Artisan Feminique

2007-01-28T22:52:00.000-08:00

A Fond Fairwell

I am sending this blog into official hibernation at least until, as Emma might say, I begin my exciting life in VA or Europe.

I leave you with the most beautiful thing I have ever seen...

Love from,
Brianna

To a New Year full of "artificiality and art more or less perfected"

2006-12-30T20:36:00.000-08:00

"I think Linda realized there and then what it took me years to learn, that the behavior of civilized man really has nothing to do with nature, that all is artificiality and art more or less perfected."

~Nancy Mitford, The Pursuit of Love

2006-12-26T09:41:00.000-08:00

The Incomparable Nat King Cole

I meant to post this yesterday, but time got away from me.

Isn't his voice smooth as silk...

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Boots, boots, boots

2006-12-24T13:45:00.000-08:00

In response to Michaela's question, I believe that the kind of boots she bought are generally worn just below the knee. Like this:

However, they can be worn a few inches shorter like the girl on the left. Pretty cute, too, in my opinion:

Just one of the many advantages of today's nearly-anything-goes fashion environment.

2006-12-23T14:17:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas Eve eve!

Two great lines from Bones...

2006-12-17T22:43:00.000-08:00

"Should I continue speaking as if you were listening?"

and

"Does it look like I'm discussing this?"

Intriguing

2006-12-15T18:05:00.000-08:00

Not real sure what this tells us, but I thought I'd pass it along, disturbing though it is:

December 2006
“Saddam's Iraq and Islamic Terrorism: What We Now Know”

Stephen F. Hayes
Senior Writer, The Weekly StandardEugene C. Pulliam Distinguished Visiting Fellow in Journalism, Hillsdale College
STEPHEN F. HAYES a senior writer at The Weekly Standard, is a graduate of Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism and DePauw University. Before joining The Weekly Standard, he was a senior writer for National Journal's Hotline. He also served for six years as Director of the Institute on Political Journalism at Georgetown University. His work has appeared in The Wall Street Journal, the Los Angeles Times, National Review, Reason and many other publications. He has appeared on numerous television and radio programs, including NPR's Talk of the Nation, FOX News Sunday, CNN's Late Edition, and NBC's Meet the Press. He is the author of The Connection: How al Qaeda's Collaboration with Saddam Hussein Has Endangered America and of a forthcoming biography of Dick Cheney to be released this spring.

The following is adapted from a speech delivered on November 9, 2006, at Hillsdale College, during the author's two-week residency to teach a seminar on investigative journalism.

I woke up early on the morning of October 26, 2003. I was in Baghdad, staying at the famous al Rashid Hotel. From that hotel, CNN broadcast images of the first Gulf War to the entire world. In January 1993, as George H.W. Bush prepared to leave office and Bill Clinton prepared to assume the presidency, an American-made missile (TK) crashed into the lobby of the al Rashid, destroying the piano in the Western-style lounge.

On this day, I prepared for another long day hopping from helicopter to helicopter following Paul Wolfowitz around. Wolfowitz, regarded by many as the intellectual architect of the war, was in Iraq for the second time since the beginning of the war. I had also been with him on his first trip in July, when Iraq was still relatively calm, and attacks against coalition troops were sporadic and usually unsuccessful. We had even walked through downtown Mosul, in northern Iraq, without our bulletproof vests and helmets.

It was a false sense of stability. Things had gotten worse in the three months between that trip and this one. The night before we arrived at the al Rashid, a Black Hawk helicopter had been shot out of the sky by insurgent rockets. I spoke with my wife from Tikrit, Saddam Hussein's hometown, and she was nervous. Her colleagues at CNN had heard rumors of threats against the al Rashid and she knew we were headed to Baghdad. “You're not staying at the al Rashid, are you?” I told her we were. There's nothing to worry about, I said. I'm traveling with the No. 2 official from the Defense Department. If ever a location would be under the tightest of security, it would be the al Rashid.

At 5:59 a.m., we got our wake-up call. My roommate, James Kitfield from the National Journal, volunteered to take the first shower. I had been out later than he had the night before, sipping a few Heineken tallboys at the al Rashid bar with other reporters, officials from the Coalition Provisional Authority, and Iraqis such as Kanan Makiya, who had returned to their country with the hope of making it hospitable to democracy.

As Kitfield headed to the shower, I found that I couldn't sleep. I stood at the picture window of our room on the 11th floor. In the distance on my left, I could see Saddam Hussein's old parade grounds. I had long been fascinated by the monuments that mark the beginning and end of the parade route—identical sets of arms holding two swords that cross over the street. The blades form arches, maybe ten stories high. The street below those swords is paved with the helmets of dead Iranian soldiers—casualties of the Iran-Iraq War that consumed much of the 1980s. The burly arms that hold the swords were said to be exact replicas of Saddam Hussein's—down to the hair follicles.

I surveyed this hideous manifestation of Saddam's megalomania and began to devise a plan. We were not scheduled to visit the parade grounds—an oversight, in my view. So I thought about the best way to convince Wolfowitz and his aides that a short side-trip would be worth the time.

As I looked out over downtown Baghdad, I noticed a bright blue box sitting under some trees just beyond the wall that separates the al Rashid Hotel grounds, along with the secure Green Zone, from the rest of Baghdad. That it was out of place—a small patch of color in a landscape that was otherwise desert brown to the horizon—seemed curious but not threatening.

A moment later, I watched as the first rocket left the blue trailer and whizzed over the wall toward the hotel. Then came another, and another, and another, and another, and another—flares of orange on a straight-line trajectory into the lower floors of the hotel. I suppose I expected them to stop, figuring whoever was shooting would have to pause and reload. So for probably 15 or 20 seconds, I stood at the window and watched. I looked in vain for the people firing at us. And the rockets just kept coming.

It finally occurred to me that standing in front of a window was not a good place to be, so I turned and ran out of the room. In the time it took for me to get from the window to the door—maybe two seconds—one of the rockets hit our floor. The hallway was filled with smoke, so, taking my cues from two soldiers crawling on their knees and elbows, I dropped to the floor. The door to my room shut behind me. Remembering that Kitfield was still in the shower, I pounded on the door to get his attention, but he was already on his way out, wearing only a towel. He joined me in the hallway, and we waited until the concussive blasts had ended.

The hallway had already begun flooding. Six rooms down from ours, an internal wall had been blown into the hall by the rocket. The smoke seemed to be getting thicker, and there were shouted warnings of a “big fire,” though I never saw one. I stopped in the room next door to ours, where NBC News cameraman Jim Long and veteran Pentagon correspondent Jim Miklaszewski were standing in front of the window. Long was shooting video of the smoke near the blue trailer.

I walked down the hall to survey the damage. It was restricted to one room, but extensive. Water on the 11th floor was more than ankle-deep. The man staying in the room that was hit, Lt. Col. Charles Buehring, was a top adviser to L. Paul Bremer, the civilian administrator of Iraq. Buehring did not survive his injuries. As I walked down the 11 flights of stairs to the lobby, I noticed a small drop of blood near the fourth-floor landing. By the time I reached the ground floor, the white tiles were mostly covered with red footprints—some showing the treads of shoes, others the imprints of bare feet. In all, 16 al Rashid guests were injured.

The preliminary investigation would reveal that the attack could have been far worse. The blue trailer held 40 anti-tank rockets—20 Russian and 20 French. Just 29 of the 40 rockets fired. Seventeen of those 29 hit the building. And only six of the 17 rockets that hit the building exploded. So six out of 40 did what they were supposed to do.

The subsequent investigation at first focused on a senior Iraqi regime official and his contact at the hotel, the head of catering at the al Rashid, who, it turns out, had long been an informant for Iraqi intelligence. But then came a surprise: Everywhere investigators looked, they turned up evidence that pointed to a collaborative effort between Saddam loyalists and Islamic fundamentalists affiliated with al Qaeda. It was the kind of cooperation—between secularists and Islamic radicals—that the U.S. intelligence community had long assured us would never happen. And yet it did. Again and again and again. And it is still happening throughout Iraq today.

I did not come here today to defend the Iraq War, although I am certainly willing to do that. I know people of goodwill disagree about the necessity and conduct of that war—and President Bush was reminded of that fact on November 7. Rather, I'd like to look at a fundamental misconception about that war—particularly among elites—and consider what it says about our conduct of the Global War on Terror and our prospects for winning.

For five years, beginning just days after the attacks on September 11, one question has dominated the national debate: Is Iraq part of the War on Terror or a distraction from it? This was debated prior to the 2002 elections, when Congress voted by heavy margins to authorize war. It was a central issue in the 2004 presidential campaign. And, in a sense, it was one of the primary issues in the recent congressional elections. And yet, as much as this is the fulcrum of the national debate on U.S. foreign and defense policy over the last half decade, few people have addressed it seriously.

War opponents have taken to making claims that are demonstrably false. Representative Jack Murtha, a longtime hawk and leading critic of the Iraq War, appeared on Meet the Press last spring. He told Tim Russert: “There was no terrorism in Iraq before we went there. None. There was no connection with al Qaeda. There was no connection with terrorism in Iraq itself.” Before that, a Kerry campaign spokesman told us, “Iraq and terrorism had nothing to do with one another. Zero.” Network television anchors tell us the same thing. A high-profile Washington Post columnist described Iraq's connections to terrorism as “fictive.” And on it goes.

The Bush Administration has neglected to respond to those challenges. What is the truth about Iraq and terrorism? Why doesn't the public hear about it? And why does it matter?

Failed Intelligence

In the months and years before the Iraq invasion, the U.S. intelligence community—with a few notable exceptions—believed that secularist Iraqis would never work with radicals like Osama bin Laden and that fundamentalists would never cooperate with an infidel like Saddam Hussein.

On what did they base these opinions? Not much.

Before 9/11, the U.S. intelligence community never penetrated the senior leadership of either Iraq or al Qaeda—two of America's most dangerous and determined enemies. Think about that. Bob Woodward interviewed the head of the Iraq operations group at the CIA, who told him that CIA reporting sources inside Iraq before the war were thin. How thin? “I can count them on one hand,” he said, “and still pick my nose.”

In July 2004, a report from the Senate Intelligence Committee concluded: “The Central Intelligence Agency did not have a focused human intelligence collection strategy targeting Iraq's links to terrorism until 2002. The CIA had no [redacted] sources on the ground in Iraq reporting specifically on terrorism.” And that same report quoted an unnamed Intelligence Community official who made this breathtaking admission: “I don't think we were really focused on the [counterterrorism] side, because we weren't concerned about the [Iraqi Intelligence Service] going out and proactively conducting terrorist attacks. It wasn't until we realized that there was the possibility of going to war that we had to get a handle on that.”

Again, think about that. Saddam Hussein claimed that the Mother of All Battles, as he called the Gulf War, never ended. His government harbored several of the world's most notorious terrorists—Abu Abbas and Abu Nidal among them. Within days of the 1993 attack on the World Trade Center, his government facilitated the escape from U.S. authorities of the Iraqi who mixed the chemicals for that bombing. Less than two months later, his intelligence service botched an attempt to assassinate George H.W. Bush on a visit to Kuwait. By the late 1990s, he was supplying chemical weapons expertise to terrorist-friendly Islamic fundamentalists in Sudan. He wired $150,000 to his intelligence chief in Prague to blow up the U.S. government's headquarters of Radio Free Europe. An Iraqi government-run newspaper called Osama bin Laden an “Arab and Islamic hero” and there were several credible reports—including some from open sources—that Saddam Hussein offered bin Laden safe haven in 1998.

All of this, and yet the U.S. intelligence community wasn't “really focused on the [counterterrorism] side” of the threat from Iraq. I'd submit to you that that was an oversight.
Let's spend a moment on two of those matters:

On October 2, 2002, a young Filipino man rode his Honda motorcycle up a dusty road to a shanty strip mall just outside Camp Enrile Malagutay in Zamboanga City, Philippines. The camp was host to American troops stationed in the south of the country to train with Filipino soldiers fighting terrorists. The man parked his bike and began to examine its gas tank. Seconds later, the tank exploded, sending nails in all directions and killing the rider almost instantly.

The blast damaged six nearby stores and ripped the front off of a caf頴hat doubled as a karaoke bar. The caf頷as popular with American soldiers. And on this day, SFC Mark Wayne Jackson was killed there and a fellow soldier was severely wounded. Eyewitnesses immediately identified the bomber as a known Abu Sayyaf terrorist.

One week before the attack, Abu Sayyaf leaders had promised a campaign of terror directed at the “enemies of Islam”—Westerners and the non-Muslim Filipino majority. And one week after the attack, Abu Sayyaf attempted to strike again, this time with a bomb placed on the playground of the San Roque Elementary School. It did not detonate. Authorities recovered the cell phone that was to have set it off and analyzed incoming and outgoing calls.

As they might have expected, they discovered several calls to and from Abu Sayyaf leaders. But another call got their attention. Seventeen hours after the attack that took the life of SFC Jackson, the cell phone was used to place a call to a top official in the Iraqi embassy in Manila, Hisham Hussein. It was not Hussein's only contact with Abu Sayyaf.

One Philippine government source told me: “He was surveilled, and we found out he was in contact with Abu Sayyaf and also pro-Iraqi demonstrators. [Philippine Intelligence] was able to monitor their cell phone calls. [Abu Sayyaf leaders] called him right after the bombing. They were always talking.”

A subsequent analysis of Iraqi embassy phone records by Philippine authorities showed that Hussein had been in regular contact with Abu Sayyaf leaders both before and after the attack that killed SFC Jackson. Andrea Domingo, immigration commissioner for the Philippines, said Hussein ran an “established network” of terrorists in the country. Hisham Hussein and two other Iraqi embassy employees were ordered out of the Philippines on February 14, 2003.

Interestingly, if the Iraqi regime had wanted to keep its support for Abu Sayyaf secret, the al Qaeda-linked group did not. Twice in two years, Abu Sayyaf leaders boasted about receiving funding from Iraq—the second time just two weeks after Hisham Hussein was expelled. The U.S. intelligence community discounted the claims.

Then there is the case of Abdul Rahman Yasin, an Iraqi who had come to the United States six months before the bombing of the World Trade Center in 1993. In the days after the attack, Yasin was detained twice by the FBI. Although he offered investigators details of the plot, he was released on the assumption that he would be a cooperative witness. Released. Twice. The second time the FBI even drove him home. According to the bipartisan Senate Intelligence Committee report, Yasin promptly “fled to Iraq with Iraqi assistance.” His travel was arranged by the second secretary of the Iraqi embassy in Amman, Jordan. In 1994, a reporter for ABC News went to the home of Yasin's father in Baghdad and spoke with neighbors who reported that Yasin was free to come and go as he pleased and was “working for the government.” So an Iraqi participant in an al Qaeda attack on the U.S. mainland fled to Iraq—with Iraqi government assistance—after those attacks.

These are just two examples among hundreds of things that we knew about Iraq and terrorism before the war. And we knew these things despite the woeful state of our intelligence operations in Iraq. You might say these are things we learned almost by accident.

Ignorance as Policy

We now know much more about Iraq and terrorism. In the three-and-a-half years since the war began, the U.S. government has collected more than two million “exploitable items” from Iraq. That's a term of art to describe documents including payroll logs, audio and videotapes, strategy memos between senior Iraqi regime officials, letters between government agencies and computer hard drives of top Iraqi ministers. In these documents we have an extraordinary history of prewar Iraq. In these documents we can get answers to the many outstanding questions of what Saddam Hussein was doing in the years leading up to the most recent Iraq War and, in some cases, what he was doing once the war began. It is such a potential treasure trove that you would think the U.S. government would have doubled or tripled its teams of analysts and translators in order to mine this information for clues about Saddam's weapons, his secret allies, and his relations with a wide variety of terrorists.

But the U.S. intelligence community, now led by John Negroponte, has steadfastly resisted serious attempts to exploit and release the information captured in postwar Iraq. As of March, three years after the war began, the U.S. intelligence community had fully translated and analyzed less than five percent of the documents captured in postwar Iraq. In some cases, they actually fought efforts to increase their budgets—something that is unheard of in the intelligence bureaucracies. At one point, a little more than a year into the document exploitation project, senior intelligence officials tried to have the project shut down altogether.
Why is this? Why would our intelligence community choose ignorance? There are several complicated reasons. But I suspect the most important one is simple. In those years that the U.S. intelligence community wasn't “really focused” on Iraqi terrorism, the Iraqi regime had been.

Consider just a couple examples of what we have learned from a review of just the small percentage of documents that have been translated.

In 1995, a senior Iraqi intelligence official met with Osama bin Laden. After the meeting, Saddam Hussein agreed to broadcast al Qaeda propaganda on Iraqi government-run television and to let the relationship develop through discussion and agreement.

In 1998, a confidante of bin Laden visited Baghdad as a guest of the Iraqi regime, staying in the Iraqi capital for two weeks at government expense. The document corroborated telephone intercepts the U.S. government had not previously been able to understand. And what about the two items I mentioned before—Iraq's support for Abu Sayyaf and its relations with Abdul Rahman Yasin?

A fax from the Iraqi Embassy in the Philippines to the Iraqi Foreign Ministry in Baghdad, dated June 6, 2001, confirms that the Iraqi regime had been providing arms and weapons to Abu Sayyaf—the al Qaeda affiliate in the Philippines responsible for the death of Mark Wayne Jackson.

Iraqi financial records confirm that the government supported, harbored and financed Abdul Rahman Yasin, the 1993 World Trade Center bomber, throughout the 1990s.

Who Cares?

Skeptics ask: Isn't this just history? Why does this matter now?

To answer that question, let us return to Baghdad. It is April 2003, just days after U.S. Marines toppled the statue of Saddam Hussein in Firdos Square. David Dunford, a career foreign service officer, was working alongside other Americans and several Iraqis in the old Ministry of Foreign Affairs building. Dunford had been recruited to come to Iraq to help the Iraqis set up a new Ministry.

The team sifted through the detritus of the bombed-out building. Walls were black from smoke. One office had a pile of ashes in the middle, all that was left of the files of one senior ministry official. Elsewhere, they found employment records, personnel documents, and other relatively unimportant documents.

But there were important ones, too. Dunford and his Foreign Ministry team unearthed a memo from the director of Iraqi Intelligence to other senior Iraqi regime officials. An Iraqi translated it for them on the spot. Dated February 2003, a month before the beginning of the war, it read like a blueprint for the insurgency. Dunford and his colleagues turned it over to the CIA and heard nothing about it ever again, despite several requests for more information.

This description comes from Paul Bremer, the former head of the Coalition Provisional Authority, who saw a copy of the document months after it was found. “The document,” Bremer said, “listed orders for point-by-point strategy to be implemented after the probable collapse of the regime beginning with the order of ?Burn this office.'” Bremer continued: The document called for “a strategy of organized resistance which included the classic pattern of forming cells and training combatants in insurgency. ?Operatives' were to engage in ?sabotage and looting.' Random sniper attacks and ambushes were to be organized. The order continued, ?Scatter agents to every town. Destroy electric power stations and water conduits. Infiltrate the mosques, the Shiite holy places.'”

Let's remember the chronology. The document was written shortly before the U.S. invasion of Iraq and found immediately after. It was provided the same day to an intelligence team called the “fusion cell” in Baghdad. Thus we had documentation in April 2003 that an insurgency had been planned. And yet Donald Rumsfeld and others said repeatedly throughout that spring, and the following summer and fall, that there was no insurgency.

I called David Dunford to talk about what he found. As an aside, I should point out that Dunford is a strong critic of the Bush Administration and its foreign policy. He has had harsh words for the “ideological” components of the reconstruction.

I knew about the insurgency memo from an Iraqi who worked with Dunford. The Iraqi told me about another document found in the same batch of files. I did not mention the second document to Dunford when we spoke. I started the conversation by asking about the insurgency memo. Dunford remembered finding it, but told me that he did not recall details about it. Then, without prompting, he added this: “I do remember one document that we found that was a list of jihadists, for want of a better word, coming into Iraq from Saudi Arabia before the war. That suggested to me that Saddam was planning the insurgency before the war.”

The jihadist document listed “hundreds and hundreds” of fighters who had come from several countries in the region, including Algeria, Egypt, Jordan, Sudan and Syria. There were other similar lists found throughout Iraq. I spoke to one intelligence official who described footlockers full of such documents sitting untouched at a U.S. military base in Baghdad.

A similar set of documents was examined by the Pentagon and discussed in a long report called the “Iraqi Perspectives Project.” That book-length treatment of the former Iraqi regime, written by military historians led by Dr. Kevin Woods, reported that the Saddam Fedayeen—one of several domestic Iraqi terrorist groups—began training young recruits in 1994. That year, they turned out 7,200 would-be Iraqi terrorists.

Four years later, the program expanded: “Beginning in 1998, these camps began hosting Arab volunteers from Egypt, Palestine, Jordan, ?the Gulf,' and Syria.” It is not clear from available evidence where all of these non-Iraqi volunteers who were “sacrificing for the cause” went to ply their newfound skills. Before the summer of 2002, most volunteers went home upon the completion of training. But these camps were humming with frenzied activity in the months immediately prior to the war. As late as January 2003, the Arab volunteers participated in a special training event called the “Heroes Attack.”'

Who are these Arab volunteers? Are they still working with former Iraqi regime officials? How many of them are in Iraq, taking shots at our soldiers? And why doesn't anybody care to find out?

I'd like to finish with another paragraph from the “Iraqi Perspectives Project,” this one also based on a captured Iraqi document. I hope you'll bear with me as I quote verbatim. As I read, I'd like you to think about the conventional wisdom, as articulated by Representative John Murtha and others, that until the U.S. invasion, Iraq had nothing to do with terrorism.

"The Saddam Fedayeen also took part in the regime's domestic terrorism operations and planned for attacks throughout Europe and the Middle East. In a document dated May 1999, Saddam's older son, Uday, ordered preparations for 'special operations, assassinations, and bombings, for the centers and traitor symbols in London, Iran and the self-ruled areas [Kurdistan].' Preparations for 'Blessed July,' a regime-directed wave of 'martyrdom' operations against targets in the West, were well under way at the time of the coalition invasion."

Editor, Douglas A. Jeffrey; Deputy Editor, Timothy W. Caspar; Assistant to the Editor, Patricia A. DuBois. The opinions expressed in Imprimis are not necessarily the views of Hillsdale College. Copyright © 2006. Permission to reprint in whole or part is hereby granted, provided the following credit line is used: “Reprinted by permission from IMPRIMIS, the national speech digest of Hillsdale College, www.hillsdale.edu.” Subcription free upon request. ISSN 0277-8432. Imprimis trademark registered in U.S. Patent and Trade Office #1563325.

Big can be beautiful :-)

2006-12-10T19:35:00.000-08:00

This is why I didn't hate Camilla's hat outright. Done in black and worn with a different outfit, I think it would be rather chic.

Streamlined and Streamlined

2006-12-10T18:06:00.000-08:00

not

I need a protagonist!

2006-12-09T20:58:00.000-08:00

It is so difficult to write a story when I simply can't decide who's going to be the main, moderately-good character. Bah! My poor villians are so lonely...

2006-12-09T11:26:00.000-08:00

Best Website of 2006

This was inevitable, I suppose. But, still, YouTube is definitely the best new website for me this year. The fact that you can post videos to your blog makes it that much better.

This one is of G and G skating to the Nutcracker. Very Christmassy. :-)

Recalled to Life

2006-12-07T10:44:00.000-08:00

The widow who lived across the street from us, named Mrs. Gillis, walked with the stoop only 80 years of full life, with all of its vagaries, can give you. She had been extraordinarily tall once, and was somewhat tall still, despite fighting a losing battle with gravity. She had been pretty, you could tell, but the dross of mere surface beauty had long ago settled, leaving a glittering light of wisdom and love in her faded eyes.

She asked nothing of us, except the chance to cross the street and visit every few days, to be with us and share scenes from the theatre of her memory. She thought us kind for listening, but in this one thing she was wrong. We were the lucky ones. It didn't matter if she told the same stories twice. Each time added greater depth to the history, and a different page became more vividly colored than before.

I cannot remember every tale now, but there is one that will be with me always, so poignant and raw is its drama. I offer it to you now, on December 7th 2006, its sixty-fifth anniversary.

Like all Americans, Mrs. Gillis awoke that Sunday morning, sixty-five winters ago, with little idea how drastically her world was about to change. She was a young navy wife then, living on the west coast with her two small children. Her husband, meanwhile, was stationed miles away across the Pacific Ocean at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. It was then known only for its beauty, not for its tragedy.

On that Sunday, as news began to trickle over the wires, Mrs. Gillis heard no word from or about her husband. When she learned that the USS Arizona had been sunk, she knew the situation for her husband, a sailor on the neighboring USS West Virginia, was even graver then before. (Only later would the full scope of the Arizona's tragedy be known: The attack had left an unknown number of sailors trapped in the ships hull, doomed to a death by suffocation when the air would run out three weeks later. Their banging, metal on metal would be heard until after Christmas, but nothing could be done to save them, and they lie below the Harbor to this day.)
In such an atmosphere, a day or so after the attack, and as the United States officially entered the Second World War, Mrs. Gillis's darkest fears were realized when she received a telegram confirming the death of her husband.

She never spoke about her emotions at that time; her generation was not as given to eliciting sympathy as our own. All I know is that the private life she had known was over, and, adding to that strain, the world itself now teetered on the edge of a precipice.

For ten days she planned a memorial service for her husband. It would not be a funeral; there was no body. Then, just as the reality began to sink in, she received another telegram from the United States Navy. He was alright. The first message was a mistake. Gillis had lived. What an unlooked for happiness. "Recalled to life," as Dickens would put it.

Only later did Mrs. Gillis learn the full story behind the two telegrams: In the smoke and confusion of the attack and its aftermath, as the Arizona lurched to its grave mere yards away, bodies of the dead were being piled on the pier, ID tags secured to their toes. A man whose name I will never know, probably covered with soot and sweat and coursing with adrenaline, searched for his friend Gillis. As he passed the grizzly stack a name on a tag caught his eye: Gillis.

In the last extremity of despair, he pulled his shipmate out from among the fallen, shouting, "Not Gillis! Not Gillis!" as he dragged him to the hospital, unconscious, but not dead. Perhaps the ID tag was left behind in the frenzy of the moment, creating the subsequent confusion. Whatever the case may be, because of his friend's loyalty, Mr. Gillis survived that day and the entire war. His life was full, and so was his wife's.

When Mrs. Gillis told us this remarkable story, Mr. Gillis had passed away ten years before. But, in her mind and heart she had buried him twice. She had buried him twice. And yet, I cannot help but reflect that, for as long as his story is told, he will continue to live...

Christmas and C...

2006-12-06T22:24:00.000-08:00

Well, I've never been this on top of Christmas prep in my life. But, it could have been better. I mailed about half of my gifts yesterday, but I would have had them all out if it hadn't been for a bit of a snafu with the boxes at the UPS store. The snafu? No more boxes. Bah humbug! So sad. I'll have to get the rest out on Friday.

Two big tasks ahead: First, write my Christmas cards over the next several days--not all at once as my prose begins to sound roughly as moving as day old bread after I've composed a couple cards in a row. Second, clear my excess books and kit out of Mary's room before she returns for the holiday. (Yeah, yeah, bad sister taking up Mary's room for storage. Relax. She did it to mine while I was gone.) I'd wanted to find a nice cabinet for the stuff that would fit in a recessed area of the reading nook. Nothing's come to my eye that is both attractive and cheap, though. Bummer. Apple-box-storage in the attic it is. So sad... (Oh, the gorgeous, moderately-expensive piece I do covet is here: http://www.homedecorators.com/P/Masterpiece_Hand-Painted_Two-Door_Cabinet_-_Wood_Top/910/ Yep, you said it: Champagne taste on a beer budget. I hate saving for cars!)

But, speaking of cars--at least I think I was. In my restless moments--which are distressingly frequent--I am hatching alternative plans. Well, one alternative plan. Namely, move a vastly populated European city with a vastly developed railway system. Or to a European town--like Waldorf, Germany, where I used to live--where all of the little old men and women ride bikes everywhere. Bikes without Huffy logos and with wire baskets on the fronts for small, market purchases. It is so cute. And less noisy on the cobbles than a car ride. Give me a hump for my back and I could so pass for an old lady! Osteoperosis could totally explain my stature...

Anyhow...

Decisions, decisions. I won't say I hate them. I love possibilities, and decisions do represent those. But I know I'm bad about practical stuff. Really bad. In fact I'm so inept about some things I'm sure I should never start a family of my own. A keeper. That's what I really need, not a husband or children--oh, dear! only think of the children! Jeeves in female form... Now there's a fun idea! She could manage to get boxes in one batch. She wouldn't have to go to the store four times on the same errand! She wouldn't be tempted to utter those nastly little words, bah and humbug!

Whose big idea was it to phase out servants anyhow?

Best of 2006

2006-12-04T11:24:00.000-08:00

As the year winds down, I want to bring to your attention some of the nicest things I discovered in the past twelve months. First up is the beverage I made for Thanksgiving Day. It's light enough to drink multiple glasses and alcoholic enough to give you a pleasant, relaxed sensation. So, without further ado...

Best drink of 2006:

Apple Cider Punch*

6 cups apple cider
2 cups cranberry-raspberry juice
1/2 cup lemon juice
1 750-ml bottle sparkling white wine

*From the Better Homes and Gardens magazine, November 2006. Great mag. I highly recommend it.

Quote of the day:

2006-11-28T22:39:00.000-08:00

"...Martin stood in the dark street, with a pretty strong sense of being shut out, alone, upon the dreary world, without the key of it."

~Charles Dickens, Martin Chuzzlewit

TV...

2006-11-19T12:17:00.000-08:00

So, Jonathan K. has a thoughtful post up about the rotting effects of Television. Being an inherently frivolous person--except for Will Durant, of course--I'm going to borrow part of his subject and none of his gravitas.

In my mind, TV's like chocolate, rather addictive, and good for you in small doses--see Michaela's blog for more on that. Additionally, visual and auditory messages stick in my brain far more easily than printed ones. Guess I was never meant to be Saint Jerome's heir apparent in the modern age. But we all knew that...

Anyhow, the point is (yes, there's a point!) that the theme from Friends, has been playing in my mind for several days. The fact that some of the lyrics may or may not be applicable to my life right now has nothing whatever to do with it. Really. ;-)

So no one told you life was gonna be this way
Your job's a joke, you're broke, your love life's D.O.A.
It's like you're always stuck in second gear
When it hasn't been your day, your week, your month, or even your year

ButI'll be there for you (when the rain starts to pour)
I'll be there for you (like I've been there before)
I'll be there for you (because you're there for me too)

Cute, huh? And catchy tune, too, if you haven't heard it before.

So, that's part one of my shallow remarks about T.V. Part two is that you should all watch Bones. Free advice! Just what you all wanted, right? Now lie back on the couch and tell me about your childhood...

But, I digress. Bones. It's on Fox at 8 on Wednesday nights. It's about a forensic anthropologist and her rather anti-science, F.B.I.-agent sidekick. The title character reminds me of Michaela almost every week, so that's fun. And the plots are just really intricate and cool--kinda like MacGyver but with a girl included in the brainy side of things instead of just trapped in an overturned culvert that's filling with water. If you need more: The F.B.I. guy is Catholic and devastatingly handsome. Both of which, naturally, all heroes should be, if they can possibly help it. ;-)

Caveat: I don't think it's healthy to watch TV everyday, but a once-a-week show is always pleasantly diverting. And it took me so long to find anything really good, that I felt positively compelled to pass it along. So, break out the air-popped popcorn and your favorite blankie and try it, people. I'm begging here. You'll enjoy it.

2006-11-10T20:24:00.000-08:00

Paul Wylie 1995 Skates X2

Mom bought a collection of Classical CDs that included, unbeknowst to me, a recording of "O Fortuna" from Carmina Burana. This tape will show you why I love that piece.

When I first started figure skating, this was one of the first TV programs I watched. Mom wasn't into skating, and she too was blown away. Mr. Wylie's program is everything men's skating should be. Vigorous and athletic, but also elegant and artistic. It is, hands down, my favorite program by any male skater ever. Enjoy. :-)

If ever a cat deserved to be a Frenchman, it's this one.

2006-11-05T17:57:00.000-08:00

Meet Montesquieu. a.k.a. "Monty." Isn't he fancy?

The Reading Nook

2006-11-05T17:48:00.000-08:00

"We shape our houses, and afterward, they shape us." ~Winston Churchill

"Courage, reader: We near the end."

2006-11-02T19:43:00.000-08:00

In anticipation of the cocooning winter weather, I bought two sets of books off eBay. The first set, Will and Ariel Durant's Story of Civilization, arrived today. It is in beautiful condition, burgundy hardcovers with tight bindings and clean, clean pages. The only problem was that the packing job tore some of the dust jackets. Not a really big deal, though, as I hate displaying those anyhow. The set occupies an entire shelf on one of my bookcases except for a meager inch. Combined page total: 8945.

Yes, I just added them up. I'm a glutton for punishment. They were scaring me before; now I'm terrified. I did, however, notice a couple of nice things about the books. First, as with so many sets of this stodgy, historical variety, Volume I shows signs of having been read. All the rest look brand, spanking new, as if the stalwart reader who originally bought them gave up in the end. Poor guy!

I say poor guy first because he lost the knowledge he might otherwise have gained. Second, because he probably never found something wonderful I discovered tonight. On the last page of about half of the eleven volumes, Durant wrote short messages to his reader, that'd be me, people! I will list them here in their entireties because I find them so endearing:

Volume II, The Life of Greece: "To those who have come thus far: Thank you for your unseen but ever felt companionship."

Volume III, Caesar and Christ: "Thank you, patient reader."

Volume IV, The Age of Faith: "Thank you again, friend reader."

Volume V, The Renaissance: "Thank you, friend reader."

Volume VI, The Reformation: "Courage, reader: We near the end."

Why he stopped this practice I can't imagine. It's adorable. Makes you want to keep reading. You can practically see the poor guy hunched behind mounds of books preparing the manuscript. He's thinking, Someday people will read this and be enriched. He's also fearing, But their attention spans are so short, how will I encourage them to take a few hours to ingest what it has taken me a lifetime to prepare?

Cute, huh? We should all read them that reason alone!

Here's Hoping...

2006-10-31T20:53:00.000-08:00

SAY not the struggle nought availeth,
The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been, things remain;

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke concealed,
Your comrades chase e’en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves vainly breaking
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light,
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But westward, look, the land is bright.

~Arthur Hugh Clough

Mr. and Mrs. Low-pants

2006-10-29T18:42:00.000-08:00

Oh, to be a kid again when the magic of the world is not inhibited in your mind by annoying little things called facts or correct hearing.

Case in point: Mrs. Turnbull, the wife and mother of one of the elders at our church was diagnosed with breast cancer several months ago, so the church set up a rotating list to bring meals to her family. My mother volunteers each month and has enjoyed this duty to the fullest, concocting her favorite and most complicated dishes for their dining pleasure. (She even made egg rolls from scratch, people! And if that's not a culinary chore, what is?! Not that I'm complaining; I get kickbacks, after all.)

Needless to say, Mom's become something of a regular at the Turnbull house, and all of the kids know and love her. If they got most excited by the Papa Murphy's she brought the one time she was too busy to cook, we'll forgive them. They're so darn cute. Anyhow, Mom calls on the phone periodically to ask questions about dietary restrictions or the best time to drop off the meals. She always announces herself as "Mrs. Lopez." Come to find out, Victoria, the second oldest girl, has thought for some time that the brilliant cook was not Mrs. Lopez but Mrs. "Low-pants." And now all of the kids call her that! I think it's hilarious, and Mom thinks, "Well, it's better than being called 'Piggy.'" My stepsister couldn't say Peggy when she was five, you see, so poor Mom was called "Momma Piggy" for some time!

Freak me out scariness!

2006-10-27T21:00:00.000-07:00

Tuesday I went for an appointment at my orthodontist's office. It's a pleasant place, neatly decorated to inspire confidence in the minds of parents. This month, however, the normally professional atmosphere was altered by the presence of pumpkins, spiders, and cobwebs. As I laid back in the examining chair, I was amused to see a shroud-encased skeleton hovering over me gripping a black rose in its boney hand. None of this scared me, of course. I am an adult (at least I keep telling myself that). However, something very frightening did occur later when I was scheduling my next visit.

The receptionist at the office is a truly delightful young woman of about my age, very friendly and just the right amount of talkative. Ever since I showed up to my first appointment with Will Durant in tow, I am always asked what book I am reading at the moment. Contrasting my petite-ness and the general weight of my reading selections, I am considered something of a loveable freak, I'm sure. This is a role I enjoy to the fullest, naturally.

Tuesday I showed the receptionist Islam in the World, and with some pride explained that I was studying up on the subject because of its importance in the current climate. The impressive nature of this was, I'm sorry to relate, completely lost on the wonderful lady. Instead of saying "Yes, indeed" with a knowing look, she startled me very much by asking simply, "What's Islam?" Internally, I fell over. Externally, I explained politely and promised, at her urging, to tell her if the book was any good.

I've never been half so frightened by anything remotely related to Halloween!

Cute Men

2006-10-25T10:32:00.000-07:00

Collide. Great song. Guitar. Vaguely-melancholy lyrics. Guy with a cool voice having endearing trouble with the high notes. But... like so many great songs, you can very easily spoil it for yourself by watching the music video. DON'T DO IT, PEOPLE!

I always imagined, subconsciously mind, that Howie Day looked something like that rather immoral Irish film star whose name I can never remember. Colin somebody or other, perhaps? Gavin? I don't know. Anyhow, he's very handsome and looks like he's one religious experience short of being a great guy. Not so dear little Mr. Day. He looks like a twelve year old in a GAP commercial. He's--err--cute. *cringe* Very bad adjective for a man. So sad...

The Best Way I Know

2006-10-17T09:05:00.000-07:00

Of cheering myself up in the morning before I begin writing is... Finding Churchill quotes. So, I hope you enjoy them!

THE ENEMY OF MY ENEMY IS MY FRIEND:
If Hitler invaded hell I would make at least a favorable reference to the devil in the House of Commons.

ON BEING DIRECT:
If you have an important point to make, don’t try to be subtle or clever. Use a pile driver. Hit the point once. Then come back and hit it again. Then hit it a third time—a tremendous whack.

LEADERSHIP IN WAR (AND, TO MY MIND, HEARTBREAK):
War is a game that is played with a smile. If you can’t smile, grin. If you can’t grin, keep out of the way till you can.

THE SLINGS AND ARROWS OF OUTRAGEOUS FORTUNE:
The monarchy is so extraordinarily useful. When Britain wins a battle she shouts, “God save the Queen”; when she loses, she votes down the prime minister.

ROMANCE:
My most brilliant achievement was my ability to be able to persuade my wife to marry me.

ART:
Without tradition, art is a flock of sheep without a shepherd. Without innovation, it is a corpse.

NON-MORNING PEOPLE:
My wife and I tried two or three times in the last 40 years to have breakfast together, but it was so disagreeable we had to stop.

ISOLATIONISM AS THE IDEAL:
If the Almighty were to rebuild the world and asked me for advice, I would have English Channels round every country. And the atmosphere would be such that anything which attempted to fly would be set on fire.

THE ENGLISH-SPEAKING PEOPLES:
It is not given to us to peer into the mysteries of the future. Still, I avow my hope and faith, sure and inviolate, that in the days to come the British and American peoples will for their own safety and for the good of all walk together side by side in majesty, in justice, and in peace.

WOMEN IN POLITICS (AND MARY SAID THIS WASN'T OFF-COLOR, SO DEAL):
When you took your seat I felt as if a woman had come into my bathroom and I had only a sponge to defend myself. (To Nancy Astor, first woman to sit in the British Parliament)

Disregard that last post...

2006-10-14T20:53:00.000-07:00

...at least in the way I'm assuming it came off. I meant it to poke fun at myself, too, but when you're depressed your sense of humor-perception is usually off. So, yeah, I'll go lock my jerkish self in the closet now.

Oh, but not before I tell you what a nerd I am: I've set myself a reading schedule, fifty-pages-a-night. And I've been pretty good about keeping it, too. I know. Get a life, right? Pah - theh - tick.

The Modern Novelist

2006-10-13T10:42:00.000-07:00

I found this delightful quote while reading Agatha Christie on my break today:

"I cannot say that I have at any time a great admiration for Mr. Raymond West. He is, I know, supposed to be a brilliant novelist, and has made quite a name as a poet. His poems have no capital letters in them, which is, I believe, the essence of modernity. His books are about unpleasant people leading lives of surpassing dullness.

"He has a tolerant affection for 'Aunt Jane,' whom he alludes to in her presence as a 'survival.' She listens to his talk with a flattering interest, and if there is sometimes an amused twinkle in her eye I am sure he never notices it."

He he. How often have I had to surpress such a twinkle when listening to some presumptuous accademic or other? Life is truly a lark!

Abide with Me

2006-10-07T09:41:00.000-07:00

Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens; Lord with me abide.
When other helpers fail and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me.
~~~

Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day;
Earth's joys grow dim; its glories pass away;
Change and decay in all around I see;
O Thou who changest not, abide with me.
~~~

Not a brief glance I beg, a passing word,
But as Thou dwell'st with Thy disciples, Lord,
Familiar, condescending, patient, free.
Come not to sojourn, but abide with me.
~~~

Come not in terrors, as the King of kings,
But kind and good, with healing in Thy wings;
Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea.
Come, Friend of sinners, thus abide with me.
~~~

Thou on my head in early youth didst smile,
And though rebellious and perverse meanwhile,
Thou hast not left me, oft as I left Thee.
On to the close, O Lord, abide with me.
~~~

I need Thy presence every passing hour.
What but Thy grace can foil the tempter's power?
Who, like Thyself, my guide and stay can be?
Through cloud and sunshine, Lord, abide with me.
~~~

I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless;
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.
Where is death's sting? Where, grave, thy victory?
I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.
~~~

Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes;
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies.
Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee;
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.

~Henry F. Lyte, 1847

Happy Birthday...

2006-10-03T08:38:00.000-07:00

...to a veritable Renaissance woman! You've simply got to admire someone who can discuss philosophy and government on a high level and still find time for lovely, down-to-earth activities like facials with the girls:

So here's to you, Leeann. May we laugh and converse and continue to explore this beautiful world in all of its facets for many years to come. This is your day, but I'm the lucky one.

Love from,
Brianna

History of Islam Book List

2006-09-30T12:16:00.000-07:00

Here are the great suggestions I got from Dr. Aikman:

Karen Armstrong, MUHAMMAD: A BIOGRAPHY OF THE PROPHET (San Francisco: Harper San Francisco, 1992)

Farid ud-din Attar, THE CONFERENCE OF THE BIRDS (London: Penguin Books, 1984)

Bar Ye’or, THE DECLINE OF EASTERN CHRISTIANITY UNDER ISLAM: FROM JIHAD TO DHIMMITUDE (Crandbury, NJ: Associated University Presses, 1996)

THE KORAN (Dawood translation: London, Penguin Books, 2005)

Bernard Lewis, THE ARABS IN HISTORY (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002)

Irshad Manji, THE TROUBLE WITH ISLAM, (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2003)

David Waines, AN INTRODUCTION TO ISLAM, SECOND EDITION (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003)

Malise Ruthven, ISLAM IN THE WORLD (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006 )

Enjoy!

Continuing the Discussion

2006-09-29T09:46:00.000-07:00

As I promised Mrs. Elliot, I am endeavoring to learn more about the war in general and about Islamic history in particular. I have a list of books from Dr. Aikman that I will soon acquire. In the meantime, from the author of one of those books, comes a concise summary of many of the most important issues we must consider. I offer it to you now for two reasons. First, I'm not saying a word on this topic myself until I've gotten through all of those books. (See, I learned my lesson well, Mrs. Elliot! *smile*) Second, Mr. Lewis. He has studied this topic for literally decades, being about 300 year old. Also, he is British and his prose has all of the trademark lucidity and eloquence we've come to love from that nationality. I think you'll enjoy it. And, yes, this speech is connected with my sister's college, Hillsdale. And, no, I'm not dripping with jealousy. Really. I promise. ;-)

September 2006

“Freedom and Justice in Islam”

Bernard LewisCleveland E. Dodge Professor Emeritus of Near Eastern Studies, Princeton University

Bernard Lewis, born and raised in London, studied at the University of London's School of Oriental and African Studies, where he earned a Ph.D. in the history of Islam. After military and other war service in World War II, he taught at the University of London until 1974 and at Princeton University until 1986. He is currently Princeton's Cleveland E. Dodge Professor Emeritus of Near Eastern Studies. For many years he was one of the very few European scholars permitted access to the archives of the Ottoman Empire in Istanbul. In addition to his historical studies, he has published translations of classical Arabic, Turkish, Persian and Hebrew poetry. Professor Lewis has drawn on primary sources to produce more than two dozen books, including The Arabs in History, What Went Wrong? and The Crisis of Islam: Holy War and Unholy Terror.

The following is adapted from a lecture delivered on July 16, 2006, on board the Crystal Serenity, during a Hillsdale College cruise in the British Isles.

By common consent among historians, the modern history of the Middle East begins in the year 1798, when the French Revolution arrived in Egypt in the form of a small expeditionary force led by a young general called Napoleon Bonaparte—who conquered and then ruled it for a while with appalling ease. General Bonaparte—he wasn't yet Emperor—proclaimed to the Egyptians that he had come to them on behalf of a French Republic built on the principles of liberty and equality. We know something about the reactions to this proclamation from the extensive literature of the Middle Eastern Arab world. The idea of equality posed no great problem. Equality is very basic in Islamic belief: All true believers are equal. Of course, that still leaves three “inferior” categories of people—slaves, unbelievers and women. But in general, the concept of equality was understood. Islam never developed anything like the caste system of India to the east or the privileged aristocracies of Christian Europe to the west. Equality was something they knew, respected, and in large measure practiced. But liberty was something else.

As used in Arabic at that time, liberty was not a political but a legal term: You were free if you were not a slave. The word liberty was not used as we use it in the Western world, as a metaphor for good government. So the idea of a republic founded on principles of freedom caused some puzzlement. Some years later an Egyptian sheikh—Sheikh Rifa'a Rafi' al-Tahtawi, who went to Paris as chaplain to the first group of Egyptian students sent to Europe—wrote a book about his adventures and explained his discovery of the meaning of freedom. He wrote that when the French talk about freedom they mean what Muslims mean when they talk about justice. By equating freedom with justice, he opened a whole new phase in the political and public discourse of the Arab world, and then, more broadly, the Islamic world.

Is Western-Style Freedom Transferable?

What is the possibility of freedom in the Islamic world, in the Western sense of the word? If you look at the current literature, you will find two views common in the United States and Europe. One of them holds that Islamic peoples are incapable of decent, civilized government. Whatever the West does, Muslims will be ruled by corrupt tyrants. Therefore the aim of our foreign policy should be to insure that they are our tyrants rather than someone else's—friendly rather than hostile tyrants. This point of view is very much favored in departments of state and foreign offices and is generally known, rather surprisingly, as the “pro-Arab” view. It is, of course, in no sense pro-Arab. It shows ignorance of the Arab past, contempt for the Arab present, and unconcern for the Arab future. The second common view is that Arab ways are different from our ways. They must be allowed to develop in accordance with their cultural principles, but it is possible for them—as for anyone else, anywhere in the world, with discreet help from outside and most specifically from the United States—to develop democratic institutions of a kind. This view is known as the “imperialist” view and has been vigorously denounced and condemned as such.

In thinking about these two views, it is helpful to step back and consider what Arab and Islamic society was like once and how it has been transformed in the modern age. The idea that how that society is now is how it has always been is totally false. The dictatorship of Saddam Hussein in Iraq or the Assad family in Syria or the more friendly dictatorship of Mubarak in Egypt—all of these have no roots whatsoever in the Arab or in the Islamic past. Let me quote to you from a letter written in 1786—three years before the French Revolution—by Mssr. Count de Choiseul-Gouffier, the French ambassador in Istanbul, in which he is trying to explain why he is making rather slow progress with the tasks entrusted to him by his government in dealing with the Ottoman government. “Here,” he says, “things are not as in France where the king is sole master and does as he pleases.” “Here,” he says, “the sultan has to consult.” He has to consult with the former holders of high offices, with the leaders of various groups and so on. And this is a slow process. This scenario is something radically different than the common image of Middle Eastern government today. And it is a description that ceased to be true because of a number of changes that occurred.

Modernization and Nazi and Soviet Influence

The first of these changes is what one might call modernization. This was undertaken not by imperialists, for the most part, but by Middle Eastern rulers who had become painfully aware that their societies were undeveloped compared with the advanced Western world. These rulers decided that what they had to do was to modernize or Westernize. Their intentions were good, but the consequences were often disastrous. What they did was to increase the power of the state and the ruler enormously by placing at his disposal the whole modern apparatus of control, repression and indoctrination. At the same time, which was even worse, they limited or destroyed those forces in the traditional society that had previously limited the autocracy of the ruler. In the traditional society there were established orders-the bazaar merchants, the scribes, the guilds, the country gentry, the military establishment, the religious establishment, and so on. These were powerful groups in society, whose heads were not appointed by the ruler but arose from within the groups. And no sultan, however powerful, could do much without maintaining some relationship with these different orders in society. This is not democracy as we currently use that word, but it is certainly limited, responsible government. And the system worked. Modernization ended that. A new ruling class emerged, ruling from the center and using the apparatus of the state for its purposes.

That was the first stage in the destruction of the old order. The second stage we can date with precision. In the year 1940, the government of France surrendered to the Axis and formed a collaborationist government in a place called Vichy. The French colonial empire was, for the most part, beyond the reach of the Nazis, which meant that the governors of the French colonies had a free choice: To stay with Vichy or to join Charles de Gaulle, who had set up a Free French Committee in London. The overwhelming majority chose Vichy, which meant that Syria-Lebanon—a French-mandated territory in the heart of the Arab East—was now wide open to the Nazis. The governor and his high officials in the administration in Syria-Lebanon took their orders from Vichy, which in turn took orders from Berlin. The Nazis moved in, made a tremendous propaganda effort, and were even able to move from Syria eastwards into Iraq and for a while set up a pro-Nazi, fascist regime. It was in this period that political parties were formed that were the nucleus of what later became the Baath Party. The Western Allies eventually drove the Nazis out of the Middle East and suppressed these organizations. But the war ended in 1945, and the Allies left. A few years later the Soviets moved in, established an immensely powerful presence in Egypt, Syria, Iraq and various other countries, and introduced Soviet-style political practice. The adaptation from the Nazi model to the communist model was very simple and easy, requiring only a few minor adjustments, and it proceeded pretty well. That is the origin of the Baath Party and of the kind of governments that we have been confronting in the Middle East in recent years. That, as I would again repeat and emphasize, has nothing whatever to do with the traditional Arab or Islamic past.

Wahhabism and Oil

That there has been a break with the past is a fact of which Arabs and Muslims themselves are keenly and painfully aware, and they have tried to do something about it. It is in this context that we observe a series of movements that could be described as an Islamic revival or reawakening. The first of these—founded by a theologian called Ibn Abd al-Wahhab, who lived in a remote area of Najd in desert Arabia—is known as Wahhabi. Its argument is that the root of Arab-Islamic troubles lies in following the ways of the infidel. The Islamic world, it holds, has abandoned the true faith that God gave it through His prophet and His holy book, and the remedy is a return to pure, original Islam. This pure, original Islam is, of course—as is usual in such situations—a new invention with little connection to Islam as it existed in its earlier stages.

Wahhabism was dealt with fairly easily in its early years, but it acquired a new importance in the mid-1920s when two things happened: The local tribal chiefs of the House of Saud—who had been converted since the 18th century to the Wahhabi version of Islam—conquered the holy cities of Mecca and Medina. This was of immense importance, giving them huge prestige and influence in the whole Islamic world. It also gave them control of the pilgrimage, which brings millions of Muslims from the Islamic world together to the same place at the same time every year.

The other important thing that happened—also in the mid-20s—was the discovery of oil. With that, this extremist sect found itself not only in possession of Mecca and Medina, but also of wealth beyond the dreams of avarice. As a result, what would otherwise have been a lunatic fringe in a marginal country became a major force in the world of Islam. And it has continued as a major force to the present day, operating through the Saudi government and through a whole series of non-governmental organizations. What is worse, its influence spreads far beyond the region. When Muslims living in Chicago or Los Angeles or Birmingham or Hamburg want to give their children some grounding in their faith and culture—a very natural, very normal thing—they turn to the traditional resources for such purposes: evening classes, weekend schools, holiday camps and the like. The problem is that these are now overwhelmingly funded and therefore controlled by the Wahhabis, and the version of Islam that they teach is the Wahhabi version, which has thus become a major force in Muslim immigrant communities.

Let me illustrate the significance of this with one example: Germany has constitutional separation of church and state, but in the German school system they provide time for religious instruction. The state, however, does not provide teachers or textbooks. They allow time in the school curriculum for the various churches and other religious communities—if they wish—to provide religious instruction to their children, which is entirely optional. The Muslims in Germany are mostly Turks. When they reached sufficient numbers, they applied to the German government for permission to teach Islam in German schools. The German authorities agreed, but said they—the Muslims—had to provide the teachers and the textbooks. The Turks said that they had excellent textbooks, which are used in Turkey and Turkish schools, but the German authorities said no, those are government-produced textbooks; under the principle of separation of church and state, these Muslims had to produce their own. As a result, whereas in Turkish schools in Turkey, students get a modern, moderate version of Islam, in German schools, in general, they get the full Wahhabi blast. The last time I looked, twelve Turks have been arrested as members of Al-Qaeda—all twelve of them born and educated in Germany.

The Iranian Revolution and Al-Qaeda

In addition to the rising spread of Wahhabism, I would draw your attention to the Iranian Revolution of 1979. The word “revolution” is much misused in the Middle East; it is used for virtually every change of government. But the Iranian Revolution was a real revolution, in the sense that the French and Russian revolutions were real revolutions. It was a massive change in the country, a massive shift of power—socially, economically, and ideologically. And like the French and Russian revolutions in their prime, it also had a tremendous impact in the world with which the Iranians shared a common universe of discourse—the world of Islam. I remember not long after the Iranian Revolution I was visiting Indonesia and for some mysterious reason I had been invited to lecture in religious universities. I noticed in the student dorms they had pictures of Khomeini all over the place, although Khomeini—like the Iranians in general—is a Shiite, and the Indonesians are Sunnis. Indonesians generally showed little interest in what was happening in the Middle East. But this was something important. And the Iranian Revolution has gone through various familiar phases—familiar from the French and Russian revolutions—such as the conflicts between the moderates and the extremists. I would say that the Iranian Revolution is now entering the Stalinist phase, and its impact all over the Islamic world has been enormous.

The third and most recent phase of the Islamic revival is that associated with the name Al-Qaeda—the organization headed by Osama bin Laden. Here I would remind you of the events toward the end of the 20th century: the defeat of the Russians in Afghanistan, the withdrawal of the defeated armies into Russia, the collapse and breakdown of the Soviet Union. We are accustomed to regard that as a Western, or more specifically, an American, victory in the Cold War. In the Islamic world, it was nothing of the kind. It was Muslim victory in a Jihad. And, if we are fair about it, we must admit that this interpretation of what happened does not lack plausibility. In the mountains of Afghanistan, which the Soviets had conquered and had been trying to rule, the Taliban were able to inflict one defeat after another on the Soviet forces, eventually driving the Red Army out of the country to defeat and collapse.

Thanks to modern communications and the modern media, we are quite well informed about how Al-Qaeda perceives things. Osama bin Laden is very articulate, very lucid, and I think on the whole very honest in the way he explains things. As he sees it, and as his followers see it, there has been an ongoing struggle between the two world religions—Christianity and Islam—which began with the advent of Islam in the 7th century and has been going on ever since. The Crusades were one aspect, but there were many others. It is an ongoing struggle of attack and counter-attack, conquest and reconquest, Jihad and Crusade, ending so it seems in a final victory of the West with the defeat of the Ottoman Empire—the last of the great Muslim states—and the partition of most of the Muslim world between the Western powers. As Osama bin Laden puts it: “In this final phase of the ongoing struggle, the world of the infidels was divided between two superpowers—the United States and the Soviet Union. Now we have defeated and destroyed the more difficult and the more dangerous of the two. Dealing with the pampered and effeminate Americans will be easy.” And then followed what has become the familiar description of the Americans and the usual litany and recitation of American defeats and retreats: Vietnam, Beirut, Somalia, one after another. The general theme was: They can't take it. Hit them and they'll run. All you have to do is hit harder. This seemed to receive final confirmation during the 1990s when one attack after another on embassies, warships, and barracks brought no response beyond angry words and expensive missiles misdirected to remote and uninhabited places, and in some places—as in Beirut and Somalia—prompt retreats.

What happened on 9/11 was seen by its perpetrators and sponsors as the culmination of the previous phase and the inauguration of the next phase—taking the war into the enemy camp to achieve final victory. The response to 9/11 came as a nasty surprise. They were expecting more of the same—bleating and apologies—instead of which they got a vigorous reaction, first in Afghanistan and then in Iraq. And as they used to say in Moscow: It is no accident, comrades, that there has been no successful attack in the United States since then. But if one follows the discourse, one can see that the debate in this country since then has caused many of the perpetrators and sponsors to return to their previous diagnosis. Because remember, they have no experience, and therefore no understanding, of the free debate of an open society. What we see as free debate, they see as weakness, fear and division. Thus they prepare for the final victory, the final triumph and the final Jihad.

Conclusion

Let's spend a moment or two defining what we mean by freedom and democracy. There is a view sometimes expressed that “democracy” means the system of government evolved by the English-speaking peoples. Any departure from that is either a crime to be punished or a disease to be cured. I beg to differ from that point of view. Different societies develop different ways of conducting their affairs, and they do not need to resemble ours. And let us remember, after all, that American democracy after the War of Independence was compatible with slavery for three-quarters of a century and with the disenfranchisement of women for longer than that. Democracy is not born like the Phoenix. It comes in stages, and the stages and processes of development will differ from country to country, from society to society. The French cherish the curious illusion that they invented democracy, but since the great revolution of 1789, they have had two monarchies, two empires, two dictatorships, and at the last count, five republics. And I'm not sure that they've got it right yet.

There are, as I've tried to point out, elements in Islamic society which could well be conducive to democracy. And there are encouraging signs at the present moment—what happened in Iraq, for example, with millions of Iraqis willing to stand in line to vote, knowing that they were risking their lives, is a quite extraordinary achievement. It shows great courage, great resolution. Don't be misled by what you read in the media about Iraq. The situation is certainly not good, but there are redeeming features in it. The battle isn't over. It's still very difficult. There are still many major problems to overcome. There is a bitter anti-Western feeling which derives partly and increasingly from our support for what they see as tyrannies ruling over them. It's interesting that pro-American feeling is strongest in countries with anti-American governments. I've been told repeatedly by Iranians that there is no country in the world where pro-American feeling is stronger, deeper and more widespread than Iran. I've heard this from so many different Iranians—including some still living in Iran—that I believe it. When the American planes were flying over Afghanistan, the story was that many Iranians put signs on their roofs in English reading, “This way, please.”

So there is a good deal of pro-Western and even specifically pro-American feeling. But the anti-American feeling is strongest in those countries that are ruled by what we are pleased to call “friendly governments.” And it is those, of course, that are the most tyrannical and the most resented by their own people. The outlook at the moment is, I would say, very mixed. I think that the cause of developing free institutions—along their lines, not ours—is possible. One can see signs of its beginning in some countries. At the same time, the forces working against it are very powerful and well entrenched. And one of the greatest dangers is that on their side, they are firm and convinced and resolute. Whereas on our side, we are weak and undecided and irresolute. And in such a combat, it is not difficult to see which side will prevail.

I think that the effort is difficult and the outcome uncertain, but I think the effort must be made. Either we bring them freedom, or they destroy us.

Editor, Douglas A. Jeffrey; Deputy Editor, Timothy W. Caspar; Assistant to the Editor, Patricia A. DuBois. The opinions expressed in Imprimis are not necessarily the views of Hillsdale College. Copyright © 2006. Permission to reprint in whole or part is hereby granted, provided the following credit line is used: “Reprinted by permission from IMPRIMIS, the national speech digest of Hillsdale College, www.hillsdale.edu.” Subcription free upon request. ISSN 0277-8432. Imprimis trademark registered in U.S. Patent and Trade Office #1563325.
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Waiting to Exhale, or I wish it were snowing...

2006-09-25T09:27:00.000-07:00

Summer. A time to relax and take a more carefree view of life, right? Wrong! A time to strip your deck, refinish it, install new flooring, and paint your house. With. No. Professional. Help. As my parents would say, "It's been real. It's been fun. But it hasn't been real fun." ;-) Combine that with much, much, much travel for weddings, birthdays, and anniversaries, and you have one frenetic summer...

So, all that to say that, yes, I will be posting on this site again once the snow falls. Even my crazy parents won't decide to re-landscape the yard or prune the pine forest or flagstone the patio in sub-freezing temperatures. So the slave labor force should get a small vacation. I'll have time to breathe. Time to read. Time to write all of those birthday thank you notes without which my social reputation will be shot. *cringe*

Happiness is...

2006-09-22T19:45:00.000-07:00

...a new wicker chair with brownish-red, leather seat and back cushions.
The catalogue ad for it was charming, too, "embrace your inner bohemian." It's in my newly-decorated reading area which is complete now, except for a lamp. After saving my extra pennies for months and shopping the sales, I have wrought iron wall sconces, paintings of Paris cafes and Tuscan villas, and a gorgeous antique-look trunk for a table. I even have a Van Gogh print and a Chindi rug, but the chair is definitely the cornerstone. I love Pier 1! :-)

New life motto

2006-09-15T19:10:00.000-07:00

"Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none." ~William Shakespeare

A friend once told me that some people like me only because I have "social capital." I got pretty wigged out about that, wondering how I could decide who I like if I couldn't go based on who was nice to me. Turns out, I was asking the wrong question. I'm supposed to like/love everyone. That's simple.

Now, if somebody can tell me how to decide whom I trust, I'd be willing to give that person large sums of money (if I had any ;-))...

If for some reason...

2006-09-14T19:17:00.000-07:00

...you don't read Leeann's brilliant blog, here is a pic of us from Dana and Brooks' wedding. Kaela has some really good shots of everyone else on flickr, but this is about the only photo I'm in. So, yeah, I look like attack of the blueberries, but whatever. Everyone else is gorgeous and event-appropriate. (I promise my outfit looked a bit dressier in person. :-/). Anyhow... enjoy! :-)

Very happy news :-)

2006-09-06T08:26:00.000-07:00

In case you haven't check Jeff Cavanaugh's blog in a awhile, go do so. jeffcavanaugh.blogspot.com It's wonderful news for a great guy!

Writing and Life

2006-08-23T18:15:00.000-07:00

Thought for this season of my life: "I do not think the mighty stir about scribbling and scribes, by themselves and others - a sign of effeminacy, degeneracy, and weakness. Who would write, who had anything better to do?" ~Lord Byron, from his personal diary

Who indeed? Writing can be an escape. A kind of desperate attempt to force meaning out of a vacuous existence. Pain sears and loneliness consumes. So we cannibalize our tortures in the hopes that someday we can spew them down on the page and down to our cultural descendants, thus making sense of it all. Every knock was worth its bruise if we can prevent someone else from being struck, right? It's a kind of pseudo-nihilistic existentialism that we writers use to comfort ourselves. Maybe. I don't know.

I just want to find the life that belongs properly to be and me to it. I don't want to write about things, to create meaning because I can't seem to touch, even with the barest tips of my fingers, the meaning that any small child can find in this world. Writing can't be used as a life-preserver, as the only thing that keeps ones self esteem from sinking beneath the press of daily disappointment. It must derive its existence from an overflow of vitality in the writer, not from a deficit.

A wise man once told me, "Your books will never be bigger than you are." What a grim truth that seems to me tonight...

2006-08-22T08:59:00.000-07:00

Hamiton does Opera

You have to see this, guys. Especially if you think skaters take themselves too seriously. Funniest thing ever! :-D

2006-08-19T21:42:00.000-07:00

Because I'm contrary...

...to counteract Michaela's latest, here are Katia and Sergei skating to Ella Fitzgerald's "The Man I Love." Enjoy! :-)

The War

2006-08-18T08:40:00.000-07:00

The Story of Civilization is a somewhat-lengthy read. In physical dimensions, it's roughly the size of a large doorstop or one of the smaller blocks from Khufu's tomb at Giza. In intellectual dimensions it feels much more like Mary Poppins' carpet bag. You know, you read page after page but you never seem to make any progress; there's always more to come. Feels like there's a little gnome in the back of the volume maliciously inserting extra pages whenever your back is turned. So, after tackling it for over a month, I'm still only 2/3 of the way through. (Sound pathetic? That's 600 pages, buddy!) Plus, that's just straight reading, no notes, no underlines, no nothing. I'm going to have to go back and make a study guide later.

All that to say that, while I'd been hoping to share some thoughts with you from the book, I will have to at least delay that project for the foreseeable future. Don't worry. That does not mean that this is going to devolve into another post about the latest wedding I've attended. Though, there have been two since I last updated. Sheesh! Wedding's are like the plague: very, very catching.

So, what is this post going to be about, you wonder? Well... when somebody tells me, I'll let you know. Seriously, though, I would like to present a couple of my thoughts on the war. Surprising, I'm sure. This blog has never been in the preachy vein before, and I don't intend to mount a soapbox now, so don't worry. But it does seem odd to me that I've never even mentioned one of the biggest issues of our times. Bit like Vogue's not discussing pleather in the mid nineties or whenever it was that monstrous stuff appeared.

But, to quote Dr. Smith, "I digress." The war. Before I begin let me insert my little caveats. (Wouldn't I make a good lawyer, hedging my bets that way?) First, I want to remind everyone that I am no war hawk. Anyone who's talked to me about WWI or the wars of religion particularly knows that. I'm almost as much in love with pacifist/poet Wilfred Owen as I am with Churchill. Second, and on the other hand, I'm no dove. Basically, to arrive at a theory of just war, I think we've got to use the principles of Aristotelian equity and judge on a case-by-case basis. Wasn't that a gorgeous mangling of philosophers, like something that would come out of a bride's new mixer? Anyone for split-pea soufflé? *shudder* Third, I do not think that the conflict has been handled without hitch, but conflicts never are. Mistakes must be corrected, and as soon as may be. But the very fact that mistakes are made is not itself an indication of fatal problems. Say that it is such an indication is like saying that the murder laws are faulty because people are still being killed or that student life regulations are broken just because a couple of people get sloshed every Saturday night.

Now on to my actual observations: I'm inclined to believe that the war is necessary. I'd need to study the subject more thoroughly before speaking dogmatically on this point; however, the historical record of militant Islam can give informed people some cause for concern. But, whether or not we agree on that aspect of this discussion, I'd love to hear your thoughts on my two points to follow; they are more the meat of this thing. First, I think that one reason the War on Terror has not achieved anything like unanimous public support is largely due to the dearth of even passable rhetoric from President Bush. Like his policies or not, I'm sure many of us can agree that the man cannot deliver a speech to save his life and that his speech-writing staff ought to be strung up for crimes against the English language. It has well been said that Churchill marshaled the English language into battle against Nazidom. President Bush's speech writers couldn’t have marshaled the Pittsburg Steelers into the Super bowl stadium last winter. And, if I may compare the writers to vintners, they take a crop of words that could make a fine Merlot of an oration and mush it up and squash it around until it’s a mass of cheap-restaurant jelly. Ick!

Sorry. I’ll stop now. That just BUGS me.

Second, and this may be partially related to the preceding point: People in the West have become increasingly pacifistic. And this seems to be related to a loss of pride in their heritage. Now, I’m not suggesting we go all crazy about cultural supremacy and start marching to the ends of the earth in some insane, paternalistic fervor. Not at all. But there are things worth defending, and few people seem to realize that anymore. The idea that we are responsible for 9/11 because we weren’t willing to listen to the healthy criticisms of Osama and Co. does have some followers—and I find that fact a bit scary. True, the West is not perfect. But neither is the whole world, or any part of it. And we have to deal not with black and white, but with preponderance of guilt. And I hardly think that a few decadent Hollywood movies justify the murder of 3,000 non-combatants. But, some say we’re just as bad; think of the Crusades. I respond: That was 800 years ago, buddy. We cannot be always repenting for the sins of another millennium, long since dead. And sure, we have Hitler to our credit. That’s not the point, either. We also have Mother Teresa, and Florence Nightingale. And here is the point: The Moslem bag is as mixed as our own. They may claim Akbar, but they have to own up to Aurangzeb, too.

All of these jumbled thoughts were prompted by two things: First, my increased ability to follow world affairs since completing my schooling, and second, a few comments from Will Durant. So, I guess I lied; you are going to get a small taste of The Story of Civilization. In fact, I can think of no better way to climax this post than with a thought-provoking excerpt from Durant’s discussion of the Moslem conquest of India:

“This is the secret of the political history of modern India. Weakened by division, it succumbed to invaders; impoverished by invaders, it lost all power of resistance, and took refuge in supernatural consolations; it argued that both mastery and slavery were superficial delusions, and concluded that freedom of the body or the nation was hardly worth defending in so brief a life. The bitter lesson that may be drawn from this tragedy is that eternal vigilance is the price of civilization. A nation must love peace, but keep its powder dry.”

I’ve not had time to develop all of this fully or to ponder Durant’s thoughts at as much length as they deserve. So, in conclusion, I’ll just throw out two more ideas which that quote stirs in my mind. First is the idea of division, which I believe is increasing in American life all the time. We see this not only in the hyphenating of racial identity, i.e. Irish-American, African-American, Asian-American, but also in the glorification of the political maverick, i.e. John McCain, as if the ability to arrive at consensus and build coalitions is some proof of weak convictions rather than of practical maturity or leadership. When was it, I wonder, that the ideas of tradition and convention acquired such negative baggage?

The second idea is that of taking refuge in supernatural consolations. I’d not intended to touch this one with a ten-foot pole, but I’m feeling reckless this morning, so here goes… No, on second thought, that idea deserves an essay of its own, touching as it does upon the very heart of religiously-inspired pacifism. I will try at some point to offer a discussion of that or at least to find a lucid essay by one of my historical betters to share with you…

I'm sorry, this is very jumbled. I would love to hear your thoughts, though, if you can sift through the mess...

Life is what you make it...

2006-07-24T19:05:00.000-07:00

"The full value of this life can only be got by fighting; the violent take it by storm. And if we have accepted everything we have missed something—war. This life of ours is a very enjoyable fight, but a very miserable truce." ~G.K. Chesterton

Make the most of each moment!

"Don't worry, it's plastic."

2006-07-14T09:10:00.000-07:00

Monday was a headache day. Not that I didn't do anything else, of course, but the headache accompanied me to all activities much like the Israeli/Palestinian problem accompanies Mid-East diplomats to the bargaining table, local bistro, and even the l**, one assumes. But, I digress: Monday=bad day.

Tuesday dawned with all the promise of increasing pain in the general region of my left temple. Gah rate. And I was scheduled to go to the dentist for the first time in er... several years (We were poor; there was no money; so, shoot me.). Even better, right? Got to love having someone poking and pounding around in your mouth when you already suspect you're having a cerebral hemorage. So, I did what any right-thinking, dentist-fearing person would do: Took twice the recommended dosage of Aleve. Clearly, as I sit here typing, the warning labels on painkillers are far more apocolyptic than reality will support. Unfortunately, the promises of pain-relief are also less than accurate, and the I/P problem in my head persisted. Gah!

So, my eyes were watering with pain by the time I arrived at the dentist' office. Through the haze, I noted that said office is inexplicably decorated most tastefully with French cafe paintings and various other coffee paraphenelia. Wierd, right? I thought dentists didn't even acknowledge the divine brew (heathens!), but apparently I was dealing with enlightened dental thought.

Eventually I was escorted to the examining room were I encountered even more enlightened thought. As I was laying back in the chair the assistant asked if I'd like it set on the back massage setting. The what? *idea registers* Heck yeah! "Yes, please."

When the denist finally came in, he looked far-less like Boris Karloff than I had feared. Then, in what seemed to me a thoroughly mutton-headed train of thought, he began asking me about my headaches in detail. There had been a question about headaches on the form I'd filled out, but still I was like, "Bucko, I'm anemic; that's why I have headaches. You're wasting your time." He persisted. Digging into one of the cabinets, he emerged with a skull. Handing it to me, he said, "Don't worry, it's plastic." Then he showed me how the jaw is controled by four major muscles and how if you have a problem with your bite, headaches can often ensue. His recommendation: Braces. That's right, braces!!!

So, the long and short of it is, I'm getting them and as soon as may be. This is not just vanity anymore, people; this is health! ;-) Even Dad's on board now. He commented, "You don't want to be cruising in the Mini Cooper with a headache." (I'm saving for a Mini Cooper because it's not too expensive, and my mom's so excited that my feet will touch the pedals. Cute, huh? *wry look*) Also, the dentist was just ecstatic about my desire to whiten my teeth when the braces come off. He was peering eagerly at my complexion and the very white whites of my eyes and saying, "You're very fair; we could go very white on you." He was like a kid in a candy shop. Bit cute, really. Also, he removed the coffee stains from my teeth and announced that I have only one tiny little cavity, so I love him to death.

All in all, I don't think anyone has ever been as excited about oral surgery and orthodontics as I am. Then again, living with the problem for 10 years will make one much more eager to fix it than a 12 year old could ever be, right? And the dentist himself is getting braces next month (for a problem I couldn't even see!), so the desire does not evaporate with age. Additionally, as the dentist pointed out, people spend tons of money on coats and shoes they only wear once in a while, shouldn't we be willing to spend money on one of the few things we wear always, our smiles? I'm very happy...

PS--I promise to write a post about The Story of Civilization soon. I'm still collecting my thoughts.

'tis the season...

2006-07-02T10:16:00.000-07:00

...to get married. Or, in my case, to deplete your bank account on gifts for all of your friends who are getting married. *grin* Just kidding, the bank account's perfectly fine--I developed especially frugal habits while attending the old alma mater. Heck, who wouldn't when your allowance from home is $50/month and that's got to cover laundry, grooming essentials, and the all-important coffee?

This weekend the wedding was Chantel Mower's. I realize that none of you know her, but trust me, she is as beautiful as her name. "Chantel." *happy sigh* You could write a sonnet about it, right? Well, anyhow, I hadn't seen Chantel in several years--not since we moved to this god-forsaken side of Washington (that's another story altogether). I remembered her from our days at the local Pentacostal church. Her mum, Leslie, was the worship leader, and the whole family could sing--didn't seem fair to me! Chantel, who is four years older that I am, was always a darling and tolerated me with the patience of a great, medieval martyr. She loved X-Files; I love Star Trek; she was fashioned like agent Sully (I think that's the name); I was fashioned like well-let's-not-go-their-because-this-is-not-a-horror-flick; and I simply adored her. But all that just to set the scene.

When she appeared on her father's arm to the strains of "A Mighty Fortress is our God," I had a movie moment. You may guess the one I mean. Boy asks tomboy friend out to prom because his mom makes him. He comes to pick her up on the fateful night, standing bored at the bottom of the stairs because she's naturally late. He hears her step and looks up in resignation. Then... his jaw drops... She's a girl after all--and a gorgeous one at that. He swallows nervously about fifteen times, suddenly conscious that he's not all that... And you know the rest.

Well, Chantel was never a tomboy, but she was beautiful in a more professional manner. In her gown, though, she looked like something straight out of the bridal magazines at Dana's house. But, yeah. Great wedding. The music involved a harp, a violin, and a full choir. They served a meal at the reception, had a live band playing swing for dancing, and lots of people who knew me from the old days and whose names I couldn't place to save my life. The knowing nod from my Sanders' days comes to the rescue again, hey? *wide smile*

The last highlight I'll share with you involved the cake. Did you know that in Anglo Saxon times they served individual buns instead of cake? They pass them out, then the people would pile them up on one table and make the bride and groom kiss over the mound. If they did this without knocking any over, they would have good luck. I love silly little things like that, must be the Irish in me. Anyhow, you'll all be pleased to note that the bride and groom kissed with no mishaps...

Great days, great days. I'll leave you with one of the songs the band performed:

What a day this has been
What a rare mood Im in
Why, its almost like being in love

Theres a smile on my face
For the whole human race
Why, its almost like being in love

All the music of life seems to be
Like a bell that is ringing for me
And from the way that I feel
When that bell starts to peal
I would swear I was falling
I could swear I was falling
Its almost like being in love

Bridal Shower Photos, as Promised

2006-06-26T13:26:00.000-07:00

The food:

Tracia opening presents:

Tracia and Joy:

The gifts:

The friends (yes, I'm cheating, standing a step up--wouldn't you?):

House Sitting, Baby Showers, and the Humor/Awkwardness those Entail

2006-06-25T19:02:00.000-07:00

Well, my dear friends, I'm back from house sitting. It was a good week, but I'm pretty well done in and so glad to be one my own couch again blogging away. To summarize: Stuart, my aunt's Golden Retriever, was about the easiest thing I've ever watched. He loved going for his walks, but was quite content to sit inside with Mary and me for the rest of the day. This was excellent because I was frantically finishing the baby blanket I was making for Tracia Clark's shower, which Mary and I were hosting. Murder She Wrote was also very helpful to me as I tried to sit still and work in this way. I have no attention span for that sort of labor anymore, I’ve discovered, and Jessica Fletcher was a life saver! Thank you, Biography Channel, for running her in syndication. Now if they could only pick up MacGyver...

But, I digress: Tracia is one of my dearest friends, bar none, and I love her to pieces. However, as I mentioned in a comment to one of the below posts, I am somewhat less-than-enthusiastic about this particular form of entertainment. First off, it's not really entertainment at all. Miss Manners points out that baby and wedding showers are the only social events to which attendees are obligated to bring gifts. So, in a sense, there like business meetings, except that you serve cake, not lunch, before the transaction. Second, there are the games. I will not mention the more heinous examples, particularly from bridal showers, in this forum because my readership is happily multi-gender. But trust me, grown women should not have to play "baby bingo" or any of the rest of it! It's painful to watch. Nobody likes it. But, as Kaela mentioned, people sometimes think these things necessary because not everyone knows each other and there might be lulls in the conversation, etc., etc. I say balderdash! These are GROWN WOMEN! Sheesh!!!

In light of all this, Mary and I were so happy when Paula, Tracia's mom, decided to buy onesies for the women to decorate with fabric paint. We didn't have time for the game, which I had scrupulously prepared just in case my stall tactics failed. I could here the angels singing, let me tell you! And the onesies turned out pretty cute, as you can see in the pics I’m going to post.

Most of the images are pretty self-explainitory, but the one where Tracia’s opening gifts is important. It gives you a glimpse at my what-the-heck-is-that-thing look. I was in charge of writing down which gifts came from which people, and I was mostly flat out lost. (I'm the youngest kid, I never baby sat, and I never liked people who were younger than me when I was growing up.) I think I disguised my confusion well for the most part, but when the Diaper Genie (TM) made it's apperance, I was floored. I thought: It changes diapers for you? And I just had to ask Tracia about it. Turns out the thing is not quite that good, but it is helpful in its own, unmentionable way. The rest of the pics show the food, the cake, the mound of booty—I mean presents—and the women who were my closest friends in childhood. Enjoy!

Quote of the day

2006-06-22T20:04:00.000-07:00

"There is a level of cowardice lower than that of the conformist: the fashionable non-conformist." ~Ayn Rand

Note

2006-06-19T20:36:00.000-07:00

I will not be able to answer emails this week, so nobody think I'm ignoring them, k? I'm at my aunt's house, and her internet is a bit fitful. It will let me on here, but not into gmail. Weird. But, to take the positive view, I suppose it's rather restful as well.

In addition, being partially cut off from the e community does lend a certain atmosphere to the book I'm reading right now, volume one of the eleven-volume Story of Civilization. Ya, ya. I know. I'm a glutton for punishment, but I'm enjoying it tremendously--though I'm past page one-hundred and we're still in prehistory. Sheesh! I'm like, "Cavemen! Gouge some cuneiform, hone a wheel, and let's get on with it!" Samaria’s about ten pages away, though, so that's hopeful.

And I have learned some intriguing things despite the dubious nature of this part of the work. Did you know, for example, that the Roman numeral five is a pictorial representation of a hand opened with all five fingers extended? And that the ten is just two of those squashed together? The appendages were apparently rather useful to our poor ancestors right as they were wiping the primordial slime from their stooped frames. Did you further know that in some African tribes a woman is not considered beautiful unless she's so fat that she can't walk sans assistance, and a true queen would require about six grown men to hoist her aloft? My, my but we humans do run to extremes. In Africa we've got female sumos; in America pipe cleaners like Kate Moss...

In other news, I've decided that Golden Retrievers are the coolest dogs ever. Now, before Em says something like, "Yes, duh. That's why trucks come with them." I'd like to point out that I've always been a cat person and never thought twice about dogs. My aunt's dog, Stuart (isn't that a cool name?), has quite won me over, however. He's just as mild as you could wish, barks intimidatingly, and sleeps in my room at night. How he makes a girl feel safe! And he doesn't drool at all. (After watching the movie Beethoven, I was thoroughly revolted by the coating of slime a big dog can produce. I mean, really. St. Bs have got to be the biological inspiration for silly string. I can't believe I just said that.) But, I'm sure my reformed opinion of dogs is not interesting. I just wanted to offer it as proof that I have a heart and am not socially aggressive. ;-) People who like only cats--because they are independent and cleanly--can seem a bit cold, I'm told.

But, anyhow, I'd better go. Just wanted to touch bases for a moment.

Love from,
Brianna

Interesting, almost-inflammatory post

2006-06-17T07:55:00.000-07:00

Oh no, I'm not going to compose one. I'm off to housesit in a little while, and I need to catch up on my emails. But Jonathan has one, right here: http://firinnteine.livejournal.com/ The title is "Music." I don't know exactly what I think of the subject yet, but I like the logic and fearlessness of the essay. Enjoy.

A Great Book

2006-06-10T21:24:00.000-07:00

"A great book should leave you with many experiences, and slightly exhausted at the end. You live several lives while reading it." ~William Styron

Wow. I never thought of it that way. In fact, I'd never thought of it in any really coherent, alternate way, either. I realize I'm about 50 years older than the average age of my readership, but pithy quotes like that make me feel very immature and inexperienced.

I am used to getting down on myself for being worn out after finishing a book. It's only reading, you weakling! My, my. I have so much to learn!

Singing...

2006-06-02T21:29:00.000-07:00

to the tune of "Goin' to the Chapel:" "Goin' to the doctor and I'm gonna get better..." Ok, that was dorky, but true. Well, anyhow I went to the doctor this morning. I even took the day off. It was very restful--until I consider that I'm going to work tomorrow so as not to lose any hours. Ah, the joys of frugality! ;-)

Anyhow, the doctor. I'm sure you've all been there, and you all remember the little survey thing they thrust at you in an almost military/defensive gesture the moment you peek your head through the door. On this little symbol of bureaucracy most of the questions are mundane like, "Do you have any diseases; check all that apply." (Check all that apply? What else was I going to do, pick my favorite?) There were a few, however, that stumped me. They were in the general vein of "Are you happy?" Now, I ask you, is that the sort of question you level at a girl at 9:45 in the morning, mere minutes before she's like to have someone pump gallons of lifeblood from her body? I didn't think so, either. So, I put a question mark between the yes and no boxes. (Give me a break, I hadn't even had my coffee. ;-))

So, anyhow, I filled out the form and handed it to the nurse at the desk, retrieved a "Thanks, kiddo" for my pains and slunk back to a waiting room, tail between my legs. Kiddo? I'm "25." Check the form, lady! Anyhow, I promptly pinned my hair up, hoping the effect was more venerable than the previous style. So, yeah. I still look 12. Good to know, isn't it. Rather explains why airport security always gives me encouraging nods instead of suspicious pat downs.

The doctor turned out to be quite nice, actually. She told me to de-stress, do lots of fun things, sight-see, smell the roses. (Ok, I'm making the last one up, so shoot me. No, really. Shoot me.) She said that exercise actually helps create red blood cells. :-D I didn't know that, so I thought it was super wonderful. I'd always thought that exercise was a strange, modern form of penance for the anemic person. Something that wore you out but maybe made you prettier. Now I know that the pain is, quite literally "weakness leaving the body." Isn't that marvelous! And she didn't tell me to give up coffee entirely. God bless her! I cup a day and a second, half-strength if I must. Well, that's jolly well better than none at all...

So, to end this madness: I had my blood drawn by this funny little man who was balding on top and compensating in the back with a long stream of gray hair. He had Far Side cartoons and pictures of children on his bulletin board. They are meant to make you happy and forget the poke. Well, they didn't work. Dad's old comment did, however. Dad used to be a lab tech, and he always told us that it was the big, macho football players who couldn't take the draw. Show the hulk a needle and he does a perfect impersonation of an elephant being shown a mouse. That or he passes out cold. So, naturally, the thought of being compared to a living monument to human brainlessness stiffened my spine considerably. I took the needle like a man, to use the old phrase. Or, to be scientific about this: I took the needle like a ballerina...

And now I have much less blood in my system, so you must all forgive this zany post!

PS--I won't have the results of the tests until Monday.

A thought...

2006-05-29T20:53:00.000-07:00

"Silence is the best security to the man who distrusts himself."
~François, Duc De La Rochefoucauld

Life's a bad business sometimes. So what. Jump for joy!

2006-05-21T20:54:00.000-07:00

Some jumbled thoughts on Booker T. Washington, education, and __C...

2006-05-15T17:04:00.000-07:00

So, __C is collapsing. Or, rather, the college as it might have been, as I dreamed it could be, is disappearing. Some would have it that the current meltdown is God's way of strengthening and refining us, that the school is going to be so much the better for all of this. Maybe so, and one can hope. But I disagree. While I do believe that God is using this disaster for His own good purposes, I think it is a disaster still, and I wish people would make no bones about that.

Let's face the truth squarely and something may be salvaged yet. I think now is the ideal time for us to reevaluate those things for which we stand and to take some hard looks at our priorities. Bottom line: I'm inclined to think that God is letting __C fall, fall flat on its face--because it got something fundamental very wrong.

What did __C endeavor to do? Raise up Christian leaders for the nation. Sure, sounds good--at first. To illustrate my point, I offer a sports analogy. (Yes, figure skating. Sorry, but I'll muddle this if I try to convert it into football lingo.) Now, in figure skating the most difficult element in the ladies short program is a triple-triple combination jump. It is also the most important element because the successful execution of it will earn the skater the most points. In that sense, the triple-triple, is a lot like leadership. It's the final jewel in the crown, so to speak and, when combined with other, lesser components, ensures the success of a program.

Perhaps the highest goal of every skater then is to acquire a triple-triple. In keeping with that, the quandary for every coach is how to teach the triple-triple. Now, at this part of the analogy, I may meet with some disagreement. Be that as it may. I firmly believe that __C students are not comparable to junior-level skaters who are just a few steps from perfection. Far from it. I believe __C students are much more like beginning skaters, i.e. the little tots with kneepads and helmets whom you tell to "put your hands on the magic table" so they won't nose-dive straight into the ice if they slip. Now any coach can tell you that you do NOT put a harness on a beginning skater and tell her to jump into the air, rotate three times, and land on one blade that is less than a 1/4 inch thick. You just don't. It'd be madness and very dangerous for all involved.

Instead you take the neophyte and gently teach her mundane lessons from which she will build the more impressive skills. I'm talking now about things like how to practice faithfully for two hours every day, how to cross train, and how to skate backwards, for crying out loud! In the same way, I think that filling a bunch of arrogant homeschoolers with the notion that they are a special cadre of pure deliverers who are going to bring enlightenment to a depraved culture is biting off way to much. First, it's inaccurate, and second, it's not going to work; you can't land a triple-triple on the first go.

This truth is reflected in my own experience of __C. Looking back from a year's vantage point, the most valuable lessons I learned did not involve culture shaping or government leading, at least not directly. The lessons I learned were much more fundamental. I learned to respect all thinkers, even--or, perhaps, especially--the ones with whom I disagree. And I learned never to speak before I'd listened humbly for a good long time. These are basic, yes. But, just like a skater must learn to practice before she can hope to win the Olympics, so a would-be culture shaper must learn to be a good person, a good citizen before she attempts to lead the nation. And that takes time and a little something you can't teach and you can't even define. In other words, Reagans are born, not made. And they lead full, rich lives, not thinking about power and politics all day, every day. Oh, it's possible, by sheer force of will to dream of political power from a young age and eventually acquire it. But is that a good idea? What kind of leader do you make in that case? Exhibit A: President Clinton. Isn't it far better to teach a person to lead a useful, responsible, beautiful life--in other words to prepare him for what is likely to be his humble lot. Humility, incidentally, is also the best preparation for leadership, should that ever come.

But all this was prompted by my reading Booker T. Washington's Up from Slavery. You're all familiar with this speech at the Atlanta Exposition. The cast your buckets down where you are analogy was influential then, and I think it should be again, though for a different group, homeschooled Christians.

To explain a bit more. The speech is demonstrative of Mr. Washington's whole approach to the problem of race relations in the United States, post emancipation. His theory was that blacks must prove themselves a necessary part of the community before seeking to lead that community in any political sense. He wanted them to do things that needed doing--ordinary things in an extraordinary manner. People, universally, respect excellence in needed areas, regardless of the race (or religion) of the person involved.

Now, Christians are not in nearly the same devalued position that former slaves were after the Civil War. However, few would fail to see that we ARE held in some contempt throughout large sections of the nation. Mightn't the best strategy for us then be to do much as Booker T. suggested? To concentrate not on the lofty, but on the lowly? To be good scholars and good writers (or even farmers and shop keepers), not "culture shapers" or President?

Why don't we try being elite, without being elitist? Isolation and arrogance have been the two negative hallmarks of the homeschool movement for so long. Isn't it time that we tried their opposites? I rather suspect we'll find that, much as we have to teach the world, the world has quite a bit to teach us as well. The triple-triple may come in the end, but I don’t think we've earned it just yet…

(See, I told you that was jumbled! ;-))

View it and weep...

2006-05-13T16:46:00.000-07:00

For the same about of money you could get a shack in most American cities (worth mentioning). In Prague, you get the ground floor of this: http://www.praguerealestate.cz/estate--detail.php?id=42255

Isn't it lovely?

Announcement

2006-05-12T10:41:00.000-07:00

Having fully-embraced Emma's suggestion to prefer quality of life to mere longevity, I am drinking lots of coffee and feeling happy! :-D Also, reading the blogs of those still at __C, I realize how little I have to complain about (you guys are AMAZING, btw). Additionally, I now have a plan for my life for the next year, and that too makes me happy.

I've been thinking about education a lot lately, spurred by Booker T. Washington's autobiography. I plan to write a post on that next. Also, I'm considering using this blog to publish a few short stories. What do you think, guys? It would be good practice for me, and--as the stories would be very short—I hope not too painful for you, my dear readers.

sigh

2006-05-09T21:02:00.000-07:00

The alarm sounds insistently at 6 sharp. My mind feels like someone stuffed it with cotton, and all of its compartments are insulated from each other. My body feels paralyzed, but my arm manages to smack the snooze button two times before I'm conscious enough to recognize my duty to be up...

*sigh*

Coffee. Get me some coffee. But, no. Coffee will make my anemia worse; I must be strong and not drink it. But, I have a pile of work upstairs and no energy. And I sleep 8-9 hours every night; I'm doing all I can already. I drink the coffee. My body's refreshed momentarily, but the internal wrangling is grooving deeper ruts in my outlook every day...

*sigh*

Spreadsheets. They're so useful. And so dull. The minutes seem to be receding upon one another. What good is this doing anyone? I'll go mad if I can't get up or think something creative! 10 minutes 'til lunch. 8. 6. Still only 6? 0! Yes! An hour to snatch from the mundane and tedious. Grab my book. I must become well-read, or I'll never make a good author! Try to relax and enjoy the read. Feel rushed and stressed as I cram as many pages as possible into those short 60 minutes.

*sigh*

Back to the spreadsheet. The countdown's for afternoon break now. The mail will have come by then, and maybe I'll have a check in it. Mom says that will keep me going. Maybe. It does help, but I feel my soul's dying slowly. Ha! If the check comes I'll buy the soul a nice tombstone--gold encrusted, with this epitaph: "A sad mercenary lies here. She might have been an artist, but hers was a democratic age. And all good democrats must eat first, then find meaning--if there's time..." The mail comes. No check.

*sigh*

It's a crawl to the finish. I check my email; no messages. I check everyone's chat away messages. They are so sad these days. It is understandable, I suppose, but...

*sigh*

I'm off! Quick, grab my book, enjoy it while I can. No, don't look outside. Read. I'll have to go to bed soon. And then... spreadsheets. My mind is tired but it works like an athlete to read as many pages as possible. Then I do some chores. I must do my part. Then I rush off to bed, brain full of ideas about running at 6 sharp. But my morning self never remembers the importance of these resolutions. The snooze button always entrances me, and the opportunity is lost. And I begin each day under a cloud of squandered opportunity...

*sigh*

At Em's suggestion...

2006-05-05T10:44:00.000-07:00

1. How many hours a day do you spend reading?
About tw0.
2. How fast do you read?
As fast as a dim-witted snail.
3. What is your favorite book?
The Count of Monte Cristo.
4. Who is your favorite author?
Well, judging by the above, I'll have to say Dumas!
5. What is your favorite action/adventure novel?
The Count of Monte Cristo.
6. What is your favorite mystery novel?
The Hound of the Baskervilles.
7. What is your favorite romance novel?
Pride and Prejudice.
8. What is your favorite character novel?
Wuthering Heights.
9. What is your favorite fantasy/sci-fi novel?
Harry Potter.
10. What is your favorite history book?
Churchill's A History of the English-Speaking Peoples.
11. What is your favorite biography?
The Princes in the Tower.
12. What is your favorite other non-fiction book?
Up from Slavery.
13. What is your favorite play?
An Ideal Husband.
14. What is your favorite of the genres mentioned in questions 5-12?
Action/Adventure
15. What is your favorite type of character?
Anyone like The Count of Monte Cristo, who does good when he can and acts as an agent of justice only with great saddness. Or someone like Jean Valjean who is tainted and yet redeemed.
16. If you could host a party with 7 literary characters, who would they be and why?
The Count, Eliza Bennet, Mr. Knightly, The Savage (from Brave New World), Hamlet, Huck Finn, Miss. Marple. Because that's such an odd collect, it would be interesting!
17. Do you like film adaptations of books? If so, which is your favorite? Which is your least?
I do sometimes. I love LotR. I do not like Count of Monte Cristo. (That last is a good movie, but the characters are twentieth century ones prancing about in Napoleonic garb.)
18. Who is your literary role model?
Count of Monte Cristo or Jean Valjean.
19. Which literary house would you like most to live in?
The stone mansion from Nancy Drew's The Hidden Staircase.
20. Which literary couple would you like most for parents?
Anne and Gilbert.
21. Pick 3 literary characters you would like to have as siblings.
Fred, George, and Ron Weasley.
22. Who is your favorite literary villain?
Long John Silver.
23. Name a character that most people dislike, but that you do not. Why do you like them?
I'll go with Em's answer here: "Dimmesdale in The Scarlet Letter. I identify with his weakness and like him because he wasn't ever actually denying his guilt."
24. Which minor character deserves a book all to themselves, in your opinion?
The Bishop of D-.
25. Which character do you identify most with in literature?
Eliza Bennet.
26. If you could go into a novel, which one would it be and why?
LotR, because there is a chance for read heroism there.
27. Do you prefer hardback or paperback?
Hardback.
28. Do you like dustcovers?
Not if I can store my volumes out of the sun.
29. Do you like introductions, forwards, afterwards, and appendices?
Yes, very much. Perfect way to orient yourself.
30. Do you like reading literary criticism?
Not much, I'm afraid.
31. Do you like new or used books? What about ex-library?
If it's a really brilliant old volume, like a first edition, then used. If it's just a moth eaten one from the 50s, no thanks. Same goes for ex-library books. I like beautiful volumes. Easton Press is my favorite company ever, and they produce wonderful, leather-bound editions that will last for generations. I justify the added expense in two ways: First, I can't read fast enough to make this really expensive. Second, I use books to decorate, so they are dual function!
32. Are you likely to buy new books without having read them, or would you buy used copy (or check it out from the library) to see if it is good or not?
I'll buy classics without having read them. But modern books, I'll read from the library.
33. Name 3 - 7 books that you rarely see on people's favorite book lists that are high on your own.
Churchill's A History of the English Speaking Peoples, Wren's Beau Geste, and Sister Wendy's The Story of Painting.
34. Which is your least favorite book of those that are considered "classics"?
The Man in the Iron Mask.
35. Do you like books read aloud, or do you prefer silent reading?
For speed, silently, of course. For entertainment, I love to read aloud in a group! It's a great alternative to TV, but no one likes doing this anymore.
36. When you read, do you see things in your mind like a movie, or just in vague pictures? More like a movie, I think, but a bit of both.
37. Do you like to read in silence, or with background noise/music? Silence.
I have a pea-sized brain that is incapable of multi-tasking.
38. Can you read in the car without getting carsick?
Yes.
39. Do you go to booksales?
Sometimes.
40. Name one literary quirk of yours.
I hate owning a book I haven't read.

Karnak

2006-05-01T20:11:00.000-07:00

I have a strange desire to see Karnak at dusk. But, I rather suspect tourists are not allowed to do so.

Emma is my hero!

2006-05-01T11:44:00.000-07:00

I love her blog! I want to go abroad and see wonderful sights and write up tantalizing blog posts for all of my desperately jealous friends! How does Egypt sound? Or Spain? Will anyone come with me?

Pharoah's SUV

2006-04-30T21:00:00.000-07:00

So, this picture begs the question: "Was this bull mummified intentionally? Or was this like a freakish lava thing?" If it was intentional, it had to have been the Egyptians' way of securing a Pharaoh’s driving comfort into eternity. Or, as Dad put it, "It's Pharaoh’s SUV."

Darling Gran

2006-04-30T19:38:00.000-07:00

As most of you probably know, my Grandma has been very sick for the past several months. First, she fell and broke her arm. Then she fell and broke her nose. Finally, she fell and broke her hip. She had hip-replacement surgery a few weeks ago and has been in a nursing home ever since.

Our family (this is Dad's family, the Springers) is an exceptionally close-knit one, and Grandma is adored by one and all. (She has the cutest accent you ever heard, and the great grandkids call her "GG," which is simply adorable.) Consequently, she has received many visitors throughout her stay in the nursing home. However, for the first few weeks she was frequently grumpy and short-tempered. She even told four nurses in succession to "Get the hell out of my room, and don't touch me!" Now, anyone who knows Gran could tell you that that remark was less-than-characteristic of the way Grandma has lived her entire life. (It would be roughly equivalent to my charging into the __C dining hall, climbing onto the nearest table, and spewing a string of expletives at the top of my lungs.)

Fortunately, the doctor had a psychiatrist in to see her, and the psychiatrist was able to explain the cause of her mood swings: They were not giving her nearly enough pain medications, and she is of the generation that would never dream either of complaining or of drawing attention to themselves. Wow. What a brave, brave lady.

Now that she's one more medication, she is looking ever so much better. She's putting her makeup on again, has done her own nails, and is complaining once more of her imagined "tire" round her mid section. And, best of all her sense of humor is back, full force, and her smile, once strained, is coming so readily to her face. I wish you all could meet her. She is an angel in human form, and she makes me very, very happy...

Scarface

2006-04-28T21:12:00.000-07:00

See, Emma, I'm not vain. This picture is ghastly, and I'm airing it to the public. And this was not taken on the day of the assault.

Booker T. Washington

2006-04-27T20:35:00.000-07:00

I will compose a post about Up from Slavery soon. It has been truly sobering and inspiring. In the meantime, please enjoy this picture of the author. Note particularly his eyes. I have never seen wiser eyes.

Reading, reading

2006-04-23T20:00:00.001-07:00

As I discussed two posts ago, I've had a less-than-full social calendar lately. So, I've put this time of exile (or, in Churchillian phrasing "the locust years") to good use by reading as many books as possible. I'll try to discuss most of them:

Harry Potter I-VI: These delightful, engaging volumes served as excellent stimuli to recall my love of reading after four years of college. Rowling has a flair for words and a wonderful, British sense of humor that make the pages practically flip themselves. I enjoyed "reading" about three of the books on tape, narrated by the gifted Jim Dale. Books on tape are a truly delightful accompaniment to any afternoon of chores. One of my favorite bits, humor wise, is this one. It's from book VI and seems to capture the very essence of boyish joking: "'He only followed different instructions to ours,' said Ron. 'Could've been a catastrophe, couldn't it? But he took a risk and it paid off.' He heaved a sigh. 'Slughorn could've handed me that book, but no, I get the one no one's ever written on. Puked on, by the look of page fifty-two, but--"

Church History in Plain Language: This book was one of the texts from Topics in Biblical Studies, but we didn't read the whole thing for class. Also, as my Church history background was rather sketchy to begin with, it was marvelous to be able to review it. The highlight from this read: The discussion of the difference between sectarianism and denominationalism lay to rest one of the major problems I'd been having with Protestantism. I still long for Church unity, but I now fully recognize that a reversion to anything like medieval Catholicism would be both wrong and impractical.

Les Miserables: Hugo's masterpiece took me months to wade through, but it was well-worth the effort. Reading about the Bishop of D was a truly spiritual experience as was living through the subsequent sanctification and suffering of Jean Valjean. The book also taught me to view socialism with a move sympathetic eye. It did not transform me into a socialist, mind, but I now understand the heart of a good socialist. They want to relieve pain, and that is something I truly respect. One of many good quotes from the work: "Love has no middle term. It either saves or destroys, and this dilemma is the whole of human destiny."

Tess of the D’Urbervilles: Wow. This was as dark and depressing as Hardy’s reputation would suggest. It bore home one of Em's points from her Lit II reading of Tom Jones: Women are expected to be forgiving of male impurities, but men may demand perfection in women and are not required to dispense mercy to a soiled woman. It was a frustrating, heart wrenching book.

David Copperfield: This was a delightful read. I must say that, popular or not, I've grown to love Dickens. Sure, he doesn't get straight to the point. But with prose like that, it's fine by me if he takes his time. I heard a commentary of the work that I found intriguing. The thesis was this: DC is an immature version of Great Expectations. In the first book (DC), Dickens preserves the main character's innocence unspoiled through all the waves of life. In the darker and more mature GE we find a more tainted and also more human main character, reflecting Dickens' own increased maturity both as a writer and as a man. It think that's probably accurate. There is always something disturbing about a perfect hero. They don't ring true.

Screwtape Letters: I'd read this before, but it was a wonderful refresher. Very funny and very insightful.

The Story of Painting: By Sister Wendy Beckett, this volume is a gem, a treat for the sophisticated palette. Though seven hundred pages long, it reads rapidly due to the many full-color reproduction paintings. Sister Wendy discusses the history of Western painting from its beginnings in the caves of France and Spain through to the Dada movement and beyond. Informative sidebars orient the reader by describing contemporaneous philosophical and political events.

Technopoly: Neil Postman's discussion of America's replacement of religion with science is truly well-done and intriguing. I love that he sees the problems of technology without advocating full-out Ludditism (if that's a word). His prose is lucid and engaging, almost reminding me of Lewis'. Then again, any book that begins with an Egyptian fable as told by Plato has got to be good, right?!

The Scarlett Letter: This book is first rate because Hawthorne somehow devises to make the reader see himself in each and every character, whether that character is sympathetic or not. That is key, I think, to good writing. We, the readers, should feel both the condemnation and the praise of the author, because we are each such odd mixtures of parts.

The Count of Monte Cristo: I cannot say enough in praise of this work. It's brilliant. You barely notice that it is 1200 pages long. Combining all of Dumas' trademark action with the psychological insights of a Hugo or a Hardy, this book has everything for which a lover to literature could wish. If you haven't read it, I won't permit you to die until you do! It is my favorite book ever!

Whew! That's the overview. There were a lot of other, insignificant books which I could throw in (mostly Agatha Christie and the like), but I believe I've hit the highlights. Come to think of it, that is not as many books as I thought before I began writing. Just goes to show how very important our book selections are--we have so little time in this life. Well, I'm off to finish Brave New World and next on my list is Up from Slavery, at David Noe's suggestion...

*smile*

Before Gretchen doesn't have internet access...

2006-04-22T13:46:00.000-07:00

...I want to ask a question that I think she may be able to answer. (She's getting married in about a month. *smile*)

As several of our friends have become engaged, Mary and I have naturally discussed the peculiarities of each match. A remark that has frequently recurred is this, "I wonder how their marriage will work; he's/she's so conservative." What we've been wondering, basically, is this: Is it more difficult for a wife to submit when her husband is more conservative than she is or vise versa? Conversely, is it more difficult for a husband to lead when his wife is more conservative than he is or vise versa?

I am assuming that both spouses have a real desire to serve the Lord in their marriage and do not, thus, have overwhelming issues with the concept of submission. I'm just intellectually curious and would love to hear feedback not only from Gretchen but also from all married members of my readership. Speculation from single members is also greatly appreciated, in you should deign...

Wait and hope.

2006-04-14T17:08:00.000-07:00

Heretofore, I've been more abstract in my posting subject matter. So, for a change, I'm going to let you know what I've been doing with myself. *grin*

Well, mostly, I've been working. And working. And ... well, working. My job consists, as most of you may know, of a lot of spreadsheeting and analysis. This entails 8-10 hours in front of a computer screen every Monday through Friday, and sometimes Saturdays, too, if a sweet and concerned Mary doesn't get to me first. I've learned a few things about myself from this experience. One of them is that I'd pretty much rather be a clown or a forest ranger than make my living staring at a bright screen for the rest of my life. I've also learned that I can have a good attitude about this if I really try hard. That has been a good exercise, let me tell you! I used to tell myself, when pondering the many rental houses we lived in when I was growing up, "Well, you could be in a hovel in Africa." Now, I tell myself, "Well, you could be at __C still, pressured 24/7, plagued by tests and papers even as you try to listen to Sunday morning sermons." It's very helpful.

I also console myself in a more concrete way by planning for my next adventure, moving back to VA next summer with Michaela, hopefully, as my roommate. I've run earnings projections and thought of what kind of car and furniture I will get before the big trek. Mary laughs at me because the prospect of owning my first car thrills me far, far less than the prospect of owning 2 leather armchairs with matching loveseat and ottoman. But, honestly, I don't find cars aesthetically pleasing at all (sorry, Kevin!), and I don't even much like driving. That last may be due to the blasted stick shift that is my only option right now. Dad has an automatic, but he's gone most of the time, and it's a large truck. A very large truck that inspires such impertinent comments as, "Will your feet touch the pedals? You'll have to wear heals before you try it."

So, anyhow, yeah. I'll be getting a car soon and saving for furniture and utensils and artwork and all of the fun things that will make my, and hopefully Michaela's, home a really beautiful and welcoming place. That is what I dream of most, hosting friends for dinner or a movie or just coffee after church. We'd have such wonderful conversations in that cozy living room which exists at this point only in my mind. It will be warm and colorful and elegantly friendly. (Yes, I should have gone to interior design school.)

I'm sorry if this "newsy" post is more about what I will be doing than what I am doing, now. But, the fact of the matter is that I'm having some difficulty breaking into the social scene of this isolated, rural community. Like so many small towns, this place is much more friendly on the surface than are big cities. I have found, however, that if you were not born here it is difficult to move beyond that surface and establish roots. Cities are more truly welcoming to newcomers. There's more flux in a metropolis, more give and take, more interest in people who have been places you've never been, and above all, less smug assurance that your way is the best way and woe betide the person who comes from "ferun" parts.

*sigh* We were a military family for a long time, and I suppose my expectations of people were framed by that experience. In the small American community that existed in Germany, everyone was in the same position: All were away from home, all needed friends, and so all welcomed and embraced each other. That was also the case at college. We all needed each other. But people here do not need me. So, I'm floundering, feeling forever on the outside of something that could be so nice if I were "one of them." But I'm not, and I never will be. The mountains in which we live are beautiful, but cold--and so is the community.

And so I wait and hope for next year, even as I strive to make the most of each moment here. I recognize the bleak verity that the present is all we have, or ever will have...

On being kind...

2006-04-13T20:25:00.000-07:00

I don't have the time to write an essay on the primacy of good breeding (not a new one, anyhow), but it has been brought to my attention that there is still unkindness abroad in the world. So, I give you this small quote from my favorite actress, who was herself a kind and gentle person, with a refined spirit in the very best sense of that word:

"Being the daughter of a baroness doesn't make you any different, except that my mother was born in 1900 and had ... a very strict, Victorian upbringing, if you like. So, she was very demanding of us - of me and my brothers. 'Manners, 'as she would say, 'don't forget, are kindnesses. You must always be kind.' Opening the door for old ladies is just a routine so that you know she's helped. And she was always very adamant about that." ~Audrey Hepburn

No new posts for a while

2006-04-07T20:49:00.000-07:00

I'm a bit worn out and sick, so I doubt my ability to be creative. For two weeks, therefore, don't bother visiting my little electronic home. I'll try to post something at the end of that time, but regardless, I'll give you an update.

I love you all!
~Bri

Favorite Quote of the Day

2006-04-03T17:12:00.000-07:00

Three Cheers for Brianna.

Dearest, I hope you don't marry a dictator. I am beginning to be able to see you as the power behind some lucky man's throne. ~Ashley Trim

On a related note, I've frequently told my parents that I'd make a great ambassador's wife. Mom's take: "Why not just be the ambassador?"

Thoughts?

Paris

2006-03-30T17:03:00.000-08:00

There is a beautiful quote by someone whose name I'm forgetting that says, "America is my country, and Paris is my home town." That's how I feel today. As I worked, "Legionnaire’s Lament" rolled through my play list a few times. It talks about the Champs Elysees, ancient Shiraz, the old Left Bank, the Seine, and many other things that conjure in my mind misty memories of a cherished city. I've been to Paris only once, but there's something about it that gets into your imagination and your blood. You're never free from Paris once you've seen it. It is the best kind of slavery, though. For Paris is like mankind. It is simultaneously frail and indomitable, stingy and generous, foolish and wise, ever old and ever young. Above all, and perhaps because of all, it is sublime in it's beauty. Please enjoy the above picture. Imagine you are sipping a latte at a cafe on the Champs Elysees, looking down the chestnut-lined avenue to the Arch de Triumphe. It is a good rest from the wearies of the day.

Brace yourselves, people!

2006-03-24T18:46:00.000-08:00

...I won't always look like a monkey. (Yay! Yay! YAY!!!) Yeah, that's the verdict of the fam...

But, to explain: I now have a job, so, naturally, I have been considering what I need to save my pennies for. I'm getting a laptop first, as it will be useful for my job and for my fledgling career as a novelist. Then, I was going to save for a car (to be purchased as a 26th birthday present for myself). But Mom had a better idea. I've always been terribly self-conscious about my smile,which would not have been a problem if I had a cranky personality--but as it is? Well, anyhow, we never had money to fix my hideous grimace. So ... at the ripe old age of 25, I'm going to become a metal mouth.

That is a simultaneously horrible and wonderful thought! After all, the only thing worse than looking like a monkey is looking like a monkey who's gnawing on a chain-link fence. Additionally, Dad was regaling me with stories of people who didn't like their post-procedure selves. The cases he referenced were all plastic surgery, but he was sure that the danger was there for me, too. He warned that it would change the structure of my face, and that it could not be undone.* But, on the other hand, (assuming the human Apocalypse is just a figment of Dad's imagination) in two years, I'll look human--actually human! Such a comfort, I assure you. I'm not hoping to look like Hepburn. I'm just hoping to stop looking like Bonzo!

And so the car will have to wait another couple of months, but, in the end, it will be soooo worth it. Cheerful people shouldn't have to feel ugly when they are "counting it all joy," should they?

*You see, I have to have four, count 'em FOUR, teeth pulled for this. Can you believe that?! Ouch! And ... pass the jello!

Elegy for a Dream

2006-03-16T17:23:00.000-08:00

Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

~Oscar Wilde, The Ballad of Reading Gaol

For the record...

2006-03-15T10:39:00.000-08:00

About my previous post: None of my guy friends did anything specific--not terribly recently at least. *sticking out tongue* Kaela was concerned and dashed off a "rallying 'round" email within minutes, so I thought I'd clarify, lest the misconception become generalized. Also don't worry guys; I don't discuss your every move with my dad. ;-) Unless you were all sedentary, I simply don't have that kind of time. I just found it unbelievably funny that Dad was as much befuddled by the homeschooled male as am I. I was also curious to know if my guy friends' mothers are similarly stumped by us girls. Are they?

Also interesting: Dad's understanding of the male mind goes directly contrary to the views of PHC's self-styled relationship guru, Mr. Trent Carrol. Who to believe, one wonders?! Anyhow, I hope you all had a laugh. I am still scratching my head and realizing that, unless something drastic happens, I am going to be an old maid. That's alright, of course. I say roll with the punches. And, in the end, marriage really is exactly like chocolate. It's great work if you can get. But, in a pinch, you can do alright without it and console yourself for its absence by noting that it's fattening anyway.

"Other people are quite dreadful. The only possible society is oneself. To love oneself is the beginning of a life-long romance." ~Oscar Wilde

Does anyone else have this problem?

2006-03-15T07:04:00.000-08:00

Ok, so sometimes (read: 90% of the time) I get confused about guys. So, I decided just recently to ask my Dad to help. (Yes, genius that I am, it took me this long to realize that he's the best resource I have in this area.) He is very glad to assist, as most dads are when it comes to fixing their girl's problems. Trouble is, I'll explain something one of my guy friends did, and it confuses Dad, too! Maybe it's that Dad's from another era, or that he's blessed with a devil-may-care attitude toward all situations in life. I don't know. He doesn't know. It's all a very amusing mess.

So ... I thought perhaps one of my guy friends could write a sort of manual explaining the finer points of homeschooled-guy psychology? Or, if none of you has time, perhaps Michaela or Emma could do it; they have brothers. I'd offer to write one on females in exchange, but they confuse me, too. ;-)

If no one pulls through, I could just fall back on Daddy Tom's advice. It was given when I was only fourteen. And, while I'm fairly sure he would have refined it as I got older, it does stand well-enough on its own:

"Stay away from those G.I.s." *Mary and I giggle.* "No, I'm serious! Stay away from those G.I.s. Do you understand me?" *Mary and I look very serious at him and prepared for a ten-minute lecture on the ills of G.I.s.

*cheeky smile*

Congratulations!

2006-03-13T17:55:00.000-08:00

Aaron Carlson and Elisa Muench are engaged!!! *happy smile*

A Suggestion...

2006-03-13T06:48:00.000-08:00

That all owners of blogs treat their spaces like their houses and their faithful comment-leavers like their guests. I think it infinitely expands the pleasure of the experience when you receive a response to you witty or sincere remark. Otherwise, why not just whisper it to your cat as you read and leave it at that. Some blog hosts do make you feel like you're shooting a bit of your soul into the ether and nothing more...

Ok, ok, so I'll be honest; I like external affirmation! ;-)

PS--To see two excellent examples of my ideal bloggers, visit michaelawillblog.blogspot.com and eurocrat.blogspot.com. Those to have created thriving centers of intellectual and humorous exchange!

My Trip, Part 1

2006-03-10T17:27:00.000-08:00

At Michaela and Ashley's request, I am going to recap my wonderful, wonderful trip to VA...

Because my family lives in the middle of Washington State, all of my trips to the east coast begin a day before my plane takes off. So, Wednesday the 22nd, Mom and I drove over the Cascades to Dad's apartment, arriving just in time for dinner. Dad asked where we wanted to eat, the usual choices ranging from Burger King to Red Lobster. When Mary had taken her own trip earlier in the month, she'd chosen the former, much to Dad's chagrin. He loves any excuse to go to his favorite restaurant! I chose the latter. (Note to everyone: I am not a snob or an extravagant female. I content myself with simple food most of the time, but when someone offers you a nice seafood dinner ... What's a girl to do?)

Afterwards we went shopping for a wedding present, and I was able to find something that I think fit the couple to a tee: a pair of Lennox tea light holders in cream-colored ceramic, rimmed with gold. Then we went straight home to bed--3:30 comes awfully early. Nothing too-eventful happened on the trip except that there was this lovely man at Dulles who asked me, "Can I get a taxi for you ma'am?" Can I get a taxi for you ma'am?!!! I couldn't believe my good fortune; that man thought I was old enough to pay cab fair; I'm moving up in the world! God bless that black-coated gentleman; may he have forty grandchildren and 5 million dollars by the end of the year!

But, I digress. Sarah picked me up that evening, and now we're getting to the meat of the thing. We had a great talk in the car while we drove to the townhouse to drop my things. (If you haven't been there, I assure you it is the loveliest, snuggest little pad a girl could wish for: comfortable, dignified furnishings and plenty of beautiful old books. They even have a CD player in the living room set to play gorgeous Classical music every morning at about 10.) From there we went to La Madeline's where we met Leeann for dinner. Then we went to Target to get the girls' wedding gift, and we had a really brilliant time in the card aisle imagining which missives we'd send to various friends if only we had more gumption. My favorite was the one Leeann actually got for a co-worker (or was IT an intern, Lee?): On the cover is this horrifying nerd-guy with wire-rimmed glasses, a tie, and a pocket protector. It read "Player," and inside, "A legend in your own mind." Ha ha!

Next morning, I was eased from sleep by the aforementioned CD and found, on checking my email, a thoughtful message from Sarah containing all of the contact info a girl could wish for and directing my attention to all of the food in the house. It was just an email, some might say. But I felt it was a wonderful touch, and it made me feel right at home and cared for.

I'd planned to spend all of the girls' workdays writing and reading, but all that day I was treated instead to my first migraine. (I told Kyle this at the wedding; he emitted the sympathetic "aww," and I replied, "Naw; it's a new experience." We would-be-novelists are such cannibals!) That night we went shopping and cooked and cooked for the party the girls were hosting the next day. That is to say, Sarah and Leeann cooked most of the stuff. Allis watched Brit-com and tidied up, and I watched Sarah and Lee and cradled my head occasionally. I did cut some spinach and chop some nuts, but that was about it. We also talked, of course, and it was soooo good to catch up!

Well, that's a good stopping place for now. This was such a wonderful trip I'd better do it in installments so Kaela and Ash can get their full, vicarious pleasure...

Coming soon to a blog near you...

2006-03-09T08:14:00.000-08:00

Dearest Kaela,

I will be posting again soon, namely tomorrow. Fridays, and perhaps Sundays are my only time for blogging (on my blog, I mean; I love posting comments). I've set up a schedule for myself. Monday through Thursday, after work, I spend the time between dinner and bed reading. Fridays I blog (and read more in the extra time). Saturdays I write. Saturday evenings I do something fun with friends, and Sunday I leave mostly-unstructured (which means, practically speaking, that I'll probably read more *grin*).

The posts I have floating in my mind are:
1. A brief summary of my favorite points from Technopoly.
2. A narrative of the highlights of my trip to VA.
3. Something on the direction and nature of love (not primarily romantic love).

Love you!
~Brianna

Why don't they just retire the Olympic pairs competition?

2006-03-05T16:15:00.000-08:00

Nobody measures up.

Pick yourself up, dust yourself off; start all over again...

2006-03-05T14:28:00.000-08:00

Three cheers to Sasha for carrying on after her dream had died. She created something better than perfection: her own piece of redemption. Bella.

The mean reds

2006-03-04T10:48:00.000-08:00

Holly: Listen...you know those days when you get the mean reds?
Paul: The mean reds? You mean like the blues?
Holly: No...the blues are because you're getting fat or maybe it's been raining too long. You're just sad, that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?
Paul: Sure.
Holly: When I get it the only thing that does any good is to jump into a cab and go to Tiffany's. Calms me down right away.
~Audrey Hepburn & George Peppard, Breakfast At Tiffany's

The Wonder of the World

2006-03-03T16:24:00.000-08:00

At work today, I felt miserably jet-lagged and incoherent, but somehow, I found that my fatigue did not matter. For one of the first times in my life I thought not of the hardship that was, but of the hardship that could have been. I remembered my weeks without a job, and I realized how lucky I was to be able to work and to build for the future.

That instance is but one example of a general principle in life, that difficulties endured and overcome increase our capacity for gratitude. When my father died, I learned some of the horrors of death. But I see now that I learned also the meaning of life and love. It is not so easy to take people for granted when you have had someone you loved ripped from you.

To a lesser extent, it is the same with all things. The child who hates lentil soup has only to imagine the hunger pains it staves off, and he will find he appreciates it more. The woman who hates cleaning her house has only to envision living in a hut in Africa to realize how truly blessed she is.

So, close your eyes, reader, and plug your ears. That profound and dread isolation is what might have been if God had seen fit not to create. But, He did. Therefore, live and love as if you were seeing everything for the first time. Think of what you have and not of what you lack. God has given us this much, it is no leap then to suppose He can give us every desire of our hearts...

Iris

2006-03-03T16:16:00.000-08:00

I find this portion of the lyrics thoroughly compelling:

...And I don't want the world to see me
Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am

And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming
Or the moment of truth in your lies
When everything seems like the movies
Yeah you bleed just to know you're alive

And I don't want the world to see me
Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am...

Because I'm sure you DON'T want to know...

2006-03-02T18:12:00.000-08:00

I present...

Starbucks Nutrition Facts, a Few Examples

First, the basic, basic
Caffe Latte, tall:
Nonfat milk--200*

Next, the "I've had a bad day; I'll treat myself."
Caramel Macchiato, Grande:
Whole milk--310*

Last, the "I had no idea I was campaigning to be obese!"
White Chocolate Mocha, Venti, with whipped cream:
Breve--900*

So now you all think I'm psychotic. (Ok, yes, Michaela; it's more accurate to say that you now think I'm more physchotic.) But what's a girl to do when she's waiting for her mum, and there are bunch of random free brochures to be purused? Besides, if I save even one poor soul from imbibing that last, menacing beverage, I will have done some good!

*These are calories, folks. Please, tell me you knew that. Please.

Psychic Clarity

2006-03-01T12:51:00.000-08:00

Every once in a while, life presents us with a moment of revelation, of "psychic clarity," if you'll permit me such an extravagent phrase. I had one of those recently. It was long in coming, for I am sometimes slow to recognize my own faults.

It was brought about, by the many inquiries I received this week about why I had deleted my blog. Now, months ago, my initial answer to this question went something like: "I thought I was boring people, and I didn't have anything to say." This was certainly partly true. But the smart, tongue-in-cheek answer I settled on much later seems, sadly, to be much more fully accurate: "I pulled a Kafka." I'd say this smilingly.

The more I thought about it, however, the less smiling I was doing. You see, I was living my life in fear. The blog-slaying was a symptom of that. I realize now how immensely stupid (or "stoopid," as Dana and I used to jest) I was acting. The real problem I had with blogging is that it makes you vulnerable. There is real potential for people to laugh at you when you're being sincere or to take offense with you when you mean only to be humorous.

Like most perfectionists, I don't like doing a thing unless I'm sure I can do it well. But that is no way to live. Life is like figure skating (or football, if you're one of those unaccountable people who don't like to put on a sequined jumpsuit and pose). And no jump or movement will ever be perfected without a great many gruesome failures proceeding it.

So, I want to appologize to you, readers, for being such a short-sighted, cringing little ninny. I cannot promise that this blog will be brilliant, but it will not be Kafka-ized again. If you have suggestions about how I can improve it, I will gladly hear them.

I will end with Longfellow, whose Psalm of Life seems apt:

Not enjoyment and not sorrow
Is our destined end or way
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us farther than today

Trust no future, however pleasant
Let the dead past bury its dead
Act, act in the living present
Heart within and God o'erhead