Anyone who has made it past English 11 in high school or has read anything by the Bronte sisters knows all about the pathetic fallacy, when the weather becomes a broadcasting mechanism for the internal stuggle of the protagonist. The most classic example (and I'm not questioning the veracity of the Biblical account, only using it as an example) is when, during the suffering of Jesus on the cross, from noon until he died at 3pm, the sky goes dark and day becomes night. The argument could be made that it is not Jesus' suffering that causes this, but God's grief at the actions His dearest creation has wrought on a Son that is part of Himself, but that's neither here nor there in the example. It's just one that I picked because I think most of my readers (all two of you ;) will be familiar with it.
In fact, most Gothic and Romantic novels have an affection for the pathetic fallacy, while most of the modern audiences reading them roll their eyes at the ridiculousness of such an occurence. When we see it happen on TV, or in a movie, it's usually got something to do with the supernatural power of the character who's in a mood, or the presence of the Devil somewhere in the plotline.
But I wonder if anyone has ever thought about the reverse of the PF; that the author is not quite noting how the weather/external environment is responding to the emotional state of the protagonist, but rather how the protagonist is being influenced by the weather.
Case in point: today, I am in a relatively good mood. Or rather, I was, until I got out of the shower and noticed how dreary the day was. After a small amount of rejoicing over the fact that I no longer have to do yardwork today because it's been raining, I started coming down. I put Michael Buble's "Home" on repeat, and kind of puttered around. At this point, I'm a little teary, and looked outside only to find the weather reflecting my inner emotional state: not quite full on rain, but sporadic showers and overall greyness.
I don't quite know where I was going with that. I feel almost compelled to research whether anyone has ever explored the weather's effect on the Bronte sisters. But that's something for after the thesis is done. Right now I need to finish cleaning the house for Nicholas and Dominic's arrival. Well, after lunch.
Someday I'll write another poem. Hopefully someday soon, when I have time to just sit down and do it without the distraction of chores and the compulsion to suck the marrow out of every moment I have left with my family.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Short and Sweet.
Snood may just be the greatest game ever made. I discovered it during (I think) my freshman year of college (2000-01) and it was my best finals procrastination device for the next four years. What's really tragic is that, once I entered the real world (in which one performs a job far below one's qualifications, lives with one's parents, hangs out with one's married friends from high school and tries desperately to catch the eye of one's church choir director despite a significant but not enormous age gap) Snood dropped completely off my radar.
Then came grad school. It has been delightful because not only have I returned to the school that I love and the people that I love more, I also returned to my nocturnal nature. Once work is done (and the load was relatively light when I didn't have papers to grade) and one's friends have all gone to bed, there is time for Snood. Time for a stupid game more useless than Tetris but ultimately more satisfying because I can actually complete the levels, and because of its single-level rounds, I can beat the game and be back at the dinner table before anyone even notices that I'm gone. It's great.
Now, the only question that remains is this: to register, or not to register...
Then came grad school. It has been delightful because not only have I returned to the school that I love and the people that I love more, I also returned to my nocturnal nature. Once work is done (and the load was relatively light when I didn't have papers to grade) and one's friends have all gone to bed, there is time for Snood. Time for a stupid game more useless than Tetris but ultimately more satisfying because I can actually complete the levels, and because of its single-level rounds, I can beat the game and be back at the dinner table before anyone even notices that I'm gone. It's great.
Now, the only question that remains is this: to register, or not to register...
Just bead it.
Yeah, I know--lame Michael Jackson reference. But it's pretty reflective of what I've been doing the last couple of days: beading everything and anything I see that I think I can replicate. I made this awesome cuff bracelet from copper, amazonite and smokey quartz chips, lemon chrysophase spheres and Swarovski crystals. It looks very cool and southwestern.
I was also able to sell about $200 in jewelry after church last night, so that was pretty sweet. The only problem is that I can't deposit any of it, since NDFCU doesn't have any branches in Alaska (go figure!) and I've stopped my relationship with KeyBank. So that kind of bites. But it does mean that I can be a little more independent of my parents' checkbook while I'm home. That is a very nice thing.
Okay, since I don't have anything else cool to write, I'm going to put a poem in here, just to make it look like this is a post worth reading. It's the result of an exercise called a Crown of Sevens, in which there are 7 lines of 7 syllables each. Lines 2 and 3 repeat, and the first line is also the last line. So here you go!
Verbally promiscuous
she wrapped her tongue around words.
She wrapped her tongue around words;
tied them in cherry-stem knots--
Tied them in cherry-stem knots,
not caring that they called her
verbally promiscuous.
I was also able to sell about $200 in jewelry after church last night, so that was pretty sweet. The only problem is that I can't deposit any of it, since NDFCU doesn't have any branches in Alaska (go figure!) and I've stopped my relationship with KeyBank. So that kind of bites. But it does mean that I can be a little more independent of my parents' checkbook while I'm home. That is a very nice thing.
Okay, since I don't have anything else cool to write, I'm going to put a poem in here, just to make it look like this is a post worth reading. It's the result of an exercise called a Crown of Sevens, in which there are 7 lines of 7 syllables each. Lines 2 and 3 repeat, and the first line is also the last line. So here you go!
Verbally promiscuous
she wrapped her tongue around words.
She wrapped her tongue around words;
tied them in cherry-stem knots--
Tied them in cherry-stem knots,
not caring that they called her
verbally promiscuous.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
On the Concept of the Blog...Then Grousing.
I have decided that blogging was designed by and for Catholics. I mean, look at it historically: Jews didn't (to the best of my knowledge) outline all their sins in public and ask forgiveness. Nope, they bought a goat and privately put their sins on the goat, then killed the goat so it couldn't tell anyone. Or ran it out of town to be eaten by something else. Catholics, however, got it into our heads that the only real way to heal from the guilt of sin was to tell someone else who would dole out the prayer equivalent of penalty minutes and tell you everything was okay. That's the real reason, in my opinion, that Confession/Reconcilliation is necessary: because, at least for me, I need someone saying, you screwed up and need to pay for it, but your life will go on and God loves you anyway.
And so I think of blogging as the technological version of confession. One can, in the relative anonymity provided by the internet, blurt out all the ridiculous/funny/mean things that one has done and, through the comments option, receive anonymous absolution. Unlike confession, however, if one doesn't appreciate the response from the readers one can simply assume that they must be more cracked out than the sinner and can move on.
Considering it again, maybe the blog is like the scapegoat...you put all your baggage into it, just to get it off your own chest, then send it out to the 'net to be found, lost or eaten as it will. Hmm. This bears more consideration.
Regardless, on to the recitation of transgressions! Actually, there's just one biggie that's been bothering me, and it's more like a rant because of which I screwed up. I can only ask that those of you who know the parties involved not think too poorly of me.
Okay, so my choir goes on a two-week pilgrimage/tour thing every year after graduation. And before you think how silly I am for getting weepy during senior week when I was going to see these people again in two weeks, I already know. Anyway, it's different. Enough said.
So, on this tour thing, the choir is hosted by families from the different parishes we visit and for which we perform. It can be great or terrifying, and the greatness of tour is never knowing which it will be. The situation, however, is made slightly sticky by one of our housing requirements.
Our associate director--who is amazingly talented and kind, but somewhat uncertain in the personality arena--has three children and a husband. All of whom come on tour. Now, maybe I'm just a loser who isn't putting enough effort into understanding the situation. Or maybe I don't get that, for families that are not military, two weeks without a parent is a really long time. But in my opinion, choir tour is not time for a family vacation in which you don't need to pay for lodging. The few times the crew was on the bus when we were in Ireland, we all had to be on best behavior because the babies were on the bus. Sometimes during performances the father in this unit needs help with the kids, and almost invariably one of the girls in the choir is pulled to help, because she has a relationship with them. The kids don't mind well, because from what I have seen these are fairly permissive parents, and the youngest has a tendency to, at the most inopportune moments, start making noises.
Please don't take this to be condemnation of the parenting skills of this family, because it's not. I acknowledge that each set of parents has its own way of working things out, and that just because they respond in ways that my parents wouldn't doesn't mean they're doing a poor job. I also realize that it is in the nature of young kids to be rowdy and of infants to make random noise just to hear what it sounds like. However, the combination of these things make it, to my mind, incomprehensible that the kids should be on tour, and particularly on this one. 3 plane rides of 3-4 hours each. Multiple hours on buses with 6 year-olds who want to be 6 year-olds and college kids who want to be college kids. All I can say is that I'm glad I only have 4 day of it.
And housing. At each of the parishes in which the choir is being hosted by families, these guys require a family that can host, not 2-3 people, but 5, complete with car seats. In most cases, that's doubling the size of a household and upping the vehicle requirements. Not to mention food! And many families are happy to do it, for which I commend them. However, when I heard that one of my favorite families had been kind of strong-armed into hosting this other family, my response was not congratulatory or grateful. Oh no. I, being the brilliant and kind person that I am, blurted out that I was impressed they were willing to do it, that the kids were a handful, that the personalities of the two families could not be more different and did they really want to do this. Nice. I couldn't believe what had just come out of my face. I mean, I mock good-naturedly most of the time, and have never been quiet about my opinions, but very rarely am I as outrightly malicious as I felt when I heard myself say those things.
And apparently the president of our ND club, and another friend, thought so to, expressing her disappointment with me the following day. She also said that she was even more disappointed in my favorite family, that she thought we were above being welcoming only to people who were cool. And all of this came out in front of a very nice gentleman of 25 who now probably thinks I'm the world's biggest arse. Despite what Nicholas might say about my endowment in that area, I certainly felt like it.
So after my meeting, I rang my favorite family to apologize. I pretty much fell on my sword, verbally. And then I got the whole story. Turns out that my favorite family had very much been looking forward to having college kids stay at the house, because they wanted their kids to see what it was like to be in college, in a choir, and being practicing and enthusiastic members of the Church. The choir family had also been offered an empty house and use of a car with car seats for the duration of their stay. Life, it seemed, was good.
However, the choir family declined, saying that they would rather stay with a family. The mom of my favorite family, despite her reservations, then agreed to host the choir family. After my revelations, however, she started questioning her decision. It wasn't just that, though. Apparently her husband was going to be at work during the duration of the visit, so she wouldn't have that extra help. She also found out that she was going to have to childproof her home, which she hadn't done even for her own kids (this family has some amazing things) and, while she could let a group of college kids use a car when she needed to get to work, etc., she couldn't do that if it also required a car seat. She prayed about it, and decided that she needed a group that she could fit into her life at the end of the school year, not one around which she needed to reorganize it.
Absolution.
I mean, yes, it was my thoughtless comments that caused her to reconsider, and perhaps the choir family will not enjoy themselves as much independently as they would have with a host family. But it was certainly nice to hear her say that it wasn't my fault. And I did learn the lesson about holding my tongue, though I can't guarantee how long that will stick with me.
So thanks for being my confessor. Thanks for not claiming that I'm justifying my behavior, and for knowing that I know I'm doing it. And come again soon, if you're not so turned off by this entry that you never want to see my goat--blog, I mean--again.
Song of the moment: "I Write Sins Not Tragedies" by Panic! At the Disco
And so I think of blogging as the technological version of confession. One can, in the relative anonymity provided by the internet, blurt out all the ridiculous/funny/mean things that one has done and, through the comments option, receive anonymous absolution. Unlike confession, however, if one doesn't appreciate the response from the readers one can simply assume that they must be more cracked out than the sinner and can move on.
Considering it again, maybe the blog is like the scapegoat...you put all your baggage into it, just to get it off your own chest, then send it out to the 'net to be found, lost or eaten as it will. Hmm. This bears more consideration.
Regardless, on to the recitation of transgressions! Actually, there's just one biggie that's been bothering me, and it's more like a rant because of which I screwed up. I can only ask that those of you who know the parties involved not think too poorly of me.
Okay, so my choir goes on a two-week pilgrimage/tour thing every year after graduation. And before you think how silly I am for getting weepy during senior week when I was going to see these people again in two weeks, I already know. Anyway, it's different. Enough said.
So, on this tour thing, the choir is hosted by families from the different parishes we visit and for which we perform. It can be great or terrifying, and the greatness of tour is never knowing which it will be. The situation, however, is made slightly sticky by one of our housing requirements.
Our associate director--who is amazingly talented and kind, but somewhat uncertain in the personality arena--has three children and a husband. All of whom come on tour. Now, maybe I'm just a loser who isn't putting enough effort into understanding the situation. Or maybe I don't get that, for families that are not military, two weeks without a parent is a really long time. But in my opinion, choir tour is not time for a family vacation in which you don't need to pay for lodging. The few times the crew was on the bus when we were in Ireland, we all had to be on best behavior because the babies were on the bus. Sometimes during performances the father in this unit needs help with the kids, and almost invariably one of the girls in the choir is pulled to help, because she has a relationship with them. The kids don't mind well, because from what I have seen these are fairly permissive parents, and the youngest has a tendency to, at the most inopportune moments, start making noises.
Please don't take this to be condemnation of the parenting skills of this family, because it's not. I acknowledge that each set of parents has its own way of working things out, and that just because they respond in ways that my parents wouldn't doesn't mean they're doing a poor job. I also realize that it is in the nature of young kids to be rowdy and of infants to make random noise just to hear what it sounds like. However, the combination of these things make it, to my mind, incomprehensible that the kids should be on tour, and particularly on this one. 3 plane rides of 3-4 hours each. Multiple hours on buses with 6 year-olds who want to be 6 year-olds and college kids who want to be college kids. All I can say is that I'm glad I only have 4 day of it.
And housing. At each of the parishes in which the choir is being hosted by families, these guys require a family that can host, not 2-3 people, but 5, complete with car seats. In most cases, that's doubling the size of a household and upping the vehicle requirements. Not to mention food! And many families are happy to do it, for which I commend them. However, when I heard that one of my favorite families had been kind of strong-armed into hosting this other family, my response was not congratulatory or grateful. Oh no. I, being the brilliant and kind person that I am, blurted out that I was impressed they were willing to do it, that the kids were a handful, that the personalities of the two families could not be more different and did they really want to do this. Nice. I couldn't believe what had just come out of my face. I mean, I mock good-naturedly most of the time, and have never been quiet about my opinions, but very rarely am I as outrightly malicious as I felt when I heard myself say those things.
And apparently the president of our ND club, and another friend, thought so to, expressing her disappointment with me the following day. She also said that she was even more disappointed in my favorite family, that she thought we were above being welcoming only to people who were cool. And all of this came out in front of a very nice gentleman of 25 who now probably thinks I'm the world's biggest arse. Despite what Nicholas might say about my endowment in that area, I certainly felt like it.
So after my meeting, I rang my favorite family to apologize. I pretty much fell on my sword, verbally. And then I got the whole story. Turns out that my favorite family had very much been looking forward to having college kids stay at the house, because they wanted their kids to see what it was like to be in college, in a choir, and being practicing and enthusiastic members of the Church. The choir family had also been offered an empty house and use of a car with car seats for the duration of their stay. Life, it seemed, was good.
However, the choir family declined, saying that they would rather stay with a family. The mom of my favorite family, despite her reservations, then agreed to host the choir family. After my revelations, however, she started questioning her decision. It wasn't just that, though. Apparently her husband was going to be at work during the duration of the visit, so she wouldn't have that extra help. She also found out that she was going to have to childproof her home, which she hadn't done even for her own kids (this family has some amazing things) and, while she could let a group of college kids use a car when she needed to get to work, etc., she couldn't do that if it also required a car seat. She prayed about it, and decided that she needed a group that she could fit into her life at the end of the school year, not one around which she needed to reorganize it.
Absolution.
I mean, yes, it was my thoughtless comments that caused her to reconsider, and perhaps the choir family will not enjoy themselves as much independently as they would have with a host family. But it was certainly nice to hear her say that it wasn't my fault. And I did learn the lesson about holding my tongue, though I can't guarantee how long that will stick with me.
So thanks for being my confessor. Thanks for not claiming that I'm justifying my behavior, and for knowing that I know I'm doing it. And come again soon, if you're not so turned off by this entry that you never want to see my goat--blog, I mean--again.
Song of the moment: "I Write Sins Not Tragedies" by Panic! At the Disco
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
It's a Wonderful Day in the Neighborhood
and not only is the neighborhood nice, but the temperature should be around 75 and the sky is about as clear as it gets. The only down side is that I can no longer, due to the growth of the trees around my house, see Denali (Mt. McKinley, to those of you who have never seen the mountain, and have no real concept of its size, grandeur and the ridiculousness of its being named for a president that no one remembers) from my bedroom window. When we first moved into this house about 11 years ago, I could not only see Susitna, which is called The Sleeping Lady and is across Cook Inlet, but also Denali, which is about 180 miles northwest as the crow flies. We can still see it from the bridge over the highway, but it's not the same.
The cool thing is that we live right in the foothills of the Chugach mountains, and as such the view from our front windows could and has been described as spectular.
Today's plan: smash some metal, plan some flower beds, memorize some lines for the Parable of the Talents. I think each of those is self explanatory, with the possible of exception of the smashing bit. For those of you who don't know (and if you don't know me in person but are still reading this, I think I love you) I make jewelry. Sometimes it's strange, but most of the time it's pretty cool. Anyway, I recently picked up some 16 and 18 gauge copper wire and am "WigJigging" it, without the WigJig. Essentially I'm bending it into freeform serpentine patterns, which I will then link with turquoise beads, since there are few combinations more natural than turquoise and copper. It's getting smashed because the only way to force the wire to keep its shape is to smash it. I use not only the flat head of my chasing hammer, but also the ball peen (spelling?) side, so that it looks like what all the fashion mags call "hammered copper." You know, all dented and shiny.
I'm going to go get on that. Song of today: Hips Don't Lie by Shakira.
I can't find anywhere from which to download the song itself, so if anyone has that info, please let me know.
The cool thing is that we live right in the foothills of the Chugach mountains, and as such the view from our front windows could and has been described as spectular.
Today's plan: smash some metal, plan some flower beds, memorize some lines for the Parable of the Talents. I think each of those is self explanatory, with the possible of exception of the smashing bit. For those of you who don't know (and if you don't know me in person but are still reading this, I think I love you) I make jewelry. Sometimes it's strange, but most of the time it's pretty cool. Anyway, I recently picked up some 16 and 18 gauge copper wire and am "WigJigging" it, without the WigJig. Essentially I'm bending it into freeform serpentine patterns, which I will then link with turquoise beads, since there are few combinations more natural than turquoise and copper. It's getting smashed because the only way to force the wire to keep its shape is to smash it. I use not only the flat head of my chasing hammer, but also the ball peen (spelling?) side, so that it looks like what all the fashion mags call "hammered copper." You know, all dented and shiny.
I'm going to go get on that. Song of today: Hips Don't Lie by Shakira.
I can't find anywhere from which to download the song itself, so if anyone has that info, please let me know.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Damned Alarm Clocks.
Well, alarm phones, I guess, as I have no alarm clock here. By here, I of course mean Eagle River, Alaska where I am spending my 2 week vacation before NDVision starts. Let's recount, shall we, the debacles related to the development of a tolerance for alarms.
Thursday night, I'm a gushy mess. Emotionally drained. So I am packing my house, and not planning to sleep, as a way to work through the weepiness. All goes well until, I guess, about 4AM, when I apparently fell asleep on my floor. On my floor. My phone is set to a daily alarm at 7 and 7:15 AM, but that means nothing, because I don't wake up until 12:30, most of my room still unpacked and even unsorted. I am supposed to be on a bus leaving ND at 2:10.
That's when the garbage bags came out. There were two kinds of garbage bags: those for my stuff, and those for actual garbage. Hopefully I didn't mix them up, because there were really no external marks to differentiate one kind from the other. Anyway, my darling friend, Carolyn, to whom I now owe my soul and obscene amounts of jewelry, came over to drive me to the bus stop, and was an amazing help and calming influence. We were able to get all the "keep" stuff shoved into my car, the "lose" stuff to the dumpster, my keys returned and a movie on its way back to Blockbuster. She's awesome.
So, onto the bus, the airplane, and touchdown in Anchorage at midnight Thursday night. The cool thing about having a father who's in charge of building maintenance at the airport is that he's able to meet you at the gate. :) So we got my stuff and headed home where, oddly enough, my mother was not waiting. She was at the Gruening Middle School track doing the Relay for Life, walking for her principal, who is recovering from breast cancer; a former student who died of cancer; and a dear friend whom she is watching fight not only the disease but the pain of the fight. Elaine is...Elaine, still, even when she can't stand, and so I walked for a couple of hours for her, and for KS's mom and the fight that she won.
Awesome cause, but it meant that I didn't get to bed until about 3, and then couldn't sleep until 5, but couldn't sleep past 10.
So yesterday, chilling with the family, mass, yadda yadda yadda. 10PM rolls around and I go out with a friend and his girlfriend and some other acquaintances for karaoke at the VFW hall. We're the only people under 30 there. It's special. I ended up singing a song in one of those strange octaves that I can't really sing in its own but can't quite lift up an octave. Halfway through I figured, screw it, and popped it up, which by the grace of God I was able to pull off...can't say how much of a service it did to the song, but the patrons seemed to enjoy it.
Karaoke was supposed to last for an hour, max, but I got home at 1AM. Set the phone to wake me up at 9:45 so I could see Nicholas sing the Irish National Anthem for President Mary MacAleese of Ireland at the University of Notre Dame's 161st Commencement Exercises. Actually woke up at 10:10 (2:10 ND Time) having, I think, just missed it. My phone was in my hand under my cheek, and I almost threw it against the wall.
The rest of graduation was pretty cool; President MacAleese's address was beautifully done, and the valedictory address was nice. I also got to see all the degrees conferred, and the Class of 2006's first singing of the Alma Mater as alumns. But I wish I could have seen Nicholas on stage. Damn.
Well, I need to go vacuum, because my brother's housemate is coming over for dinner tonight. I really kind of love being at home. It's weird though...every time I come home for vacation since graduation, it feels a little more...less...my house, which is as it should be. The weird part is that, now that I no longer go back to Pangborn, and due to the short termness of my current educational goals, I don't have that comforting place that is my house. I'm being pulled between two places, and until I can decide where I wish to settle, I will be caught in the vacuum. It's a little unsettling.
Song of the day's mood: "For Good" from Wicked...again.
Congratulations, again, to the Class of 2006. Welcome to the (Alumni) Club.
Thursday night, I'm a gushy mess. Emotionally drained. So I am packing my house, and not planning to sleep, as a way to work through the weepiness. All goes well until, I guess, about 4AM, when I apparently fell asleep on my floor. On my floor. My phone is set to a daily alarm at 7 and 7:15 AM, but that means nothing, because I don't wake up until 12:30, most of my room still unpacked and even unsorted. I am supposed to be on a bus leaving ND at 2:10.
That's when the garbage bags came out. There were two kinds of garbage bags: those for my stuff, and those for actual garbage. Hopefully I didn't mix them up, because there were really no external marks to differentiate one kind from the other. Anyway, my darling friend, Carolyn, to whom I now owe my soul and obscene amounts of jewelry, came over to drive me to the bus stop, and was an amazing help and calming influence. We were able to get all the "keep" stuff shoved into my car, the "lose" stuff to the dumpster, my keys returned and a movie on its way back to Blockbuster. She's awesome.
So, onto the bus, the airplane, and touchdown in Anchorage at midnight Thursday night. The cool thing about having a father who's in charge of building maintenance at the airport is that he's able to meet you at the gate. :) So we got my stuff and headed home where, oddly enough, my mother was not waiting. She was at the Gruening Middle School track doing the Relay for Life, walking for her principal, who is recovering from breast cancer; a former student who died of cancer; and a dear friend whom she is watching fight not only the disease but the pain of the fight. Elaine is...Elaine, still, even when she can't stand, and so I walked for a couple of hours for her, and for KS's mom and the fight that she won.
Awesome cause, but it meant that I didn't get to bed until about 3, and then couldn't sleep until 5, but couldn't sleep past 10.
So yesterday, chilling with the family, mass, yadda yadda yadda. 10PM rolls around and I go out with a friend and his girlfriend and some other acquaintances for karaoke at the VFW hall. We're the only people under 30 there. It's special. I ended up singing a song in one of those strange octaves that I can't really sing in its own but can't quite lift up an octave. Halfway through I figured, screw it, and popped it up, which by the grace of God I was able to pull off...can't say how much of a service it did to the song, but the patrons seemed to enjoy it.
Karaoke was supposed to last for an hour, max, but I got home at 1AM. Set the phone to wake me up at 9:45 so I could see Nicholas sing the Irish National Anthem for President Mary MacAleese of Ireland at the University of Notre Dame's 161st Commencement Exercises. Actually woke up at 10:10 (2:10 ND Time) having, I think, just missed it. My phone was in my hand under my cheek, and I almost threw it against the wall.
The rest of graduation was pretty cool; President MacAleese's address was beautifully done, and the valedictory address was nice. I also got to see all the degrees conferred, and the Class of 2006's first singing of the Alma Mater as alumns. But I wish I could have seen Nicholas on stage. Damn.
Well, I need to go vacuum, because my brother's housemate is coming over for dinner tonight. I really kind of love being at home. It's weird though...every time I come home for vacation since graduation, it feels a little more...less...my house, which is as it should be. The weird part is that, now that I no longer go back to Pangborn, and due to the short termness of my current educational goals, I don't have that comforting place that is my house. I'm being pulled between two places, and until I can decide where I wish to settle, I will be caught in the vacuum. It's a little unsettling.
Song of the day's mood: "For Good" from Wicked...again.
Who can say if I've been changed for the better?
I do believe I have been changed for the better,
and because I knew you
I have been changed for good.
Congratulations, again, to the Class of 2006. Welcome to the (Alumni) Club.
Friday, May 19, 2006
Love thee, Notre Dame.
I guess it's time for that backstory I was avoiding. Long story short, came back to Notre Dame for grad school after graduating in 2004. Re-joined the Folk Choir this year, since it was one of reasons on a long list of pros to coming back. Also on said list were: Nicholas Tonozzi (see bmancini's blog for more on this subject), Michael VandenBoom, Eric Buell and Paul Van Leeuwen. Aside from the obvious ethnic diversity (one Italian, one Filipino and two Dutchmen) these four gentlemen have each, in their own way, touched my life in a manner that renewed my joy and grounded my spirit. I think that's all I want to say about them right now, because I'm starting to get mushy.
In fact, that was the point of this entry. Notre Dame, as part of its Commencement festivities, has a gathering of the senior class at the Basilica of the Sacred Heart, the large church on campus. It's a chance for the class to share stories and pray together in this space one last time (since Baccalaureate is in a converted arena) before relocating to the Grotto (of "Rudy" fame, and absolutely central to the daily faith and prayer life of the Notre Dame student body, Catholic and nonCatholic alike) to receive a commission from the University, a blessing of their class rings, and a solemn blessing on their lives. It's kind of a big deal.
Anyway, the Folk Choir sings at this event, and this is where the waterworks come in. I came in with this year's crop of seniors. As a freshman and a sophomore, I was in the Notre Dame Chorale, and auditioned for the Folk Choir only to be gently turned away. And then for some reason, in the spring of 2003 (during this class's freshman year) I wasn't rejected. I think it was good karma from having told Eric where he could go to audition, well before I made it. So I've never been in the loft without this group of men. Last year I was working, but it was like being abroad, which most of them were at one point or another in the year. And so tonight in the loft, having already said goodbye to them once, I watched as they struggled through their own "Last Visit." I listened with pride to them singing their solos, keeping it together long enough to finish and then breaking down.
I think perhaps I'm getting more personal than I want to get. I thought it might make good reading, maybe be cathartic to put into the world what I'm feeling right now. But these feelings are not a culmination that can be shared because it's finished. I think this ache in my chest and in my throat is not sadness at an ending, but a kind of bittersweet joy at beginnings, the foundations of which I have been privileged to help lay. And so I don't think I'm going to share the rest of these memories. I'm going to wrap them in a mental handkerchief monogramed with a P, and tuck them into the back of my memory, to take out again later and enjoy.
Class of 2006, it has been my honor to have shared in your time at Notre Dame. God bless and keep you all.
In fact, that was the point of this entry. Notre Dame, as part of its Commencement festivities, has a gathering of the senior class at the Basilica of the Sacred Heart, the large church on campus. It's a chance for the class to share stories and pray together in this space one last time (since Baccalaureate is in a converted arena) before relocating to the Grotto (of "Rudy" fame, and absolutely central to the daily faith and prayer life of the Notre Dame student body, Catholic and nonCatholic alike) to receive a commission from the University, a blessing of their class rings, and a solemn blessing on their lives. It's kind of a big deal.
Anyway, the Folk Choir sings at this event, and this is where the waterworks come in. I came in with this year's crop of seniors. As a freshman and a sophomore, I was in the Notre Dame Chorale, and auditioned for the Folk Choir only to be gently turned away. And then for some reason, in the spring of 2003 (during this class's freshman year) I wasn't rejected. I think it was good karma from having told Eric where he could go to audition, well before I made it. So I've never been in the loft without this group of men. Last year I was working, but it was like being abroad, which most of them were at one point or another in the year. And so tonight in the loft, having already said goodbye to them once, I watched as they struggled through their own "Last Visit." I listened with pride to them singing their solos, keeping it together long enough to finish and then breaking down.
I think perhaps I'm getting more personal than I want to get. I thought it might make good reading, maybe be cathartic to put into the world what I'm feeling right now. But these feelings are not a culmination that can be shared because it's finished. I think this ache in my chest and in my throat is not sadness at an ending, but a kind of bittersweet joy at beginnings, the foundations of which I have been privileged to help lay. And so I don't think I'm going to share the rest of these memories. I'm going to wrap them in a mental handkerchief monogramed with a P, and tuck them into the back of my memory, to take out again later and enjoy.
Class of 2006, it has been my honor to have shared in your time at Notre Dame. God bless and keep you all.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
You can tell a lot about a person
by the company she keeps. Since the soon-to-be-famous Nicholas Tonozzi is one of my dearest friends, perhaps this (http://newsinfo.nd.edu/content.cfm?topicid=17585&seltopicid=218) will help you learn something about me. At the very least, you'll learn about him.
Maybe I'll ask for promoter's fee.
Maybe I'll ask for promoter's fee.
Bang, bang, bang on the door, baby...
Right. You'll find out more about me later. But for now, I'm a firm believer in the art of beginning a story in medias res which, upon careful googling of the term, seems to be rather a popular way to begin a blog. I'm almost tempted to give you the backstory now, just to be different, but to be honest, I really don't care that much about being unique. I just care about verbally bashing the nerd who just knocked on my door.
It is now 1AM EST. Or rather, Eastern Daylight. Indiana (most of it, anyway) switched to Daylight Savings this year, and I'm still grappling with the emotional and temporal trauma that whole thing caused.
This time change is also apparently a problem for the guests of one of my housemates. I was on the phone with my parents a few minutes ago, and what should I hear but the doorknocker banging downstairs. Now, you might ask why, if I'm harassing my parents at 1AM, I should be bothered by someone else attempting to harass me. The vital difference is that my parents are in Alaska, which is EDT -4, so it's only 9PM there.
Our favorite doorbanging moron, however, did not get the clue that perhaps my housemate was sleeping (one of them goes to bed at 9PM and the other is more of a transitory spirit than an actual inhabitant of the house) and kept banging. And banging. I refused on principle to answer the door, as none of my friends would ever be that self-centered. (Neither would they, either drunk or sober, convince themselves to cross the vast stretch of land that we call campus and D2.)
As we speak, the banging continues. Will Snow answer the door? Is it her boyfriend making a booty call? Am I going to have to deal with that business while I fold my socks and pack my dishes tonight?
Stay tuned to find out.
It is now 1AM EST. Or rather, Eastern Daylight. Indiana (most of it, anyway) switched to Daylight Savings this year, and I'm still grappling with the emotional and temporal trauma that whole thing caused.
This time change is also apparently a problem for the guests of one of my housemates. I was on the phone with my parents a few minutes ago, and what should I hear but the doorknocker banging downstairs. Now, you might ask why, if I'm harassing my parents at 1AM, I should be bothered by someone else attempting to harass me. The vital difference is that my parents are in Alaska, which is EDT -4, so it's only 9PM there.
Our favorite doorbanging moron, however, did not get the clue that perhaps my housemate was sleeping (one of them goes to bed at 9PM and the other is more of a transitory spirit than an actual inhabitant of the house) and kept banging. And banging. I refused on principle to answer the door, as none of my friends would ever be that self-centered. (Neither would they, either drunk or sober, convince themselves to cross the vast stretch of land that we call campus and D2.)
As we speak, the banging continues. Will Snow answer the door? Is it her boyfriend making a booty call? Am I going to have to deal with that business while I fold my socks and pack my dishes tonight?
Stay tuned to find out.
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