upon a book in a used bookstore after eating a sandwich with a few friends from high school – an annual outing. My heart leapt when the book’s binding registered on the ever-growing wish list in my mind and, as sometimes happens, I sensed a certain providence in the discovery, a sense that I was meant to find that work then and there. A friend of mine recommended Dave Eggers’s achingly sincere, enjoyable, and tragic autobiography A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius some time before the convergence, planting the seed that would prepare my receipt of the book. While an affecting, inspiring, book that reached me on many levels, what is even more interesting is where the book has helped point me.

Researching an author post-read is a healthy activity for any curious reader (right?), and I found myself wanting to know more about Eggers and his life, what he might be up to after releasing such an earnest and noteworthy work, if he was basking in the glow of its success, swimming in pools of gold coins like Scrooge McDuck, or continuing living as an ordinary individual who happens to possess a singular literary talent. Helping start a publishing house, McSweeney’s, that gives ardent, sometimes undistinguished writers a chance at a novel, or inclusion in the quarterly publication, Eggers also began a writing center in San Francisco. His idea was to create a tutoring center in conjunction with the publishing house: with the many talented and encouraging authors loitering around together in a building, why not, in their spare time, extend a pen-ink-stained hand to students in the area? Thus, 826 Valencia was conceived, a child bursting with creative energy the heart to help, quickly wandering to almost every major city in the US, Chicago included.

With the recession in full swing, I knew, this past February, chances were slim that I’d land a lucrative, conveniently scheduled three-month job while home from college on summer break. Living at home has its benefits: free food, my own room, and a bathroom. Oh, and a family that cares for me. Though our well-being does not depend upon my income, thank goodness (that would mean far less used books to buy), I felt a nagging voice in the back of my head: “You need to do something during summer. I know you’re a human being, not a human doing, but that is not an excuse for avoiding involvement.” I knew a bit about 826 Chicago: the storefront, ambiguously called “The Boring Store,” was spy-themed. Plus. It was located in Wicker Park. Plus. It was an 826. Plus. So, with determination and not a little uncertainty, I fashioned a résumé, set up an interview for February 21 and waited.

The interview went semi-awkwardly, on my part, yet they saw something in me, perhaps it was the eagerness with which I answered their inquiries, or the glint in my eye, and I was asked onboard as a summer intern. Right on! Instead of write a “a day in the life of an 826 Chicago summer intern,” I’ll proceed more in the spirit of the community there, by using various objects associated with or belonging to the center to elucidate the experience, with one admonition: to better sense the vibrant and delightful atmosphere there, a visit is necessary. The trip is worth an afternoon.

The Cast-Iron Mechanical Cash Register
Located on Milwaukee Avenue in Wicker Park, the exterior of 826 sports an ostentatious sign signaling “The Boring Store,” with ironically superfluous captions, technical jargon, and product descriptions that mostly say “we don’t take ourselves too seriously.” Inside, one finds oneself amidst rearview sunglasses, posters of international secret intelligence insignias, faux security cameras, and a fake-mustache-trying-on station. The cash register at the clerk desk, at first look, seems rather out of place: a big, cast-iron mechanical register no doubt from the turn of the century. However, after more perusal of the store, you realize what holds everything together, the undercover, antiquated, literary (there is a shelf of McSweeney’s-published works) atmosphere – the playful tongue-in-cheekness of the place and the people. And it works. All of the proceeds, the staff are quick to share, help fund the writing center at 826.

A Sunday Afternoon Hotdog Meal
Walk through a doorway next to the register, and you find yourself in the workshop area of 826, a big, open room that feels like a classroom with splashes of color, humor, and enthusiasm. Staff members and volunteers run creative workshops and drop-in tutoring for first grade through high school students year round, free of charge. During the summer usually two or three workshops are held per day, with such titles as, “Travel the World Through Chocolate,” “Once Upon a Time Again: Using Improv to Create a Fairytale Parody,” and “Mystery Mail: Surprising Serials!” (the latter of which I happened to have taught!).
A requisite of the workshops (volunteers submit proposals) is that students receive a tangible representation of their work afterward, usually a booklet compiling the writings of all the attendees. Every year or so, 826 National, the umbrella organization, accepts submissions from the 826s for an official publication. 826 Chicago recently made a book, A Sunday Afternoon Hotdog Meal, a collection of elementary-aged students’ essays concerning all things Chicago: where one should visit, must-see destinations, and where to find the best Chicago-style hotdogs.

White MacBook Laptops
Pardon the break from the single-object description imposed upon the latter half of this essay, for their was not one MacBook employed within 826, no, generally five to six were up and fashionably running at any given moment. The staff members joked that 826 was a prime spot for a Mac commercial with such a uniform technological and aesthetic preference. However, they are not a superficial bunch. Working long hours, constantly helping one another and walking to the Jewel around the corner for sandwich parts, joking with students to elicit their engagement, and somehow finding the energy for patience and wit – they are a lovely and persevering bunch. Much of the encouraging, spontaneous atmosphere of the place, no doubt the only way to foster creativity, is owed to their heartening personalities, and the students are better for it.

There you have it! The place is great, wonderful even. It’s a place where imaginations are urged to wake up, funny bones tickled by oversized feathers, and hearts are encouraged to feel. And the joy is a contagious thing.

(Note: The picture included is of me (on the right) a few of the interns, and a handful of students after a play-writing workshop. Fun! This piece is also pending publication for the Glen Ellyn Bookstore's online journal.)

We're Not In Kansas Anymore, and the Colors are Beautiful

Day 11

Today’s breakfast consists of:
- a lightly-toasted egg-and-cheese sandwich on wheat (sandwich at 8:30am? Of course!
- a bowl of a granola-y cereal I found at the grocer downtown that has chunks of yogurt and raspberry and happiness.
- Claritin (not much nutritional value, to my knowledge), a Vitamin C (more nutritional value) and a pink multi-vitamin (the mother lode of nutritional value.)
- Sunlight streaming through the blinds of the floor to ceiling window in my half of our en-suite room.
- Bon Iver’s “Blood Bank EP,” through headphones (Justin Vernon wasn’t able to make it over this morning)
- A lovely email from a lovely girl back home, a significant girl in my life, a life-giving girl.

I really couldn’t have concocted a better morning. Since arriving at Oxford, at England for that matter, finding a sense of home hasn’t been easy and the first coupe days here felt, at times, gut-wrenchingly strange and awkward, much like freshmen year at high school all over again. I forget how it is to walk into a dining hall seeing 96% unrecognized faces, no friend-anchor insight to grab a seat next to. Socializing here is an interesting thing: the central place of socialization at St. Catherine’s is the JCR (Junior Commons Room), which boasts a big-screen TV, pool tables, a fire place (that’s never been used, I was told), comfy chairs, and, last but not least, the college bar. At night, students, after finishing dinner and their day’s work, congregate at the JCR simply to hang out and have a drink. This certainly isn’t a strange occurrence – people in the States drink alcohol and meet with one another, sometimes at the same time. Yet, this is certainly not how I’m used to meeting others. I’ll generally meet people I know and then head somewhere.

This past week at Oxford has felt very much like the first week of freshman year at IWU, not a little bit because they pair visiting students with the freshmen here for orientation-type activities. The same element of meeting people, of figuring out how to live and work and play here, of wandering around knowing peoples’ names but not their favorite thing to read or what their real laugh sounds like, is consistent with the beginning of college. In many ways it does feel like I’m carving out a new life in unknown territory, yet now that I have a home-base to return to, a little nook that feels like me with its maps and familiar books and peaceful pictures, the half of my suite (I have to say half because my roommate gets the other half, our spaces divided by a curtain), the territory feels a bit more known. And I would say this is true for many things here.

London was very overwhelming in that sense. While I met some lovely American students who knew the town well and shared significant similarities with me, I still felt like a stranger wandering in a strange land, without a landmark in sight except for the touristy-ones. My map was not yet well-worn, and much less memorized, coupled with the navigation of relating with new people I was placed alongside. I tend to be an incremental person, wanting to slowly appreciate and explore and learn things, and the constant dousing of newness wore on me, this past week at Oxford too.

Yet, and yet, each day continues and I feel more myself, more connected with this place and the people here. Two days ago, I had some free time in the morning, a rare sunny morning at that, and I left St. Catherine’s small-ish campus in search of a quiet bench to read and pray. After ten minutes of walking down a trafficky (pedestrian and automotive) road, past towering, ancient-stone and curiously welcoming Oxford colleges, about to turn around, I happened upon Oxford University Parks, a collection of sports greens on the outskirts of town. By myself, I strolled across the fields, a lone park bench near some small trees (I wish I knew what type). When I reached it, I sat, and breathed, and looked around at the loveliness surrounding me: students in the distance walking to and fro class, the empty soccer pitches resting, waiting for the next games, an older couple sitting on a similar bench a few hundred yards away, the city center not too far off in the distance as indicated by the handful of steeples reaching toward the sky. I wasn’t distracted by a sense of having to meet people, or of having to appreciate where I was because of Oxford being Oxford. I was simply, and peacefully, there, looking around and seeing.

Sitting on the bench, reading a CS Lewis book, Letters to Malcolm, I felt a true sense of belonging here, in the midst of its newness to me (oldness to itself). This place will certainly come to me in increments, as will the friendships and the learning, and the less I feel pressure to absorb it all, the more I am able to. It’s good to be here. It’s good to be here for a while.

Away He Go

It’s an unsettling thing to live in a country different from one’s own, to intentionally place oneself in a wholly unfamiliar context and see what happens – what changes, what grows, what is challenged, what becomes quiet, what remains about and within oneself. Having spent only four days in London thus far, days spent largely with other United Statesians, I already sense some of the subtle contrasts of US culture and that of the UK. Before beginning that twiggy branch of thought, though, I’ll posit a “statement of purpose” for the writings to follow in the coming year, a request also asked for by Oxford in its study abroad application, in all its philosophical ambiguity:

“First of all, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I do not intend to transcribe a detailed schedule for you as an attempt to tell my story of studying abroad (though I may choose to do so once in a while, if I have a quite unconventional day or am fresh out of good ideas for a post). I do, however, intend to communicate the curious particulars of the days to come, for I find that these are what tend to interest me most in life: the lilt in my Irish friend’s voice, especially evident when he mentions his nation of origin. The compounding frustration of trying to find a reasonably priced, reasonably nutritional, reasonably delicious meal in a supermarket at 18:30. The mildly awkward music situation in the hotel lift, how it turns on when the lift begins moving and turns off when the doors open, as a strangely utilitarian European courtesy. The bleached, matching mullets of the two large, presumably Dutch women sitting next to one another on a sofa in the lobby. The background things. The things that interest me which, therefore, I tend to remember. Hopefully they interest you too.
I intend to try to not focus on myself. I get tired and bored of me rather easily, and since I’ll be around me a lot, I’ll enjoy considering other things. I intend to be honest, as honest as I can while maintaining a tact I hope to cultivate. It’s easy to fall into extremes with honesty – clamming up for fear of alienating another, unabashedly confessing for fear of not finding some way, any way, to connect with others. As a wise friend often says, there’s a balance to it.
I intend to invite you to glimpse into this experience with me. Let’s see what happens, this uncontextual adaptation.”

Being away from home and friends isn’t the strangest thing right now; I’ve dealt with the adjustment to living at college, being apart from friends during summer (and this fall, having left two months later than most), and have traveled a bit. Perhaps being in England still feels like a weekend trip. Perhaps I will realize “being here” more fully once I arrive in Oxford, or when I am given a look of disgust after putting peanut butter (I brought two jars – comfort blankets – from home) and jelly on a piece of bread for a sandwich (much like the look I gave to the cheese-and-pickle offering at today’s lunch buffet). Maybe I’ll realize it tonight when I wake wanting to read a Carl Sandburg poem from my favorite anthology and can’t. Maybe I’ll realize it when I walk into CS Lewis’ favorite Oxford pub, The Eagle and Child.

The strangest thing for me right now is a sense of being out of rhythm, physically (eating differently, not exercising on the same schedule), mentally (not writing and reading on my own, to the extent I did over the summer), relationally (meeting new people constantly, being away from my family, from BethAnne, from friends), spiritually (it seems that some from the UK like to flaunt the fact that they are very much a post-God culture, as if that were a good place to be).

I’m not upset or miserable here – just processing, and a bit worn too. I’ll probably do a lot of that on this site (thinking, processing, expressing), and I promise more humorous anecdotes and themes. I know I said that last time, honey, but this time it's true. You gotta' believe me. You gotta. Don't leave me.

Anyway, final thought: recently (the last two years, that is), life has seemed to be largely about rebalancing in new contexts, and it is a new balance I now have to find. It’s something that will change, will be challenged, and no doubt strengthened as I seek and remember my Center in this new place.

(Written 3 September 2009 in London (I like to write by hand before typing, though this causes a publication delay))

Let's See

A few years ago, my dad gave me a newspaper article during Christmas break that he had found while I was away at school, and I have kept it since. It is a short piece (link) written by Garrison Keillor, and the wonder and loveliness of it have haunted me to this day, a sentiment no doubt woven with my quiet surprise at my dad having read and kept a writing that met me in such a real way. In the article, Keillor describes traveling on a bus in Manhattan during a chilled December night, sitting behind a couple he judged to be in their “early 20s:”

“She was a pale-skinned dark-haired beauty, perhaps an Egyptian film star, perhaps not, and the way she laid her head on his shoulder said that they were sweethearts, but he was so cool toward her, so blasé."

He didn’t kiss her once though she clearly wanted him to. I hear him say, ‘I was over at Larry’s when you called. Sorry I didn’t call you back.’ ‘What were you doing?’ she said. ‘Just hanging out.’ His hair was much nicer than a man’s hair should be. Too much time spent on that, and why would you hang around with Larry when you could be with her?”

This glimpse reminds me of how it is to return home from college after months spent away from home, away from the smell of my closet, a soft blend of laundry and old books, from the quiet murmuring of one of my parents talking on the phone downstairs, from the stairway that is so built into my muscle memory that I now only trip one out of fifteen times when skipping a step on the way up to my room. And, of course, the people: the smell of my dad’s aftershave as he hurries about a breakfasting kitchen, my mom leaving the nearly-finished Chicago Tribune crossword puzzle like a fresh footprint, my younger brother’s indecipherable grumblings chosen over distinct “yes’s” or “no’s” or “I’m at a tumultuous stage in my life and, though I desperately desire to relate with others, the effort is too much right now and you, family, will simply have to wait while I remain in my adolescent-cocoon.” These things I have grown accustomed to, that I see but don’t see, in all their humanness and loveliness and peculiarity.

I begin to wonder, What else am I growing accustomed to? What else is becoming familiar, so familiar that it annoys with its sameness, fulfilling the adage, “familiarity breeds contempt?” Why is it that we desperately desire to know, and be known, yet start to feel stale in our own home, in our own skin? Perhaps it is not so much new people or new places that we truly desire, but fresher, realer ways of seeing all that’s around us. Like Keillor,

“I don’t want to be like that young man, in the presence of magnificence and oblivious to it. His life has been too easy for him to understand what a miracle her love is. Mine has not.”

When we know love, it’s easy to forget what loneliness feels like - what homelessness might feel like because homelessness is the essence of loneliness - its weight and suffocation, how seems inexorable. It’s easy to forget our deep need for one another, for love, when we are with those people, and perhaps this is sometimes a good thing to forget. Yet, it is our quiet, or frantic, sufferings that remind us of all that’s inside calling out to love and be loved. This is a level worth connecting on, the realest level there may be. As Frederick Buechner writes, in his work "Adolescence and the Stewardship of Pain,"

“We are never more alive to life than when it hurts – never more aware both of our own powerlessness to save ourselves and of at least the possibility of a power beyond ourselves to save us and heal us if we can only open ourselves to it. We are never more aware of our need for each other, never more in reach of each other, if only we can bring ourselves to reach out and be reached."

If absence, longing, makes us realize our love for others, how can we live with this awareness of their beauty, of their loveliness and depth and humor and holiness? How can we not fall into well-worn paths of being with one another that, because of the familiar footfalls and cracks and ridges, blind people with a gauze of mundanity? We need constantly renewed eyes, hearts, as Jesus put it in Matthew 9.16,

“Neither do men pour new wine into old wineskins. If they do, the skins will burst, the wine will run out and the wineskins will be ruined. No, they pour new wine into new wineskins, and both are preserved.”

How then, to engage in this restoration? Far from a conclusive answer, Anne Lamott writes an idea that points toward this renewal in her book Bird by Bird:

“ [Good] books help us understand who we are and how we ought to behave. They show us what community and friendship mean; they show us how to live and die. They [teach]…quality of attention: we may notice amazing details during the course of a day but we rarely let ourselves stop and really pay attention. An author makes you notice, makes you pat attention, and this is a great gift. My gratitude for good writing is unbounded. I’m grateful for it the way I’m grateful for the ocean.”

I’m not sure if Jesus read literature, or if half of America even does. That’s not really the point, though. The point is learning to pay attention. To listen. To see others, really see them. I wonder if Adam and Eve had this problem of distraction or boredom before the Fall – probably not. It’s something we need to practice, to re-learn. We need wake-up calls. We need “eyes that see and ears that hear," and good art, good conversations foster this. What if we lived with the growing attentiveness to a God whose silence fills the earth: whose unspoken truth is everywhere, who came down to earth “delivering signs and dusting from their eyes,” as Sufjan Stevens sings? It is an ongoing pursuit, this awareness endeavor, and I wonder how much of it is us seeking to see something, and how much is grace-filled discovery. They mystery, however, is what pushes, lures, and tickles me onward.

Finding a Place for Common Grace

If I am honest, and I hope to be, the times I have felt closest with God, most loved and full of joy and hope and peace, most myself, are moments outside of church walls. As a Christian, how could this realization not come tinged with a shade of guilt? Sorry, Mom and Dad, other members of the congregation-it’s not you, yet it’s not me, either. It’s others I know, friends, full of faith or not, who I talk with, who share stories about books, movies, conversations, quiet walks in an arboretum, ear-numbingly loud concerts, moments that, though they don’t use the same language, have an air of transcendence about them. Instead of critiquing the church, for there are too many voices already doing that, I’d like instead to look at this idea of knowing God, of relating with him, of understanding how he speaks to us as individual, unique, strange, lovely people.

Discussing what it means to “know God” evades our lingual abilities deftly, leaving us to phrases such as “I sensed…” or “It felt like…,” or, sometimes, “God seemed to be saying…” In the past, disregarding the stories that followed these introductions was as easy as deleting spam from my inbox. However, the more I am convinced of God’s interaction with humanity, the slower I am to jump to incredulity. Hearing a nonChristian friend speak like this can be even more wonderful, for it is as though they are coming to a roundabout, a real and idiosyncratic understanding of God. He doesn’t love just Christians, and he certainly doesn’t work his love in their lives only, either.

In The Four Loves, CS Lewis’ graceful and candid collection of discussions on the nature of love, he prefaces his essays by distinguishing between two types of “nearness to God,” meaning the ways in which humans are either endowed with or cultivate Godlike qualities. One type of nearness is “likeness to God. God has impressed some sort of likeness to himself, I suppose, in all that he has made,” which draws on Genesis 1.27: “So God created man in His own image” (4). The second type of nearness he calls “nearness of approach,” which is akin to one trying to live as God would have it, presumably by following the life of Jesus: “the approach, however initiated and supported by Grace, is something we must do.” Thus, “likeness” is something “built in, that can be received with or without thanks; can be used or abused,” whereas nearness is the active pursuit of godliness (6). This “likeness to God” corresponds, it seems, with Romans 2.14:

“When outsiders who have never heard of God’s law follow it more or less by instinct, they confirm its truth by their obedience. They show that God’s law is not something alien, imposed on us from without, but woven into the very fabric of our creation. There is something deep within them that echoes God’s yes and no, right and wrong.”

The thread connecting these excerpts from Scripture and Lewis’ distinction is the notion of God having embedded himself within all of humanity. There is something in us that calls out to him, that wants to connect, that responds to that connection and causes us to say “I sensed…” It seems more and more real to me that we, us humans, all of us, know God in actual ways – yet we often don’t know him in the divisive “us – them” context of the reductive language that contemporary Christianity tends to speak with. In a recent interview, when asked what recognition of God remains after largely leaving Christianity, David Bazan said, “When I’m listening to the radio and there’s this story about a leader of a town against odds doing the right thing, when [I] see justice happen in a profound way, I [have a sense that] this is good, this is right, can we just keep doing this? I know that you know this is right [too]. I have joy, I feel peace” (Interview with rednoW staff, 8 April 2009).

In high school, I was part of Young Life that was often led by our area director, a thoughtful man named Bob. He knew and trusted that our inherent likeness to God was what would draw us into truer relationship with God. There was no “special information” to bestow, or prescribed formula to follow – the God inside us simply needed stirring, amplifying among the myriad voices inside that conspire to drown it out. Too often I sense a focus and call to stoically apply oneself to Christ’s ways, as though we are to try to force our circular souls into a square hole that we might not even be made for, as though his yoke was not easy nor his burden light. Yet Bob, and others I have crossed paths with (David Dark, Eugene Peterson, Frederick Buechner) focus on the wonder and mystery that is following God and trying to know him – trusting that communication with him is what we are made for, what gives us life.

So many are dissuaded from pursuing how God encourages us to live, as he did in becoming a revolutionary, subversive, brilliant Jew, because of the pressure to “repent,” too often portrayed as a feeling of deep guilt with oneself that ought lead to new behavior instead of a newer, better way of living, of loving. Buechner writes in his sermon, “The Kingdom of God,”

“Biblically speaking, to repent doesn’t mean to feel sorry about, to regret. It means to turn, to turn around 180 degrees. It means to undergo a complete change of mind, heart, direction…turn away from madness, cruelty, shallowness, blindness. Turn toward tolerance, compassion, sanity, hope, justice that we all have in us at our best”

The call to repent is a call to a greater, freer way of life, to seeing life in newer, realer ways, to fitting Jesus’ easy yoke, the burden of which is light. (Matthew 11.30). Pressure to feel contrite for who I am has yet to lead me closer to God, let alone want to be closer to him. Too often I walk away from sermons feeling pitiful and weakened, despite a pastor’s concluding, incongruously positive prayer. While our sin is what keeps us from God, and while we are truly pitiful and weak when contrasted with him, I’m not sure that the best way to lead others to God is convincing them of their brokenness. If only we would listen to the voices of our culture, voices in song and literature and movies, we would see that all of us, all faiths or lack thereof, know emptiness, hurt, the need for love, the God who is love (1 John 4.8).

The question, then, is how do we know God, how do we interact with him and learn that he is not a distant puppeteer, possibly asleep at the handles? Buechner writes, “It is not objective proof of God’s existence that we want but, whether we use religious language for it or not, the experience of God’s presence” (“Message in the Stars). True, “God works in mysterious ways” is not a verse in Scripture. Yet I believe we would be misguided to think that God only speaks through Scripture, that God only speaks to, or through, churchgoers, in their pews on Sunday morning. In A Matrix of Meanings, Craig Detweiler describes the idea of “common grace:”

“The theological term behind learning to look closer is ‘common grace’…exhibiting a sense of humor and playful surprise, the God of the Old Testament speaks through such unlikely means as a burning bush, a donkey, and a dream. Jesus continues the unpredictable, inverted pattern. He chooses tax collectors and fishermen to initiate his kingdom. He befriends prostitutes and defends a woman caught in adultery…common grace subverts preconceived notions of how, when, and through whom God chooses to communicate. It makes God bigger and the evangelist’s burden lighter.”

This is why I cannot read just the Bible, or theology for that matter. A Matrix of Meanings is an intellectually edifying and spiritually liberating work because it exists between the Church and culture, essential aspects in the life of anyone seeking God, believing God to be moving through each. Ray Bradbury novels, Sam Mendes films, Sufjan Stevens albums speak freedom into my life in ways I often don’t experience in church, yet I have hope that the not-so-lofty idea of common grace will be embraced more and more. Works of art like these draw me (or us, depending on your aesthetic inclinations) into a deeper wonder and awe, into a “celebration of life,” as a friend of mine recently put it. And didn’t Christ come “that we might have life, and life to the full?” We ought not think that this relationship with God can be fully understood, as Wendell Berry puts impeccably well:

“[The Gospels are] a mystery that we are highly privileged to live our way into, trusting properly that to our little knowledge greater knowledge may be revealed…reality is large, and our minds are small.”

To know God is to submit to his mystery and to his love that miraculously reaches us through honest conversations, enchanting literature, beautiful films, through connections with others. Perhaps we’ll come to recognize more and more that the God-prints we see in one another and ourselves were fully revealed in a Person who walked this earth two thousand years ago, who asks to show us truer ways of life.

pARTying

This past Saturday I partied. There, I said it. Mom, Dad, younger brother, I hope you are reading.

Walk past a certain suite on campus and you will see a few dozen wine bottles lined up on the windowsill. Before rushing to the nearest RA, however, look closer and see that the wine bottles are, indeed, Welch’s brand ® sparkling grape juice. Still made from grapes, with 100% less alcohol! These are remnants of parties past, obelisks reminding of many a laugh and song sung, a dance move dropped, and possibly a tear shed. Wait, sadness? No, art!

Recently, I have had the privilege of attending a unique type of party on campus with some good friends of mine, who, in their individuality, share an appreciation for many kinds of art. Our conversations often touch on music, movies, books, or other media that elicit enjoyment. From the bold, seemingly pretentious idea of incorporating aesthetic appreciation with the delight that is simply sitting around and talking with friends comes the birth of “art parties.”

Tongues firmly planted in cheek, wine glasses are brought out, filled, and, keeping proper etiquette in mind, toasted. Scarves, sport coats, accents, ties, heels, and other tasteful accoutrements are donned, though the merit of fake glasses, worn in an attempt to broadcast sophistication, is questionable. Cheese and crackers travel about the room, carried restaurant waitress-style by the hostess (a party has yet to occur in a male place of residence) and one might hear such utterances as, “Darling, I love what you’ve done with the place. The bunked beds are absolutely brilliant and inventive!”

The guests find comfortable seats after the greetings and small talk wind down and the needle of the turntable runs out of track on the record. Most have a book, a folded piece of paper, or a song at their fingertips. The art-sharing portion of the party commences, generally, with a volunteer willing to break the murmuring with a poem or excerpt of their own creation or that of an admired artist.

Despite the not-so-subtle mockery of art elitists, the guests of the party give respect and attention to the art shared or performed. They have circled around a grand piano, sat enthralled at an enthusiastic performance of a slam poem, and pensively reflected upon a somber monologue or prose passage. They do not shy away from stark, honest pieces and receive whatever is presented openly. Each piece is a unique, wonderful, shared moment, individually significant and something neat to be shared. Applause, or snapping, depending on the mood, abounds after each work as the performer bows and resumes his, or her, seat among the others in the room, glad to have been able to contribute to the lovely atmosphere. There is certainly a balance of somber as well as hilarious pieces. A spicy Latino interpretation of one of Juliet’s monologues by a theatre major led to a laugh or three.

I have questioned the nature of a “party,” when a gathering of people turns into a “party,” when one is officially “partying,” how many hugs or high-fives or drinks it takes to achieve the state of “partying,” and it is becoming clear to me that to “party” is simply to enjoy the company of others, having fun as a group. For some, alcohol and pyramids of plastic cups seems to be a necessity. For others and myself, shared art provides all the entertainment and enjoyment we could ask for.

(originally published Fall '08 in Illinois Wesleyan's Newspaper, The Argus)

Used Bookstories

I have a rather odd, personal secret to divulge. Nearly every time I walk into a bookstore, I get a tingly, weightless feeling in my stomach – a mild version of that sensation that comes with going over a hill in a car at just the right speed that makes your body thinks you’re floating. I’m not exactly sure what it is, or what it means, and don’t want to diminish the feeling by trying to explain it. All that I know is that bookstores excite me. Especially old, musty, quiet, used bookstores with bells that tinkle your presence to the store when you walk through the door.

Today was a perfectly crisp fall day, which is delightful in itself, and I had the opportunity in the afternoon to bike over to a used bookstore in Normal, about fifteen minutes from the IWU campus. I think that, in the back of my mind, I was rewarding myself for finishing a book for class (Frankenstein, if you are curious) and, presumably, doing OK on a Calculus quiz. Anyway, I arrived at the bookstore, Babbitt’s Books, with the general eagerness one possesses with ten dollars in pocket walking into a used bookstore on a lazy fall afternoon as such. I perused some shelves and found a few books that have been on the list for a while, and then discovered a real treasure. My eyes were attracted as though by a magnetic-eye-force to the top shelf of the poetry section, on top of which was poised a worn, blue hardcover book the size of a dictionary with “Complete Poems” printed above “Carl Sandburg” on the binding. (By the way, I am now beginning to realize that this post will probably be a bit long and tedious, so feel free to jump around from paragraph to paragraph at whatever pace and order pleases you. I’ll do my best to be interesting and entertaining, just like on a first date except that you can’t watch me pretend to get a text message when I flip my phone open for the third time in two minutes pretending to have something to do. OK, enough of this). I was elated! Not only have I been an admirer and reader of Sandburg’s since learning of Sufjan Steven’s appreciation for the writer, but was able to visit his childhood home in Galesburg, IL over the summer and lie in his backyard as I imagined he did on warm prairie-summer nights.

I approached the cash register with a childlike grin.
“Finding this made my day,” I offered to the cashier, who looked like a Mr. Babbitt, rather thin, with a grey beard and rimless spectacles, as I handed him the anthology. He opened the cover to look at the price (six dollars!) and, upon reading the name written inside, turned to a woman about his age working on a computer and said, with a touch of nostalgia behind his words and a subtle, warm smile, “This one belonged to Frances.”
I wore a look of curiosity and he replied, “Frances Irvin was a great member of the community. It’s probably good karma that you bought this.” I gave him another smile. “He taught elementary school, right?” to his coworkers, “And then was retired forever…very well read…he’d approve of a young person buying his book.” I said thanks and walked out of the store with an inner lightness that, in an indirect way, defines joy.

This whole occurrence got me to thinking, as memorable situations tend to do; What is it that I love about used bookstores? About used books? About knowing that someone had turned the pages and reflected on the lines and imagined the images of a book that I held in my hand, not too long before myself, as indicated by a penciled-in name on the inside of a cover? I arrived at an idea, a conjecture, a hypothesis. I think that it is heartening to know that another person, known or unknown, had walked where I now tread. And it’s wonderful to see their footprints on the pages (little notes, stains, smudges, lines, etc.). And wonderful strikes me as the most appropriate word: it fills me with wonder, mainly centering on the story of that person, the previous reader and owner of the book. As a side note, I encourage you to write to your heart’s content in a book. Oftentimes, breadcrumbs of observations in a story won’t distract but lead a reader along the path, in my humble opinion.

If a used book is a home in which a person once dwelt, investing time and thought and emotion and life into its frame, then a used bookstore is a neighborhood, a multifarious collection of stories and experiences simply desiring to be shared. I haven’t begun to read Sandburg’s collection of poems yet but am looking forward to where they will take me and how they will open my eyes to a world illuminated by poetry. And I think that is an aspect of the excitement of stories – they exist because they are shared. Frances Irvin’s way of sharing something he loved, Sandburg’s poems, was to give it away, and that makes me wonder what I will do with all of my books and movies and pictures when I pass away. And, why wait till death to give things away? A Bible verse comes to mind:
“If you grasp and cling to life on your terms, you’ll lose it, but if you let that life go, you’ll get life on God’s terms” (Luke 17:33, the Message translation).

I think we’re built to share that which we love, and used bookstores are full of opportunities to fulfill this contribution. Unless, of course, someone is simply trying to get rid of a C-list sci-fi book about evil flying dwarves called “Dante’s Divebombing Dwarves." That might be awful. Might.

(note: nearly a year after buying the Sandburg compilation, I discovered, alongside an equally enthusiastic friend, that Carl’s wrote his signature on one of the pages. What!)

Sounds of Heaven from Brooklyn?

“Tv on the radios new album is what the rapture will sound like if Gods angels are an indie band” was what a friend of mine recently texted to me, referring to the album “Dear Science” (the grammatical errors are not my own and I think that he would smile seeing me include them for authenticity’s sake). I’m not sure that I completely agree with him; if I were to imagine a band that most resembles an ensemble of heavenly hosts, Sufjan Stevens and his eclectic “Illinoisemakers” comes to mind. But I do think that he is on to something.

In a recent interview with the New York Times about their new album, “Dear Science,” TV on the Radio guitarist Dave Sitek explains, “A lot of bands have something to say; we have something to ask.” This posture of inclusivity, of listener engagement, permeates all of their music, reaching back to their first album, “Desperate Youth, Bloodthirsty Babes.” Though rather experimental and unconventional, a fusion of hip-hop, rock, jazz, and soul, Brooklyn-based TV on the Radio has yet to put out an album that does not resonate with its multifarious audience. Before “Dear Science,” their first and second albums, “Desperate Youth…” and “Return to Cookie Mountain,” respectively, each gained wide critical acclaim from musically diverse sources (i.e. Filter Magazine, Rolling Stone, Pitchfork, etc.), and experienced decent sales.

What has kept me listening over the years, however, has been the incredible way that the artists (as well as being musicians, the band members each pursue different arts as well, one of them once being a sculptor for the now-defunct MTV cartoon “Celebrity Deathmatch”) of TV on the Radio push the boundary of pop music while not going overboard into the depths of inaccessible, experimentalist noise. The beats are fresh, the guitar licks tight, the lyrics profound, and the vocals provide a unique and curiously perfect cohesiveness to the complexity of the dark aural blend. They pull all this off while remaining a witty and laid-back bunch. Later in the interview, singer Tunde Adebimpe, describes the group: “As heavy as some of the songs get [on Dear Science], the joking around that goes on between the five of us gets out of control sometimes.”

For a band purported to be “God’s angels,” this image of levity and harmony is quite fitting.

(originally published in Illinois Wesleyan University's newspaper, The Argus)

A Chilling Stroll Down "Revolutionary Road"

Shock value in art is generally something I frown upon because, if for no other reason, it is a cheap attempt to elicit a visceral response from the audience. There is superficial shock effect, as might be seen in a low budget horror movie or an absurdly avant-garde flick (see: “Vampiyaz”), which pale in comparison to subtle, unnerving aspects woven into works that effect long after leaving the museum, after pulling out of the theater parking lot, after closing the cover. Emily Dickinson claimed, “If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know it is poetry.” If her description holds true, then the movie “Revolutionary Road” is, no doubt, a lyric told from multiple perspectives, often without words.

Sam Mendes tells the story of an unrecognized, or unspoken, emptiness of the American dream in a way similar to his 1999 release “American Beauty,” though this rendition lacks Kevin Spacey’s lighthearted quips that assuage the bluntness of the broken lives exposed in the movie. Revolutionary Road pulls no punches while maintaining a certain calculated tact throughout, illustrating the nightmare that often haunts those stepping into adulthood: the perpetual routine of a dull existence. Mendes holds a magnifying glass to the deterioration of the Wheeler’s, DeCaprio and Winslet, lives, crumbling within the suffocation and apathy that result from the dynamic of their relationship.

John Givings, played by Michael Shannon, is the one breath of fresh air in the story, a character that incisively exposes the reality of the Wheeler’s dysfunction and seems to be the only one in the movie to see things as they truly are. "Plenty of people are on to the emptiness," John says to Frank and April, "but it takes real guts to see the hopelessness." It is a curiously perfect surprise to see Shannon receive an Academy Award nomination for best supporting actor, as he is onscreen for no more than twenty electric and revelatory minutes.

As the movie displays continually more unnerving callousness and unresolved conflict in an intimate relationship, it becomes clear that April and Frank are trapped not by their environment but by one another and the disappointments and fears they harbor. They each seek escape, though it is from the cages of their bodies and minds – not a particular situation, as they suppose. Revolutionary Road is a meditation on human fragility and the futility of changing another, or oneself, with one’s own self-interested hands.

No obvious resolution emanates to ease the hearts and minds of viewers as they sit watching the credits, trying to muster the strength to rise from their seats after having trudged through the complex swamp of emotions and implications conjured by the movie. It begs the questions, What would have changed had the Wheelers left suburbia? What is it inside of us that longs for escape, for freedom from routine? Seeing the holy in the mundane has to be more than a trivial desire in life because we live in particulars: parking in the same garage after work each day, seeing the same neighbors through the kitchen window. Revolutionary Road is a call to find meaning in seeming emptiness, in the un-romanticized aspects of life, to search inside one another and realize the deep mysteries and beauty that yearn for discovery.

(originally published by rednoW)

Preach Beauty Always and, When Necessary, Use Words

The difficult part of writing on, or discussing, a meaningful experience is that we run the risk of diminishing what was more amazing for us than we can attempt to match with the words at our disposal. “Awesome” is overused. “Crazy” sounds too frantic. “Righteous” rings a bit too much of the eighties. Though I don’t doubt your lexicon reaches beyond these clichés, a movie, a book, a poem, a concert that moves us (higher) incites some innate, beneficent desire to share, to want others to know the tingle, the warmth, the “a ha!”, the inside joke, the connection, the lift. This business of communication is an important one, indeed, and we constantly, consciously or otherwise, probe the limits of language when sharing what happens in our lives with others.

Seeing Explosions in the Sky is an experience beyond words, causing one to wish that there were some beauty-language (Hopelandic) that would successfully express to another a taste of what this band is about, what they create onstage, weaving wonders of aural alchemy that turn to some kind of gold when spread about enraptured audiences. The Texas-based instrumental band(connect to website) visited Congress Theater in Chicago on July 2nd. The day marked their ten year anniversary as a band which, with the difficulties that artists working together often face, quietly impresses. Standing at the lone vocal-microphone at stage right, Munaf Rayani, one of the three guitarists (there isn’t any obvious spotlighting of a frontman) softly spoke his traditional and ever-perfect introduction for the band: “My name is Munaf, and we’re Explosions in the Sky from Texas, USA,” walking toward the band to the rumble of an audience already roaring with anticipation.

For the next hour and a half, they soared, climbed, ventured into the sky, giving off radiant explosions of harmony the whole way. Not a word was spoken during the set – the band is entirely instrumental – yet their performance was evidence enough that meaning is deeper than words. Craig Detweiler, co-author of A Matrix of Meanings, says of ambient music, Sigur Rós in particular, “Without learning a new tongue, listeners get involved in the moods created by the music. Interpretations begin from feeling, not thinking, engaging “sentences of harmony.” The word “sentence,” after all, comes from the Latin verb “sentire,” meaning “to feel.”

For music void of lyrics, the possibilities for connection with the listener are as infinite and intricate as the tiny refractions in his personality and disposition, as intimate as the impact of words spoken and glances exchanged throughout her day. This approach makes the recipient the sole interpreter of the material, and each listener brings a different interpretation to each song. While it makes discussion difficult, this difficulty reminds us that music is about music, about a shared experience, not about our ability to dissect or describe or translate.

Language is not an absolute, nor is it static; it combines infinitely subjective and particular definitions, which is both its mystery and beauty. As I continue in life, I find that words are continually redefined and shaped: beauty, trust, faith, love, friendship. Language finds itself at a curious crux: we have “objective” definitions, what one might find in a dictionary, that give us some point of reference. However, the word “family” in your mind may be radically different from the concept I have in my mind, based on our diverse experiences, which outlines the importance of intentional communication, and the peril of assumption. We have to constantly learn one another’s language. As Carl Sandburg wrote, “When will we all speak the same language?”

The music of Explosions in the Sky leads to a necessarily idiosyncratic experience, one that all I was with at the time agreed was “Awesome.” Sometimes “Awesome” simply has to suffice for something so, well, explosive.

(Thanks to BA for the helps in editing this one)

PS - This passage is from Wendell Berry's essay, "Local Knowledge in the Age of Information," and, if I were a better writer I'd revise my essay to weave this one in, yet I think you'll make the implied connections and not mind the add-on approach:

"There is in addition for us humans [concerning knowledge], always, the unknown, things perhaps that we need to know that we do not know and are never going to know. There is mystery. Obvious as it is, we easily forget that beyond our sciences and arts, beyond our technology and our language, is the irreducible reality of our precious world that somehow, so far, has withstood our demands and accommodated our life, and of which we will always be dangerously ignorant."

Mm.

But Seriously, Let's be Ironic

For a long time, irony was synonymous with sarcasm, in all its cynicism and sometimes-subtle deprecation. It was difficult to reconcile a love for joking and absurdity with my love for others, especially when my dad maintained that "Sarcasm is a sin," quoting Matthew 5.37 (Simply let your 'Yes' be 'Yes,' and your 'No,' 'No'; anything beyond this comes from the evil one). How, I wondered, could it be sinful not to say what you mean? Don't we do that all the time? Is it ever possible to say what we truly mean?
Contemporary culture has been critiqued as pervasively ironic beyond any semblance of intentional sincerity (think: the hipster ethos, complete with Kanye West sunglasses, mustaches, Nike hi-tops, other tongue-in-cheek accouterments). However, in his editorial for Image magazine, Gregory Wolfe argues that irony is something quite different from that which is often labeled as such in contemporary postmodern culture. Irony, he believes, is something different from the "bad faith" we often see manifested through attitudes of evasiveness and biting insincerity. He writes,

"The simplest definition of irony that I’ve encountered is “the recognition of a reality different from the masking appearance.” The goal of the artist is to enable his or her audience to encounter irony as a moment of recognition, an awareness of the disparity between appearance and reality. Like many of the artist’s devices, irony is something of an interactive game, requiring a discerning mind that is willing to sift through the evidence and draw conclusions. When irony is used by the greatest minds, recognition can become revelation, a way of piercing through the ambiguities of daily life to a fleetingly-glimpsed truth."

Irony is not condescending or embittered. It "reminds us of how difficult it is to achieve the transparency of true sincerity" with our words. There is a playfulness to it, a recognition and acceptance of the limits of language and communication that can be used to great effect (see: "A Modest Proposal," and try to take it seriously). Sincerity is, I believe, one of the most noble aspirations in a relationship. And for a while, I believed that sincerity meant approaching conversation with a somber, no-nonsense attitude. However, after meeting certain people and seeing how they go about play-talking with one another, I saw the joy and imaginative liberation of irony.

Recently I've come across a few thoughts on Jesus' irony and playfulness, which breathe fresh air into the figure who is, more than maybe anyone else in history, painted as dull and vapid. This, from Wolfe's article:

"To my mind, Jesus is the supreme ironist. It is impossible for me to think of his parables, or the many koan-like conundrums he poses to apostles, Pharisees, and gentiles, without sensing his playful use of indirection, that teasing form of testing those who encounter him, that is the essence of irony."

And, from the book A Matrix of Meanings: Finding God in Pop Culture commenting on this passage: "The Bible is a subversive document with a wicked sense of humor that spares no one. Unfortunately, many of its pointed words shoot right over our heads and miss the opportunity to liberate our hearts." I don't think God didn't smile a little bit to himself when identifying himself as "I am that I am" to Moses in Exodus 3.

It seems that we need to recover this playfulness, this teasing indirection that relieves much of the tension of somber dialogue. There is a time for direct addressing of issues, when jocularity ought be put on pause. However, Wolfe's distinction between irony and "bad faith" is especially relevant when trying to figure a way of delightful indirection in a culture of cynicism and condescension. We would do well to learn from Swift, Sedaris, and even the Son of God.

Threw It in the Garbage Bin

My original idea for the title of this blog:

"A Dorn In Your Side"

Not sure how many people that one would have drawn.

Let's Start With a List

Working in the Boring Store at 826 Chicago is anything but dull. There are the ever-curious customers, quirky staff members, the endlessly interesting items scattered throughout the store and, of course, a shelf of McSweeney's publications. I was browsing through one, Created in Darkness by Troubled Americans: The Best of McSweeney's Humor Category, and came across a section of lists toward the end of the book. This one evoked an un-stifleable laugh or three, and I think you'll enjoy, too, oh currently-dedicated reader. Our lasting relationship is a constant in my life that keeps me going.

Music Industry Trends Not Yet Overexposed
by John Moe

Trance tuba
Self-deprecating hip-hop
All-dog bluegrass
Mild Salsa
Teamsta rap
Immature adult contemporary
Back hair metal
Gangsta polka
Amino acid jazz
Despairaoke
Barbershop quartet-core
Pyschedelic chamber groups
Hard on the outside but with a squishy nougat center-core
Graduate school rap
Halfway-house music
Reasonable speed metal
Jazz-crap fusion
Blank tapes

What is it that is so wonderful about lists? Is it the minimal effort : massive enjoyment? Is it the fun of making obscure connections? Is it the catharsis of organization? Who wrote the first list? Did Adam start one when he began naming animals? Does God have to-do lists? Did the Israelites have moral to-do lists that they left on their fridges but then became so used to them that they blended in with the rest of the family photos, which ultimately led to their numerous falls from grace? I'm reading a bit of the Old Testament now - don't worry, there aren't that many references I can make. Unless you dare me.

P.S. - And then someone showed me this: http://www.mcsweeneys.net/links/lists/