rilke!

You see, I want a lot.
Maybe I want it all:
the darkness of each endless fall,
the shimmering light of each ascent.

So many are alive who don't seem to care.
Casual, easy, they move in the world
as though untouched.

But you take pleasure in the faces
of those who know they thirst.
You cherish those
who grip you for survival.

You are not dead yet, it's not too late
to open your depths by plunging into them
and drink in the life
that reveals itself quietly there.


It’s Not Too Late, Rainer Maria Rilke
Image here.

desire

More on the Rebelution, from someone more thoughtful than me: here and here.

Image: here.

home, home in the snow

"Wherever you go, there you are."
-attrib. to Grandmaster Cliche

There's something profound to be said about identity observing the self, but I'm going for a walk instead.

on the blessing of community

"There is no use trying," said Alice. "One can't believe impossible things."

"I dare say you haven't had much practice," said the Queen. "When I was your age, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."

-Alice in Wonderland


Yoga by the mailboxes with Adriana and Tonda, followed by jumping on the couches and throwing pillows, makes me feel like I can believe the impossible. Even if Etienne does laugh at us.

quote of the day

From Twisty:

Their remarks represent what I have scientifically determined to be the most prevalent misconception about American feminists (aside from our famed dedication to the Three Hs: Hairiness, Humorlessness, and Hate): that we desire “equality” with men. This notion of inadequate women clamoring for parity is undoubtedly a comforting one, since it postulates “men” as the ideal that is desperately sought by legions of shrill bitches who, ultimately, are doomed never to prevail owing to “innate differences.”

That equality with men is the last thing on the radical feminist’s To Do list will not blow any veteran blamer’s mind, but it is incumbent on the spinster aunt to reiterate every ten minutes or so that our objective is liberation from male dominance, not the opportunity to mimic the patriarchal model of oppression .

fred on civility

"The Ramones rock!" is a statement, albeit an ambiguously defined one, about the world, about our shared reality. "I enjoy the music of The Ramones," is a statement about me. You can agree or disagree with the former, but not the latter, which is irrefutable but also -- as far as the world and our shared reality goes -- irrelevant.

To be civilized -- to live together -- we need to be able to talk about the world we share. We need to be able to talk about art, politics, religion, economics, science and all the other vital components of our civilization and not just about our own feelings. This conversation doesn't always have to be nice, but it has to be honest and it has to be responsible. That is what "civility" means.

Link. I may have said this before, but I'd like to marry Fred when I grow up.

Also, East Germany lives! (source)

Also, I'd be willing to marry Glenn Greenwald, too.

four cups of coffee

Sometimes, particularly when I've had a cup of coffee prior, I get excited in class.

Excitement, unfortunately, doesn't correlate very well with coherence. We were talking in Ethics about the Niebuhr brothers and critiques of pacifism. Reinhold critiques most forms of Christian pacifism as being little more than humanistic optimism, and advocates instead a realistic amassing of power to counter other power centers in global politics.

(Something like that- I've now had four cups of coffee, so my thinking is faster than my typing. Good for the thinking, not so good for the clarity of writing.)

Anyway, I heard something or other about balance of powers and my caffeinated mind said 'Dahrendorf!' Then, because I am ever-so-embodied, my mouth followed suit, leading the class to ask me what the connection was between the ongoing discussion and my animated citation of a British sociologist of whom no one else had heard.

Enter incoherence: "well, he wrote Class and Class Conflict in Industrial Society, and he's roughly contemporary with Niebuhr, and he was interested in how power is divided and diffused among groups so that, um, oligarchies... yeah, so that the power doesn't get centralized... which is sort of what Neibuhr is saying. So they're connected...?"

I have a bookshelf in my house. It's not big enough to hold my books, so they sit in stacks two deep. They aren't organized, either, just thrown in out of boxes from when I moved over the summer. I've tried a bit to put the books I don't expect to use toward the back, but it's a subjective process that sounds like this:
Hm, Acts of Faith, I might want a little rational choice analysis of religion, I'll put that toward the front... yeah.
I don't do well at anticipating which books I'll want on a whim, though, so of course Class and Class Conflict in Industrial Society was buried under a stack in the back.

Enter motivation, though: I drug it out. No clue when I'll look back through it, but it's in my backpack waiting. The connection is clearer to me now than it was in class- I really like our buddy Reinhold, and his critique of active Christian pacifism makes sense to me. It would make more sense, though, if he were writing from a secular position... in which case he would more or less be Dahrendorf.

And I do like Dahrendorf. And coffee.

I'm not a militant, but...

Some friends and I were talking, Friday afternoon, about young women who will say "I'm not a feminist, but..." and proceed to make feminist points.

The only relation between that conversation and the following link is that they both appear in this blog post:

Swiss Accidentally Invade Liechtenstein

What began as a routine training exercise almost ended in an embarrassing diplomatic incident after a company of Swiss soldiers got lost at night and marched into neighboring Liechtenstein.

According to Swiss daily Blick, the 170 infantry soldiers wandered just over a mile across an unmarked border into the tiny principality early Thursday before realizing their mistake and turning back.

A spokesman for the Swiss army confirmed the story but said that there were unlikely to be any serious repercussions for the mistaken invasion.

''We've spoken to the authorities in Liechtenstein and it's not a problem,'' Daniel Reist told The Associated Press.

Link. Made my day.

finally!

Remember the Rebelution?
Well, you can browse the results now.

I feel so... edified.

thanks for all the tips

Ford looked stunned.
"Where have you been?" he demanded.
"Making some coffee," said Arthur, still wearing his very placid face. He had long ago realized that the only way of being in Ford's company successfully was to keep a large stock of very placid faces and wear them at all times.
From So Long, And Thanks For All The Fish


Tonight, at the Roadhouse:
Guest, with menu open: So, your Rattlesnake Bites... are they real rattlesnakes?
Me, with placid face secured: No, they're made with cheese and jalapeño peppers.
Guest, obviously disappointed and confused: Oh. Well, if it's not real rattlesnake, I guess we'll just take a Cactus Blossom.
Me, not out loud: That's not actually a cactus; it's made out of an onion.

Placid faces = Useful inventions.


Oh, and while I wouldn't expect anything called The Gender Genie to disappoint me, playing with it was tons of fun and even reasonably accurate.

The Gift

To pull the metal splinter from my palm
my father recited a story in a low voice.
I watched his lovely face and not the blade.
Before the story ended, he'd removed
the iron sliver I thought I'd die from.

I can't remember the tale,
but hear his voice still, a well
of dark water, a prayer.
And I recall his hands,
two measures of tenderness
he laid against my face,
the flames of discipline
he raised above my head.

Had you entered that afternoon
you would have thought you saw a man
planting something in a boy's palm,
a silver tear, a tiny flame.
Had you followed that boy
you would have arrived here,
where I bend over my wife's right hand.

Look how I shave her thumbnail down
so carefully she feels no pain.
Watch as I lift the splinter out.
I was seven when my father
took my hand like this,
and I did not hold that shard
between my fingers and think,
Metal that will bury me,
christen it Little Assassin,
Ore Going Deep for My Heart.
And I did not lift up my wound and cry,
Death visited here!
I did what a child does
when he's given something to keep.
I kissed my father.

-Li-Young Lee

ash wednesday

In the deep stillness of prayer my soul fasts. Fasting, at its heart, is turning away from what keeps me from God. Two things I must leave: the walls I build around the space that was made to be God's dwelling; the absurdities I keep in that space, so jealously hoarded. Taking down the wall that protects the false self I have been building, all these years ... risking exposure, emptiness, loneliness.

The fast is silence, ocean-deep and prolonged. Shard by shard, the wall begins to fall. Inch by inch, the space clears, and Love lights the shadows.... In letting go is abundance. In emptying I am filled. This is not denial, but freedom. Fast is feast.

-JoAnn Staebler

a Klashnikov and a black hose

As I write this, Oprah is on Channel 4 (one of the MBC channels we get on Nilesat), showing Americans how to get out of debt. Her guest speaker is telling a studio full of American women who seem to have over-shopped that they could probably do with fewer designer products. As they talk about increasing incomes and fortunes, Sabrine Al-Janabi, a young Iraqi woman, is on Al Jazeera telling how Iraqi security forces abducted her from her home and raped her. You can only see her eyes, her voice is hoarse and it keeps breaking as she speaks. In the end she tells the reporter that she can’t talk about it anymore and she covers her eyes with shame.

-Link. River's blog is consistently one of the most horrifying things I've ever read.

long drive to Scot's house

I drove out to Scot's house last night, after a 6.5 hour shift at the Roadhouse, because I love his chickens t--h--i--s m--u--c--h.

Not really. The chickens are fun, but I'm a much bigger fan of the cat.

The first thing I did, upon arrival, was get my truck stuck in the snow. Funny thing about that; I was just telling a friend that all my arrogance over my winter driving skills would come back to haunt me. And there I was, all stuck and whatnot.

The second thing I did was swear loudly, and the third thing I did was make a cup of tea. After that it gets boring, and my nose was cold.

It's a long drive out to Scot and Jen's house, but the nice thing about it is getting Richmond, Dayton, and Cincinnatti radio stations relatively well. I appreciate having my scanning opportunities enhanced; each new station represents a higher chance that I won't be disgusted with the song they're playing.

Home played as I drove through Eaton, complete with the obligatory 'does every train in America have to go through Eaton, because it feels like I always have to stop at this crossing' experience. If you go here you can listen to the song yourself.

And I’ve been keeping all the letters that I wrote to you
Each one a line or two
“I’m fine baby, how are you?”
Well I would send them but I know that it’s just not enough
My words were cold and flat
And you deserve more than that

I owe my sisters Valentine's Day cards, I'm told, since I had snowdays on which to complete them. (And they aren't allowed to be Violentine's Day cards, even though that would be vastly more amusing.) I can make them belated ones, or just start now on some goofy Ash Wednesday cards; my mom wouldn't approve, but Kim at least would think they were great.

So I've been thinking about my sisters, and thinking about home... hardly suprising topics. Buble seems to be singing to a person who is home to him, rather than to a place. I tinkered with the idea that a person could be home for me. Maybe that's how I think of my sisters, or maybe it's how I could think of some dreamboat fellow like the guy who left his number with the bartender last night.

Maybe not, though. That's a lot of load for someone else to bear, to be home for me.

What would it mean to think of God as my home?

storytime

The wife of a man became very sick. On her deathbed, she said to him, "I love you so much! I don't want to leave you, and I don't want you to betray me. Promise that you will not see any other women once I die, or I will come back to haunt you."

For several months after her death, the husband did avoid other women, but then he met someone and fell in love. On the night that they were engaged to be married, the ghost of his former wife appeared to him. She blamed him for not keeping the promise, and every night thereafter she returned to taunt him. The ghost would remind him of everything that transpired between him and his fiancee that day, even to the point of repeating, word for word, their conversations. It upset him so badly that he couldn't sleep at all.

Desperate, he sought the advice of a Zen master who lived near the village. "This is a very clever ghost," the master said upon hearing the man's story. "It is!" replied the man. "She remembers every detail of what I say and do. It knows everything!" The master smiled, "You should admire such a ghost, but I will tell you what to do the next time you see it."

That night the ghost returned. The man responded just as the master had advised. "You are such a wise ghost," the man said, "You know that I can hide nothing from you. If you can answer me one question, I will break off the engagement and remain single for the rest of my life." "Ask your question," the ghost replied. The man scooped up a handful of beans from a large bag on the floor, "Tell me exactly how many beans there are in my hand."

At that moment the ghost disappeared and never returned.

-Link

important phone numbers

It was snowing as I drove to work last night. It wasn't a heavy snow, but the roads weren't plowed either, so conditions weren't great. There was a fellow walking up Rt.40 in the same direction I was driving so I stopped to pick him up.

He didn't speak much English, and my Spanish hasn't improved since I nearly failed it in college. He and I shared words to complain about the snow and the cold, and he asked if I was married or had babies, but we weren't able to communicate on an issue of great importance to both of us: where was he going? I thought he was heading to the mall, but he motioned me to drive past it. On down Rt.40 we went, and then turned around, headed back, taking turns at the wild gesturing and frustrated laughter.

Finally, he got me to stop at Hobby Lobby. I don't think that's where he was going, but at least he got to warm up a bit in my truck. He said something, and I tried to indicate that I didn't understand, which greatly disappointed him.

"You no like Mexicans?" he asked.

All my year and a half at ESR kicked in. What could be worse than accidentally representing myself as disliking someone based on ethnic group? So I replied, "no, no, I like Mexicans!"

"You like Mexicans to marry? Ella es muy bonita. My name is Jorge. Let me give number..." and he proceeded to tell me his phone number, which I promptly forgot because:
a) I don't remember phone numbers
b) I don't have a phone anyway, and
c) I didn't intend to call him.

So, I finally got to the Roadhouse, twenty minutes late. My lateness went unnoticed, because most of Richmond was panicking over the strange white stuff falling from the sky rather than coming for steak and beer. I clocked in, poured myself some coffee, and settled down on a stack of peanut boxes to read for class.

Toward the end of the first chapter, Paulsell notes that one of the most difficult of Jesus' teachings, that our helping others in need is helping him and that our ignoring others in need is ignoring him, is really an embodied command. It's about loving people in their bodies, whether they need food, clothing, shelter, or anything else.

That's all well and good, but what stood out to me was that Jesus had just told me that I was very pretty and offered me his phone number, and I hadn't even had the sense to write it down. I could have aced a prayer class with that one. Everyone else could have been labyrinth walking or chanting or whatever, and I'd just be looking for a phone...

"Hey Jesus, it's Julie. Remember me? I picked you up off the side of Rt.40 in the snow, once."
"Hm, yes, little red truck, dirty and made a lot of noise, heat was on but the fan didn't work? Am I remembering the right Julie?
"Well... yeah that's me."
"You dumped me in the Hobby Lobby parking lot because you didn't have the patience to learn my language."
"um..."
"I've got grace for the language issue, but you need to get your fan fixed. And seriously, vacuum. There's no reason to have that much hay on the floor of your truck when you live in a city.

Next time, next time I'll have paper and pen ready.

snowday squared

My dad, his truck, and a *lot* of snow.

In other news, I'm enjoying my second snowday in a row. It's a beautiful day: the air is crisp, the roads are what passes for plowed in Richmond, and the sun has even come out to sparkle on the new snow. I showed up at school for class today, assuming it wouldn't be canceled because, well, it's a beautiful day. And I could get bald-tired Barbwire out of the snowbank without even using a shovel, so why would school be canceled?

Ah, Indiana. What a great day.

one of ESR's favorite dead horses to beat

"Hope has two beautiful daughters. Their names are anger and courage; anger at the way things are, and courage to see that they do not remain the way they are."
-Augustine of Hippo

ahem - now with pictures!

THE LAKE SNOW BAND WILL SWING BACK TO THE EASTERN SHORE OF LAKE ONTARIO AND BRING THE HEAVY SNOW TO THE REGIONS WHICH HAVE ALREADY RECEIVED CLOSE TO OR MORE THAN 100 INCHES. SNOW RATES WILL BE AROUND 2 INCHES PER HOUR AND MAY REACH 4 INCHES PER HOUR WITH ADDITIONAL SNOWFALL REACHING 3 TO 4 FEET OVER CENTRAL AND NORTHERN OSWEGO COUNTY BY MONDAY.
-link

That's my family, under the snow. They'll have good stories, I'm sure, better than 'Indiana folks don't know how to drive.'

Update: Ok, not my pictures. But my friend Lindsey took pictures of digging her car out of the snow.

in my email this morning

Sowing Hope, by Wendell Berry

In the dark of the moon,
In the flying snow,
In the dead of winter,
War spreading,
Families dying,
The world in danger,
I walk the rocky hillside
Sowing clover.