Jake, the Prince of Abyssinia

is on my bed pouncing on...a Q-Tip. Not sure why, but the beast seems to love them, despite an apparent inability to see them unless they're right in front of him. Oh, he found it. He has three others stashed in the bathroom. It's really funny to watch him just go nuts about them. I was using one a minute ago and he just about whined, he wanted it so badly. Which is why I have a bathroom wastebasket--hahaha, he's heading into the bathroom to retrieve his stash, which I just tossed--with a lid: so that the only Q-Tips kitty can have are clean ones. Otherwise it's just yucky.

I keep ranting about educational TV, and I thought it was time for my reading public to see the (somewhat ripened, though still green) fruits of my viewing labours. And the cat's drinking out of my bedside water glass. Nice. He's got this cool little habitat thing going on up here. Drinks when he wants them, lubbies when he wants them, lots of high thronelike places and more cotton swabs than he can flick his tail at. His life must be rough. Anyway, the following came out of today's episode of "After the Attack" on Animal Planet. I would like to dedicate it to Jen Cimino.


The Angry Friday Alligator


one more mention of tomorrow and I’m going under
I can feel myself sinking
nictitating membranes closing
eyelids down
I am five six of scale and teeth
and I can sit here
looking down my nose at you
for hours

you’re like one of those little turtles
spending its life on my nose
unaware that I’m plotting ways
to crack you out of that box shell

maybe one day you roll and realize
I’m not a log
leather boots
the newest neoconsumerist nuveau riche
monogrammed wallet perpetually open

but look at how this smile
draws you out
just so
just so
just say mmmm
and know you’re going down with me
tomorrow
just so

Do I Look Like a Philo Major to You?

No, of course not! I like reality, and I relish making stupid, undeveloped claims supported only by the statement and belief that it's "because I said so."

That said, perhap Poetry and Theory Since the 1930s was not the best choice of course for me. I have been sitting in Reckers for almost an hour, reading two pages of Karl Marx from The Grundrisse (nope, no idea what it means) over...and over...and over...and over. I haven't felt this stupid in ages. I am not a fan of this feeling.

Thing is, I don't think it's really a reflection of my intellect that I can't understand this piece of work. I don' t mean that I'm brilliant, though I am in many ways. Mostly I mean that this man's grammar is so awful that I have no idea what he's talking about, not because it's difficult subject matter or illogical argument, but because I can't see which verbs go with which subjects or objects in which senteces. AND MY GOD, THE SENTENCE FRAGMENTS! It's bloody ridiculous, is what it is. I wouldn't pass Marx in ENGL 111, let alone allow my life to be influenced by him. Honestly, I think red is the color of communism because of all the corrective marks that must have appeared in the drafts of Marx's various papers and manifestos.

Then again, it's probably the translation that's doing it. Perhaps in the original language, which I think must have been either German or French (I'm leaning toward German, due to the title of the work) sentence fragments are a sign of unplumbd intellectual depths. Right now, though, they're plumb pissing me right off. Almost to the point where I might have to go buy a lamp, just so I can have one lightbulb moment today. And I still have another 65 pages to go before I can go to bed. This sucks.

Remind me of this moment the next time I talk about how little work I have to do, or if I ever--EVER--again mention the possibility of getting my PhD before retirement.

Song of the moment: "No Creo"~Shakira, because of the following lyrics:

No creo en Venus ni Marte
No creo en Carlos Marx
No creo en Jean Paul Sartre
No creo en Brian Weiss
Solo creo en tu sonrisa azul
En tu mirada de cristal
En los besos que me das
Y hablen lo que hablen

Preworry Runs in My Family

Ladies and gentlemen, I am a horrible and duplicitous person. Two faced in ways that DC Comics couldn't fathom.

I can hear the protests--I can't be two-faced, I'm too nice/sweet/dense/slow. Well, maybe not those last two. And I surely hate to disillusion you all, but there comes a time in every life when reality, harsh and unbending, must be faced. This is that time.

The reality of my life of lies hit me like a herring to the face today when, after sitting silently through rehearsal, I accepted Michele's praise about coming to both rehearsal and Final Vows even though I can't sing. I accepted her thanks, then snuck (sneaked?) out of the Basilica and headed for LaFortune, fun, and coffee. And I have every intention of going back and waiting outside the Basilica so that it looks like I attended. How lame is that?

In all honesty, though, I'm not sure I could have handled another hour listening to songs I know by heart and not singing them. Rewind: I think I hurt my voice and, pending a visit to an ear/nose/throat guy, am not singing at all. Period. Because I have no self control. Also because in the last few days even singing softly has made my ears ring and I clearly don't know how to sing without hurting myself.

Thing is, I'm preworrying a lot. That's my family's version of running the 'what ifs' and focusing on the absolute worst possible scenario. We fixate and ulcerate over them, and then get to enjoy the profound relief of knowing we blew the whole thing out of proportion when time reveals the pettiness of our worry. In this instance, worst case scenario is Julie Andrews: vocal fold nodules, botched surgery, range of 5 notes where once there were five octaves. Adjusted to my life, we're looking at 2 1/2 notes. I'll be like Springsteen, only my range will probably be lower than his.

That's basically what I'm fixated on. Actually, it's not that bad until I'm in rehearsal, not singing. Any other time and I'm able to think, it'll be fine. It's probably just stressed and I need to lay off for a month or so, then learn how to warm up properly. Vocal rest and rehab: no big.

But when I'm in rehearsal, listening to everyone else sing, it's way different. That's what I do. I have a hard time remembering the last time, before the last day or so, that I went 24 hours without singing...something. The last Mass I attended without at least singing quietly from the congregation. The last song I loved that I didn't in part love because I loved to sing it. And then I think about the possibility of not doing it for 6 months. And the possible consequence, if I can't learn some self control or figure out what's wrong, of never doing it again, and I lose it. Started tearing up during rehearsal today, and on Thursday.

What surprises me is that it's not the idea of not being in Folk Choir that bothers me. I mean, it bothers me, but I know that I can be without it and be more than fine. And even if I have to drop this year to heal, I know that the most important part--the people--won't stop hanging with me because I've misplaced my talent.

No, what bothers me is how will I respond if I really can't sing for a month, or three months, or six? What will I do with that time? How will it affect my faith life, since so much of what I experience in Mass has to do with the musical part of the liturgy? I don't know. Right now, I'm just praying that it's some sort of strange allergy, or a problem with my ear and not my voice. Or maybe that I'm in kind of voice settling stage. Okay, I think I made that up. I'm trying to be positive. That's hard for me.

Regardless, I'm going to head upstairs and get my coffee before I sneak back to the Basilica.

Song of the moment: "Louder Than Words"~Tick, Tick...BOOM!

The Return of iTunes

Just when you thought it couldn't get better, Apple came along and improved iTunes. How, you may ask?

They put Shark Week up for sale.

That's right, more than just songs and the usual ABC Family drivel (although the first season of 'Wildfire' was admittedly quite good, if a little 'Seventh Heaven' for my tastes), iTunes has begun selling educational television for portable viewing. Moms around the world are grateful, because now their kids can watch the Discovery channel on the way to and from places instead of having to talk in the car.

Wait, this wasn't supposed to be a cynical diatribe. The previous irritation can be explained away by one thing: jealousy. Yours truly does not have an iPod with video capabilities. Oh, I know, I know--I have a ginormous screen on my laptop--which, strangely enough, is on the floor instead of my lap while I get some serious cramps of the trapezius muscle from typing in a prone position for no apparent reason--that allows me to watch things like the entire second season of 'Veronica Mars.' I also have cable, which enables me to watch the Discovery Channel to my heart's content. But come on, people--this is Shark Week. Shark Week is a once-a-year occurence and I missed the 2006 installment because I didn't know it was happening. How can I pass this up?

And yet I must. Because I, dear reader, blew my spare cash on beads. Piles and piles of beads. Including a ruby in the rough, a large polished chunk of Sleeping Beauty turquoise, strands of watermelon tourmaline, citrine, faceted garnet, blue topaz, jade, green garnet chunks, peridot chips, carnelian disks, turquoise chips and rounds, and some lime colored turquoise that is to die for. And lots of silver to make it all pretty. Ladies and gentlemen, Lush Grammar, jewelry by Kathryn Hunter, is kicking into high gear. Real business cards, license and all. It's going to be awesome. And hopefully profitable.

So, yeah. That's why no Shark Week. At least not yet. And no Johnny Bravo.

That is all.

Song of the moment: "There's a Hole in the Bucket, Dear Liza"~traditional American folk song

Updates

On The Mermaid Chair: I was watching Lifetime: Television for Women yesterday, or rather, really early this morning, and apparently the network has made a film of this book. Starring Academy Award winner Kim Basinger, who has been curiously absent from any kind of film, television or theatre for the last ten or so years. Should be interesting.

On Sitatmytable Guy: I have seen him at Reckers three times since our little encounter. I know it's him because of his nose--it's not enormous, but still of proportions at odds with his face, and the only image I can give to describe it is...think of a Roman, and picture him as a hobbit. I mean, it's long, and kind of pointy, but bulbous at the sides. Very identifiable nose. I believe that he is not a freshman, as was my original assumption. Instead, I believe him to be a sophomore or junior who, since my graduation, has attempted to usurp my place as resident at Reckers. Well, Schnozzy Bear, Miss Piggy's not giving up that easily. I was there before you will, and will be there until the brick turns to dust around me. Bring it on!

Book Clubs

I should have been asleep an hour or more ago. Instead, I got caught up in Sue Monk Kidd's latest novel, The Mermaid Chair. Kidd is also the author of The Secret Life of Bees, and I think what appeals to me about her writing is the femenine experience of the divine. The finding of self with, through and around a search for and knowledge of God. I know, lots of prepositional phrases. But that exploration seems to me the expression of my poetics--no, rather the driving force behind my desire to write. My poems are very rarely about the search for God or self, but are often the orienteering markers left on my path.

The real reason for my writing this particular entry, though, is what I found not within the book, but at the end of it. What does it say about our society that we have introductions to books situated at the back of them? Perhaps that we are so goal oriented that we skip straight to the end to see if the return will be worth the temporal investment? That those who read to read dive right in to see where the words themselves will take the reader? That those who read to discuss it later, to know the communion of thought found in a book club, the endangered reality of shared experience and interest in a world of niches also search for some assurance that the interpretation will be common as well? I don't really know, but it seemed like an interesting question to pose.

Sometimes I experience God like this Beautiful Nothing...And it seems then as though the whole point of life is just to rest in it. To contemplate it and love it and eventually disappear into it. And then other times it's just the opposite. God feels like a presence that engorges everything. I come out here, and it seems the divine is running rampant. That the marsh, the whole of Creation, is some dance God is doing, and we're meant to step into it, that's all.
~Brother Thomas, p. 153

Strange that the one quote that most affects me, after the ranting about feminine experience, would be in the voice of a man. But we can't control these things, can we? At the very least, I can't. That's just how I roll.

That's My Table

So it's freshman orientation at the University of Notre Dame. A time of new beginnings, of hellos, goodbyes, and all sorts of strange things that parents only do when in the presence of masses of other parents. You know--the insane number of pictures, the career wars, the "I'm hoping his social life takes off in college," followed by "Are you sure you don't want your letter jacket?" Most of the time, these snippets of conversation are kind of hilarious. Sometimes, not so much. To the gentleman who said "That's so high school" while walking past me, you're lucky you kept walking. Didn't want to beat you down in front of your freshman then stamp all over your limp and twisted body. Stop crying--that's so geriatric.

I actually wish I were a bit more intimidating. I know that I like to bow up, but clearly I am not anywhere near as intimidating as even the most average toddler. Why do I know this? Because of what happened to me today in Reckers.

After singing at the Liturgy and Music retreat, or whatever it's called, at my favorite place--Sacred Heart Parish Center--I headed to Reckers for lunch. There were several things that went wrong there, but I got lunch and sat down to read the paper and eat. Brilliant idea. So brilliant that someone else decided to do the same thing.

I'm sitting at the table, reading, when a young man who definitely looked like a frosh (though I could be wrong) came over to the table. Put his books on the table and sat in the chair next to me. Started reading his book and drinking his soda.

I was pretty much astounded. I would never, ever do that, particularly when there were two other, empty tables around us. Didn't quite know what to do, so I just ignored it and kept reading and eating. Then his buzzer went off and I thought, yes, maybe it's to-go and he'll, well, go . I was right: it was to-go. But he did not leave.

No, he put his food down on my paper, opened it and started to eat his lunch, while reading his book. He still had not said a word to me. Now, I get thoroughly irritated with people who borrow the salt from my table in the middle of a conversation with their friends, or who come over and start poking through the sections of the paper that I haven't read yet. These things are simply rude, because it is clear that I have staked a claim on this particular table, and anything on it is automatically within my personal bubble. You want to use my salt? Fine--acknowledge my presence and the fact that you're interuting whatever I happen to be doing. This can be as easy as saying, "hey, do you mind if I borrow your salt?" Make sure that the paper isn't one I purchased, which only takes one simple inquiry: "Excuse me, is that your paper?" This can be supplemented with "do you mind if I read the comics?"

Thing was, I couldn't even really be irritated with this person. I mean, I was a little annoyed, for sure, but what kind of guts does it take to commandeer a table while the table's occupant is still there? And what was I going to say? "I don't know where you're from, but here we're not very personable. Find your own damn table, and get off my newspaper. Oh, and welcome to Notre Dame." Or "I know that we are ND, but not that close--piss off." Neither of those came to mind, actually, or I might have used one. As it was, I finished my meal, packed up and went my way. I'm still kind of flabbergasted by it.

And now, I think an early night, because we have to be at the JACC at 8am. That's right--8AM. For a 10AM liturgy. Wahoo.

Song of the moment: "Colors"~Amos Lee

Oh, My Aching Arse

When last we met, I was lamenting the lack of internet from my laptop and the lack of educational television. I have more than made up for that lack in the last 90 hours. Animal Planet is my narcotic and my anti-drug, my alpha and omega sans caps. It’s the first thing I watch in the morning and the last thing I leave on when I put “sleep mode” on the television. (I have kind of a problem falling asleep in the dark or in silence…I blame living in Alaska for the dark thing—no darkness in summer—and dorm life for the silence.)

Do you know that the Riley’s olive turtle nests by the thousands along the coast of Costa Rica, but only in the evenings of the waxing tide? That in one season 40 million eggs will be laid, but that only about 5% will survive, and of the 2 million hatchlings, about 5% will make it to adulthood? Or that coatis and ghost crabs love to eat the turtle eggs? Or that capuchin monkeys wait until low tide in the mangrove swamps, dig up clams and whack them against branches until the clam gets stressed and loosens up? You do now, and you know why? Because I watch Animal Planet.

What I really love is that this photographer, Austin Stevens (:Snakemaster)—who actually has more experience with snakes than many professional herpetologists, having grown up in South Africa and photographed snakes and other animals since his teen years (he’s Croc Dundee old, not Croc Hunter old)—is in the Amazon for this episode, looking for anacondas, and he’s saying some ridiculous things: He leapt three stories (so approximately 27 feet) off a boat to catch a snake in the water (its natural habitat) because he didn’t have time to take the stairs. Was it an anaconda? No, and he knew it: it was a kind of corn snake, but “it was just gorgeous and I couldn’t miss it.” Then he found a Peruvian tree boa—up a tree over the water, mind you—and leapt out of his canoe, went up the tree, wrestled the boa, and—while trying to get it back to the canoe, where the cameras were, fell about 15 feet into the water. Then he tossed the boa into his canoe, jumped in after it, draped it back over its branch for photos, and said “I hope I find an anaconda less aggressive.” Clearly it’s the snake’s natural aggression, and not the serious manhandling it just received, that make it grumpy. Uhuh.

He’s just caught a small anaconda, only about a meter or so long, and got bit. One thing that he didn’t mention, which he should have, is the amount of bacteria that can be found in a snake mouth. It’s not quite the deadly Petri dish known as the Komodo dragon’s oral cavity (those things have over 100 different bacteria living in there, and can kill and/or make a victim crazy in about 5 minutes) but it’s certainly something that requires serious antibiotics. He also didn’t mention that, as with pretty much all the constrictors, the anaconda’s teeth curve back toward its jaw, and if he were to try and pry the jaws open he would end up sawing and tearing his skin. On those animals you actually have to press the teeth further in, move the entire head slightly forward, and then open the jaws, bringing the teeth out their original punctures. No, what he mentioned is that, by rinsing his wound in the river, he’s summoned up piranhas and will need to be really careful about falling in the water from here on out.

God, I love this channel. Love love love love.

You know, I’ve seen river otters on the banks of the St. Joe river three out of the last four days on the way to campus, and some rabbit…I may need a digital camera. And a pair of snake tongs—you never know when you’ll run across a particularly grumpy garden snake, or when the opossum that you thought was actually dead is really alive and more of an ROUS than a standard

Thinking about it now, too, I’d be willing to bet that the Dutch influence is what gives similarity to the South African, New Zealand and Australian accents. I really like them. I think they sound musical, but without the lilt that lends musicality to, say, an Irish accent or the muffled percussion of a Scottish brogue.

Song of the Moment: "The Bad Touch" ~The Bloodhound Gang

Let the Man Prance

Well, some of my friends can't be bothered to comment on the blog, but when prodded have responded that I've been rather introspective in the last few entries. This is true, and more so than I had every intended when I started blogging. I like to make fun of things, myself being among the more popular subject. Lately, though, I've been using the blog as a diary more than a fun forum, and this must stop. I can't get famous some day and have the news media stumble across a dark and self-involved blog which then causes them to compare me to Poe or Anais Nin. That just won't do.

So, for a change of pace, I'm going to publish one of my papers. Before you freak out, no, it is not the one about the object-usage conflict in Hamlet's Act 4, Scene 7; it's not the one about antifraternal literature and the Canterbury Tales; and it most certainly is not the one about borders in male poets writing female subjects. In all honest, I was bored writing the last two, so I certainly wouldn't subject you to them, and the first has far too many mentions of the word "breast," which would probably result in my blog showing up on internet searches between porn and the La Leche League websites. This paper is about poetry and gymnastics, and I really enjoyed writing it. The publication of something I've already written also gives me time to do something else during the time I would normally spend blogging, mainly cleaning the house before its owners return tomorrow. If I'm done by 2:30, maybe I'll sleep instead of staying up. Doubt it'll be done by then, but it certainly can't hurt to try. Anyway, on to the manifesto. :)

Hopping Across the Mat
or
A Place for Light Verse


I have never enjoyed watching male gymnasts perform their floor routines. Every four years, demigods from across the globe garb themselves in small shorts and wristbands, clap their hands in resin or chalk and take their duck foot positions at the corner of a springy blue mat. They bow to the judges, bow to the audience, and then dart forward to launch into a plank front flip of at least nine rotations before touching ever so lightly down in the opposite corner. On the next tumbling pass, involving variations on a somersault and the always strange skill of grabbing one ankle while upright and lifting it as high as is possible without diminishing reproductive viability, the gymnast discovers that he has stopped three inches short of his next launch pad, and he proceeds to earn my ridicule: he points his toes, extends his leg and daintily skips to where he needs to be, whirling his arms in what in some subcultures might be considered an extremely rude indication of how fat they mama is. This may happen two, even three times in a single routine, between breathtaking acts of gravitational defiance, and nine out of ten spectators would like to see it gone. But what if it actually has a function? What if those little hops, toes pointed like professor’s sarcasm, are in the routine to get the gymnast from A to B but also to give him a chance to breath in the interminable 60-90 seconds he spends on the mat, flipping himself into the various pretzel shapes usually reserved for Circque de Soleil employees? And what if the spectator needs that break as much as the gymnast?

Lately I find myself weighted by the density of the poetry that I am seeing written by my peers and in the books of poetry that I read. Little lead pellets roll from enjambed line to enjambed line or fall off the end: stop. A poem for children in Iraq, a poem for the Comfort women, a poem for the rape victim, and one moralizing against war/consumerism/conservativism/atheism/ votingfortheidiotBushism. And these are just the poems that I understand. Others are litanies of place names and theories and histories that don’t provide any historical facts and still others that can look like the poet had a bag of words into which he reached, grabbed a handful and flung them at a blank sheet. These are the flips. They are artful and stunning and well choreographed, and they wear me out. I think one has to be a practitioner of the art to truly understand how difficult it is to perform a poetic plank front flip into a backward somersault. But I find myself needing a break from the mental acrobatics of these works, and have nowhere to turn except to children’s literature, where light verse has been stashed for the duration of my short life.

If I want a poem that will make me laugh, or at the very least not make me want to disown everything I am as imperialist and right wing, I have to turn to Shel Silverstein or Roald Dahl or Ogden Nash, all of whom live in the youth section of bookstores and libraries, or on the shelves of my mother’s third grade classroom. The subject matter, yes, is often juvenile, but that is the audience that we have given to light verse poets. They are assigned illustrators and make more money than any “legitimate” poet by writing about homework and dirty socks. But my God, are their toes pointed! They use rhyme and meter and wit that are often wasted on their audience. This kind of wit and humor should not be relegated to the nursery, but should be embraced as welcome reprieve from the near-unbearable weight of sociopolitical treatises and unnaturing of nature. Good poets should be able to write light verse without anyone fearing for their talent, and should be able to publish poems that aren’t trying to explain or solve the problems of the world or the human race or even of one human’s existence because, in a troubled world, those poems that make us laugh can be every bit as valuable as those that make us weep.

A gymnast loses points if any part of his sculpted self touches the blue mat outside the white lines, and more than one has lost a medal because his thumb toe crossed or his top heavy torso tipped him out while he tried to set up his next sequence of earthbound acrobatics. The abdominal muscles may control the flips and the shoulders cushion the landing; the hands might elevate the body for those awe-inspiring flares that, by rights, belong on the pommel horse, and the thighs provide liftoff, but it is those pointed toes and little, dancing, strangely funny steps that keep the routine going, that are the taxiway between landing and takeoff. So let the man prance. Let light verse give the poetry reader a break between incredible works of heartbreaking genius. Let the poet/gymnast take a moment to breathe between triple back flips and power tumbling, without threat of sending him back to the YMCA gymnasium to coach summer camp. And let the world see him do it, because it makes us laugh.



Song of the Moment: "Don't Tread on Me" ~ Metallica

I Need to Get Wired

And I don't mean on caffeine. Living at the Warners has been great, except for one or two significant problems that have nothing to do with the drooling beast. No, the problem is that they don't have cable, and I can't get online using my laptop.

Now the conflict with the first couldn't be more obvious: I haven't watched educational TV for three weeks, with the exception of a few jaunts to Spring Valley. There I was able to watch a special about samurai on The History Channel, which was pretty sweet, but not nearly enough to tide me over. I need The Crocodile Hunter, a couple of hits of Trading Spaces and maybe some Food Network. It's a problem, but I've been watching the same DVDs for ages (Steve really needs to work on the size of his collection) and I need COMMERCIALS! I have no idea what strange ED medications have come out in the last weeks, or whether there's a new compilation CD featuring reggae hair bands of 1987, or if there's a new crappy movie out that I need to see on a Sunday night. It's killing me.

The internet part is not quite as bad, and mostly revolves around my inability to download new music, which is kind of annoying. I have a list of different songs that I've heard on the radio that I cannot get to because I don't want to download them to the Warner's computer.

But the great part of it all is that I'm into my new suite on Friday evening. It's going to be awesome. It has wireless internet, cable in my room, an a bathroom of my own. I need to figure out what I'm going to do for extra workspace, since the desk is wee, but beyond that I'm really excited.

And now, off to Reckers. I'm supposed to meet my thesis advisor on Monday or Tuesday to talk about how my thesis is coming, and since I only wrote about 7 poems this summer, I need to get on that. And I really need to eat because my hands are starting to shake and I don't remember if I ate breakfast. Lunch?

Song of the Moment: "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy" ~Big & Rich

Jesus, Take the Wheel

I've been listening to this song in my head for two days now. Well, this and "Christmas Lullaby" from "Songs for a New World." (Normally I would italicize the title of the musical, rather than putting it in quotes like it was another song, but I'm using a Mac, and Safari, so I don't have all those cool formatting options.)

"Jesus take the wheel;
take it from my hands,
'cause I can't do this on my own...
I'm letting go,
so give me one more chance--
save me from this road I'm on..."

For all my talk about conversion this summer, and despite my need to do so, I'm still not ready to give up my problems to Jesus. For me, that doesn't mean not doing anything about them, but rather acknowledging that I need to do more than admit my faults: I need to change. In a variety of different situations, the way that I handle things is the same way I've been handling them, bungling them beyond belief. And like the man who was drowning in a river I've seen the life saver, the boat and the Coast Guard, but waved them on, waiting for things just to change. To return to the song's driving metaphor, for some reason I think that I can keep steering the way I have been, and praying harder, and somehow the road will change beneath me--this time I won't spin out, all the while knowing I will.

I know, convoluted beyond belief without details, but you're not getting any of those. Therapeutic this may be, but therapy it most certainly isn't. Suffice it to say that, for all my bravado, I am petrified of change. Not of physical change, but of the kind that might actually count. It's like "What About Bob?": if I continue messing certain things up, my faults are quantifiable. If I change them, get rid of them, then I have to face new challenges that, cerebrally, I know I'll be able to handle but that I'm too lazy to want to face. I'm almost comforted by the surety of failure.

I guess it actually comes back to my last entry...Oscillation, while weird, and while mentally abhorant, is comfortable. It's the same rocking motion that parents use to put their children to sleep. Why else am I back at ND at all? Yes, I love the program, and yes, I have no regrets. But at the same time, I was so set on coming back here, to somewhere I was comfortable and peaceful that, having been accepted elsewhere, I said no. It's why I am drawn to people who will like me but cannot love me, why I content myself with skills I know I have rather than trying new things, why I spent part of this summer working at the same job I started 6 years ago. All are without risk of changing the person I believe myself to be. I have made peace with this person.

But if that were true, I wouldn't feel this way. It's just another comfortable lie that puts me in control. I'm determined to wring this wheel to death before I let Someone else steer. But I have hope, and Vision gave it to me. It was the first thing I've done in a long time that has stretched the limits of the person I think I am. And I kind of like what I see at the edges. Which brings us to the other song:

"In the eyes of heaven, my place is assured;
I carry with me heaven's grand design...
Gloria, gloria, I will sing the name of the Lord,
and He will make me shine."

I'm starting to believe it. Brace for the changes... I promise they will be for the better.

Why the Ostrich Sticks Its Head in the Sand

Because it's a heck of a lot easier than watching the world pass you by. See? Some questions have simple answers.

No, really, I'm just having a weird day. I realized, in the middle of a shift at Reckers, that I was doing the same thing that I did six years ago. Smoothies, pizza, thinking about registration. A lot has happened since then, but unlike most of the Western world, my reality refuses to be linear. Everything for me is cyclical--home, ND, home, ND. Summer job, school, summer job, school. Infatuated, not, infatuated, not. Okay, those ones happen to a lot of people. But lately, despite the fact that I know I'm moving toward an end goal, I feel like I'm oscillating more than progressing, and it kind of weirds me out.

When I was in high school, I never imagined being 24 and still in school. Looking at another three years of school. I'm almost 25 and I still have no idea what my real life is going to be like. Don't get me wrong--I don't think that the life I'm living right now isn't real; I'm not delusional or anything. But it's temporary. I'm making plans for a future that won't have any kind of permanence for another 3 years. That's quite daunting, because I have no idea if I'll still want to be on this path in three years.

The good thing is that, at least at ND, I'm not alone in that. We're all temporary. The relief is less stark between the Ugrads and my grad school friends here than it is between my friends at home and me. All of them are knee deep in permanence: houses, marriages, cats. Permanent. They know who they're going to be sleeping next to in 50 years. I, on the other hand, have no idea what I'll be doing a year from now. Hell--six months from now. No, that's a lie. 6 months from now I'll be on Folk Choir tour. But you get my meaning. Four month from now I'll be filling out another round of applications for fellowships and MEd programs, and won't know what's going to happen until March or April. It's craziness.

Thank God I have a blog. Otherwise I'd have to seek therapy and that's outside my budget, so I'd be forced to choose between sanity and fiscal solvency. Tough choice. I really like my creature comforts, like food and clothing and shelter...

Alright, I'm over it. I think I'm going to check on some fellowship programs now, just in case I don't get into ACE the first time. God knows ND likes to waitlist me.

Song of the moment: "Jesus, Take the Wheel" ~Carrie Underwood

Give It Time

I don't think we give ourselves time to grieve anymore. I know that sounds strange after the last couple of silly posts, but I was just on Facebook, being funny myself, when I saw an ad for "World Trade Center." An Oliver Stone production. I've seen previews--I went to "The Devil Wears Prada" in Spring Valley, and there was a preview. And I just thought now what I thought then. We're not ready to see this. I'm not ready to see this.

I know it's supposed to be the story of heroes, that it's supposed to be a tale of strength and courage and literally digging to life from the ashes. But I'm not ready. Five years later and I'm not ready to see that footage of smoke and falling bodies that I watched standing in the middle of Reckers on a Tuesday morning. I'm not ready to see lines of people waiting to pay $7 to see a tragedy unfold that is part of my living memory. And I'm about as removed from the event as is humanly possible.
I knew no one involved, not until I heard about the Pentagon, and Capt. Tone was on the other side of the building when that happened. It doesn't matter. I'm still not ready to see it on screen.

But I'm not sure I'll ever be ready for that. I live in a world where I am so constantly bombarded by the pain and viciousness and anger of the current reality that I don't want to see what we've already gone through. I want to let that wound heal a little more, just a little.

The one thing I remember thinking was "this can't be happening to us." This doesn't happen to us. And I was in Reckers the day we brought war to Afghanistan, and this time it was real. Not like the Gulf, which should have been more real because my father was there. This was real because this time it would be my brother's story. And I was resolute that this was what needed to happen, and because if we were sending men to die then by God I would back the mission. In all honesty, I don't regret any of it. Not that I did much. I got righteous at all the right times, silent at the right times, agreed to disagree more times than I can count. And I cried. A lot.

I don't cry anymore, and it's weird. I mean, I cry at stupid things--goodbyes and Hallmark cards and touching lines of poetry. But we're still at war in Afghanistan and I don't cry anymore. We're still at war in Iraq. We've been waiting for fifty years to leave Korea, and there is no end in sight for that war...just waves of hope and disappointment. But that's just the way things are, right? That's the mission. Make sure that, if nothing else, this doesn't happen here again. War is what happens in other places. Not here.

Is there any other country on earth that has had the luxury to believe that in the last hundred years? The last fifty? The last twenty-five? Canada, maybe. Australia. Scandinavian countries. That's pretty much it. We bring it, so we don't have to take it. And I still...through my despair, I still prefer it that way. Maybe that's why I'm not ready for this stupid movie. Maybe I'm not ready to have images of the World Trade Center side by side in my brain with the attacks on Baghdad and Kandahar and admit that the strangers in the first were more important to me than the strangers in the second and third. That, when it comes to your brother or mine, yours is a loss I can handle. And the knowledge that as long as I, and others, think that way, nothing is ever going to change.

I was thinking the other day...The symbol of Islam is a crescent moon...a curved blade. Christianity: a cross; a sword. Judaism: six points defending an enclosed center. It's funny what symbols we choose for our religions; what self-fulfilling prophecies they can be. Maybe someday I, as a Christian, will be able to see the cross for what it is: a sword with its point in the ground. The very symbol of our faith, the violent instrument of Christ's death, is a call to pacifism. Even at the cost of our own lives. And that is terrifying.

Song of the moment: Ps. 130

Kathleen Battle Update

Well, just when you thought there couldn't be any more on this particular subject, I beat the horse again.

I was poking around in Google and managed (in about 5 seconds) to find Ms. Battle's website, including a link to one of her most recent releases, "Classic Kathleen Battle: a portrait," found here: http://www.sonyclassical.com/music/89464/index.html And, in a strange coincidence, what should be playing on the website but her rendition of "O mio babbino caro." Despite the crappy quality of the feed, her high notes were everything I had hoped they wouls be. Her low notes seemed a little wonky for reasons I don't quite understand, but I would buy this in a heartbeat. Probably will, actually. But later. After the voice lessons. :)

That is all. Okay, maybe not all. I have a sin to lay on the goat. I bought the karaoke version of the song. I couldn't help myself, and I cringe in shame when it comes up on the playlist. I cring, but I can't make myself skip it. Sad, sad day.

Song of the moment: "The Lone Wild Bird."

Question to the gallery: If you could be any style of music, what would it be? Please note that this is not asking what kind of music you enjoy listening to, but what kind best personifies your desires/aspirations/values. Comment away.

Sweet Potatoes and Gianni Schicchi

Well, I have decided that I am far better at winter meals than at summer meals. I mean, I can roast a sweet potato and stuff a chicken better than anyone I know (mostly because very few people that I know actually do those things) but cannot seem to come up with a summer meal that doesn't somehow involve a meal salad. I mean, yes, I like meal salads. One might even say that I love them. But only rarely do they involve sweet potatoes, which is an immediate demerit from the plan, and rarely, if ever, are they cost effective. And before everyone protests the health benefits of a pile of mixed greens, multi-hued bell peppers, cherry tomatoes, olives, red onions, feta, red wine vinegar and EVOO (that's for you, Nicholas), please consider just how much a bell pepper costs in relation to a sweet potato. I mean, a decent salad is going to run $10, and that's before the meat and the wine. If I'm spending $10 before wine, I'd better be at a moderately snazzy restaurant. One where the utensils are already wrapped in the paper napkin and kept together with one of those spooky adhesive napkin rings. What do they use on those things, anyway? Envelope glue? How is it that it causes the napkin ring to adhere but isn't even tacky to the touch? It's really more of a...slimey feeling.

So, I can't make summer meals. The good thing about that is that I only have another two months of summer to go before blessed winter returns, and I can break out my sweaters and jeans. And BOOTS! I believe that I shall need at least two new pairs of boots this season, and one of them will be knee high and cranberry colored with a three inch traditional heel...none of this stacked business. It will match nothing that I own and the only place I shall wear it is prancing around my room while singing show tunes in sweats. It's going to be marvelous. It is, of course, a pipe dream, especially since I was just ranting about the cost of a bell pepper, but what a lovely dream it was. For a moment, I was the devil wearing Prado. Yes. This devil wears Prado. And Couch, Her Mes, Kate Spud and Ralf Lauren. Even in my fantasy life I wear knock-offs. Why? Because Fantasy Katie still manages to spill sweet potatoes, red wine or the rub from some pork product on herself relatively regularly. It's a fact of life.

That paragraph wasn't actually supposed to be about fashion or fantasy. It was supposed to be about the summer things that I can make, namely: drinks. And not even the pomegranate martini that is just so much better with a bit of sprite for zing and fizz. I mean the handy dandy, who-needs-Starbucks version of iced coffee. It's perfect for the middle of a humid afternoon, and all it takes is the leftovers from the morning's pot of coffee. I, personally, brew a pot purely for the icedness, but you may do as you please.

~ Equal parts strong coffee--I prefer a french roast, but flavored coffees also work-- and milk --I use skim, but the higher the fat content, the creamier the result. You can also substitute 1/2 the milk with Bailey's, Brendan's, Carolan's or (if you're feeling daring) Godiva liquer for an evening treat. DO NOT PUT ICE IN AT THIS STEP!!! It will just melt and dilute the whole thing.
~ 1 1/2 to 2 artificial sweeteners per 12oz of mix. This saves you the step of sweetening each individual glass, and if you're using a whole pot of coffee, you're talking 5 glasses at least.
***If you like, use a sugar-free flavored syrup (Irish Creme, vanilla and hazelnut are really good in this), with
1 1/2 shot per 12oz. Less, of course, if you like a more bitter flavor.
Mix well and put in the fridge. Pour over full glass of ice.

I know--it's so wicked simple you're wondering why you don't have a pitcher of it in your fridge right now. SO AM I. Why are you spending $2 plus gas for the burnt aftertaste that Starbucks will inevitably leave instead of spending 15 minutes, most of it waiting for the pot to perk, and having this scrumtralescent and ultimately personalizable beverage at hand? It's just silly.

This, and pretty much all caffeinated beverages, are inherently bad for singers, which provides me with a smooth and subtle segue into my next topic as outlined in the title of this entry: Gianni Schicchi. More specifically, the terribly overused but almost painfully beautiful threat of suicide that is "O mio babbino caro."

I have always loved this song. And by "always" I pretty much mean "thought it was cool" in high school and "wept like a baby" when I heard Renee Flemming singing it on "Movie Adagios II." Right: it's a compilation of slow themes from movies throughout cinematographic history. So I was searching for "Gabriel's Oboe" and stumbled upon this gem--so sue me. I put the damn thing on repeat and it works better for personal cathartic needs than "An Affair to Remember" ever has. Break out the tissues!

Anyway, a friend of mine wrote to me about Kathleen Battle, a soprano with a crystal tone and wonderfully subtle vibrato who should never sing African American spirituals. (Her rendition of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" is almost painfully proper--lovely and round and completely at odds with the common heritage of the song.) But I downloaded a couple of her songs (opi with really long names from "Le nozze di Figaro" and "Cosi fan tutti"...and yes, I made "opi" up as the natural plural of the word "opus") from iTunes and the brightness of both selections made me want to hear her hit the high note in "O mio babbino caro." I mean, it just comes out of nowhere, and when it's bad it's ridiculous, but when it's good...when it's good it's breathtaking, and I think that, with Ms. Battle, it would be very good.

How, you might ask, would I know, being so attached to Ms. Flemming's rendition and anything but what one might call an "opera buff"? I know, dear friends, because that high note is featured in every single 30-second clip of the song offered in iTunes. And I have just listened to them all. That's right--all. Even the cheesy "flute meditations," electric guitar renditions and jump-rope vibrato varieties. Some are quite lovely. Some are just bad--there's even a karaoke version of it. KARAOKE OPERA. God help us. That Holly Stell, 13yr old "prodigy" should even attempt it, at her age and with the amount of air that she has in her tone, is just laughable. And others... Good, but too rich. Too dark. Too much actual drama...German sounding. Very Wagner. Even Montserrat Caballe, whom I love specifically for her richness... It's just not, I think, the innocence and melodrama that the song seems to warrant, based on the translations and the synopses of the opera that I've read. Even Ms. Flemming is a little close to the truly dramatic, but she's just...good. Amazing. And I think that one might be able to put the spin on it that one of the reasons Lauretta's so desperate is because she's a little shelved, and this is her last chance at happiness.

Some of the better ones that I heard on iTunes were performed by
Sissel (who apparently did the wordless vocals on the "Titanic" soundtrack... one of her leaps to the A flat lacks the
finesse of the others, which is unfortunately not available on the sample, and is strange when the others seem so
effortless... the arrangement may be a little too popera for some, but it's nice listening)
Andre Rieu, a conductor, has a version of it on his disc, "Tuscany," and the unnamed vocalist is lovely...unfortunately it
doesn't reflect well on Mssr. Rieu that the person proofing his album info claimed that the song is from "Madam
Butterfly"...
Kiri Te Kanawa does a nice job, but there's just something...off about her pronunciation, and if I, about as nonItalian as it is
possible to be without being invisible, notice, it's noticeable
Maria Callas is Maria Callas. She has twelve different renditions, each lovely. Actually, they may all be the same one on
different albums. She just comes across, to me at least, as a little old for the piece.
Miriam Gauci--very nice. Rich, but still very nice.
Gabriele Santini-- talk about melodrama! If it got any thicker your could smother someone with it. And yet, I like it.
Claudia Muzio--this is charming just because it's such an obviously old recording. It sounds like something my great
grandmother, if she were around, might have listened to, or the recording sent along to accompany a moving picture.

This is by no means a ranked list, and I'm sure I've pissed off several people, but hey--beauty may be objective, but this is all about my aesthetics, which I've already explained. And, much to my sadness, no rendition by Ms. Battle is yet available on the iTunes.

I've actually spent a lot more time on this entry than originally planned. Needless to say, one of the things that I will be working on in voice lessons (which I will purchase instead of the extravagant boots, or even a small pair of poomps) is this particular song, but if I can't hit the A flat, then it will be lost to me forever, because this is one of those songs that I simply refuse to transpose. Or more accurately, find in a transposed form.

With that, I need to go to bed. I have a grueling day of nothing to do tomorrow, and I must be well rested. If you haven't seen "Just Friends," with Ryan Re(y)nolds, do--I was guffawing. In a house by myself. Probably wouldn't do that in a house that had other people in it. Too embarassing.

Songs of the moment: The iTunes free downloads for this week! They're kind of awesome.
"Listen Up!" ~ The Gossip just enough cowbell to soothe, not cure, the fever
"Tangled" ~Jackie Allen