For the Glory of Rome . . .

Something is Better than Nothing . . .

2007-11-29T00:45:00.000-08:00

Since it has been a very very very very long time since I have posted anything (and because a dear friend of mine who is far away is guilt tripping me), I feel compelled to write something. But I am too tired and too busy to come up with anything particularly profound. So I'll just post these two completely unrelated things with no commentary, just because I feel like it. So there . . .

Here are some verses from a song that I like:

When you get off work tonight,
meet me at the construction site,
and we'll write some notes to tape,
to the heavy machines.

Like "We hope they treat you well."
"Hope you don't work too hard."
"We hope you get to be
happy sometimes."

Hey, I found the safest place,
to keep all our tenderness,
keep all those bad ideas,
keep all our hope.
It's here in the smallest bones,
the feet and the inner ear.
It's such an enormous thing,
to walk and to listen.

And I'd like to fall asleep to the beat of you breathing,
in a room near a truck stop,
on a highway somewhere.

You are a radio,
you are an open door.
I am a faulty string,
of blue Christmas lights.

You swim through frequencies,
you let that stranger in,
as I'm blinking off and on
and off again.

Well, these are my favorite chords,
I know you like them too.
when I get a new guitar,
you could have this one.

And sing me a lullaby,
sing me the alphabet,
sing me a story I
haven't heard yet.
-"My Favorite Chords" by the Weakerthans

And here is the question for the day (or for the semester (or for the rest of my life))

How are we supposed to access the meaning of music (music without words) if it communicates non-propositionally? It seems to mean something, and something is seemingly communicated to us when we listen to it, but what in the world is that "something"?

I go bed.

Here We Go Again

2007-08-22T01:16:00.000-07:00

In honor of me finishing my first text of the semester and the official end of my summer, here's one of my favorite end of summer poems, or rather, the only end of summer poem I know of.

#130
Here are the days when Birds come back -
A very few - a bird or two -
To take a backward look.

These are the days when skies resume
The old - old sophistries of June -
A blue and gold mistake.

Oh fraud that cannot cheat the bee -
Almost thy plasibility
Induces my belief.

Till ranks of seeds their witness bear -
And softly thro' the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf.

Oh Sacrament of summer days,
Oh Last Communion in the Haze -
Permit a child to Join.

Thy sacred emblems to partake-
Thy consecrated bread to take
And thine immortal wine!

--Emily Dickinson

Here's hoping for new adventures, more sleep, and maybe a moment of clarity for me this year

Chto ty Dealesh?

2007-07-22T00:10:00.000-07:00

Hopefully I'll have time for a meaningful post soon, but for now I'll just say this . . .

"Ty Tupaia Abeziana!!"

I don't know if learning how to say "you are a stupid monkey" in Russian will ever come in handy, but there it is.

Paka! (good bye)

Bad News

2007-06-29T02:55:00.000-07:00

Jilted
By Sylvia Plath

My thoughts are crabbed and sallow,
My tears like vinegar
Or the bitter blinking yellow
of an acetic star.

Tonight the caustic wind, love
Gossips late and soon,
And I wear the wry-faced pucker of
The sour lemon moon

While like an early summer plum,
Puny, green, and tart,
Droops upon its wizened stem
My lean unripened heart.

Because nothing augments a shitty day like depressing poetry . . .

Aesthetics; A Beginning (of sorts)

2007-06-25T12:39:00.000-07:00

For the last three weeks, I had the opportunity to drive up to UC Berkeley, live in a house with 40 of my amazing classmates, and be forced to read books all day long. Not really forced, mind you, but deadlines are always helpful in motivating one to actually finish a book, rather than come to the end of the summer and find out that there's no way you're going to power your way through the rest of that Dickens or Dostoyevsky novel in the 2 days before school starts. To be entirely honest, my three weeks spent up at Westminister House were quite possibly three of the most amazing weeks of my life. Granted, I haven't lived very long, but the truth stands regardless.

Why, you ask? Partly because it was a breath of fresh air after a rough semester, partly because I had the chance to live with amazing, crazy, and altogether brilliant people, and partly because there were 5 or 6 used book stores within walking distance stacked to the ceiling with more books than I could ever hope to read. But most of all, the curriculum was right in the center of my proverbial wheelhouse; Creation and Creativity. Basically, we were trying to understand what it means for God to be the Creator of all things, and how we ought to view our own creative capacities in light of that truth. It was especially impacting for me because it served as a catalyst for thought in an area which I was always interested in but terrified to ever actually pursue in earnest. As a musician, my job, on its most basic level, is to create beauty. But I, along with most other musicians I know, have spent most of my time on the technical level - working out fingerings, fixing ensemble problems, practicing shifts, and so forth, but having little or no idea what is happening on a philosophical level in the process of creating and performing art. So here I am, after this lengthy introduction and in an attempt to keep my brain from turning into jelly during the summer, writing about art and aesthetics, or, to be more accurate, talking about writing about art and aesthetics. Anything that sounds remotely intelligible is most likely from my friends and tutors from Berkeley, seeing as we spent much of our time batting around ideas on this topic. This is, as I said earlier, the beginning of something. It is entirely possible that I will be more confused by the end of this post than I was at the start, but if these were questions that could be answered in one blog post, than they either weren't questions worth asking, or the post is too long.

Question 1: How do we interpret the meaning of a particular piece of art?

When trying to interpret art, be it visual art, written word, or a piece of music, it seems that there are three things from which art cannot be divorced; Authorial intent, historical/social context, and the recipient of the art.

First off, it should be self-evident that when an artist creates something, he does so with some sort of meaning in mind that is to be conveyed through his work. If something is created without intentionality or without meaning, than we have grounds to question whether or not that thing is art. Intentionality and meaning seem to be central to the definition of art, simply because of the nature of the creative act as an action. If we understand the creative process as an action, then there must necessarily be someone making the decision to act; no painting, no sonata, no novel ever spontaneously came into being independent of the will of its creator. At this point we can tentatively say that art is tied to the intentional act of its creator, but it could be asked "Is art so essentially tied to meaning as well? Is it possible for an artist to intentionally create something without meaning?" I would posit that the same necessary relationship between art and intention also exists between art and meaning. In his essay on the "Fantastic Imagination" which deals specifically with the work of Faerie tales, George MacDonald asserts that art "cannot help having some meaning; if it have proportion and harmony it has vitality, and vitality is truth. The beauty may be plainer in it than the truth, but without the truth the beauty could not be, and the fairytale would give no delight." In the case of the man trying to create something with no meaning, it may be the case that the act of removing meaning from his art may be a meaning in itself. I find it terribly ironic that we have definitions for things like Nihilism, or even the word Meaningless, because a definition necessarily gives meaning, even to something that claims to be without it. The alternative is that if the art truly has no meaning whatsoever, it is probably bad art, or not art at all.

After understanding the essential relationship between the intent of an author and corresponding piece of art, we must next understand where and when that piece of art was created, leading us to the next factor in artistic interpretation; historical/social context. This is important because of a simple truth that I had not thought of until Dr. Jensen pointed it out to me. We cannot divorce art from its context because everything exists in context. To try and take a piece of art and look at it independent of its context is to take the art outside the realm of reality. Of course when one looks at art outside of reality, it can mean anything you want it to mean, but I think we can all agree that it is best to stay within the bounds that reality has set for us. Outside reality, you can assert that the laws of gravity are just a social construction, but in the context of reality and the laws of the universe, gravity will work no matter how hard you may fight it. I believe this same concept applies to interpreting art. In order to truly understand what Dostoyevsky was trying to say in his novels, you must understand the character of the Russian people; in order to understand the work of Van Gogh, you must understand the sad events of his life; and in order to truly understand the music of Beethoven, you must understand that he was stone deaf by the time he wrote the Ninth Symphony. Without these details, exploring the meaning of art becomes an almost impossible exercise.

Lastly, we have to understand the relationship between the meaning a piece of art is conveying and the reader, viewer, or hearer of that particular piece of art. This is something I am still trying to understand, as it seems to lead to an extremely relativistic view of artistic interpretation. I was even more surprised to see it proposed by MacDonald in that same essay I referenced earlier. He makes this statement; "Everyone, however, who feels the story, will read its meaning after his own nature and development: one man will read one meaning in it, another will read another." His imaginary interlocutor interrupts, asking "If so how am I to assure myself that I am not reading my own meaning into it, but yours out of it?"
"Why should you be so assured?" answers MacDonald. "It may be better that you should read your meaning into it. That may be a higher operation of your intellect than the mere reading of mine out of it: your meaning may be superior to mine . . . A genuine work of art must mean many things; the truer its art, the more things it will mean."
However discomforting this may sound, it is a reality that is very important to grasp, especially understanding how we understand the meaning of art "after [our] own nature and development." Ask an architect, a poet, and a philosopher all to listen to one piece of music; the first might comment on the symmetry in musical construction, the second might comment on the profundity or beautiful simplicity of the melody, and the third might comment on the dialogue between the instruments, almost as if they were engaged in a musical dialectic. All these differing observations may lead to different interpretations, but each of them brought their respective skills and natures to bear on the art and came up with valid interpretations. What did not happen was this; no one found meaning that contradicted the authorial intent or context. We cannot allow our interpretations to contradict the intention of the author or the context the art was created in. There can be an infinite number of interpretations, but only those within a certain scope can be considered right interpretations. MacDonald addresses this later on in his essay, saying that men cannot draw whatever he pleases from art, but only "what he can. If he be not a true man, he will draw evil out of the best; we need not mind how he treats any work of art! If he be a true man, he will imagine true things; what matter whether I meant them or not?" In the interpretations of art, there is a certain level of subjectivity that is inherent, but that subjectivity should never become relativity.

Well, that was fun . . . I'm not very good at this whole philosophy thing, so I'll leave you with one last, unrelated observation. In her book Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, Annie Dillard relates this experience to us; "I saw the tree with the lights in it. I saw the backyard cedar where the mourning doves roost charged and transfigured, each cell buzzing with flame. I stood on the grass with the lights in it, grass that was wholly fire, utterly focused and utterly dreamed. It was less like seeing than like being for the first time seen, knocked breathless by a powerful glance . . . Gradually the lights went out in the cedar, the colors died, the cells unflamed and disappeared. I was still ringing. I had been my whole life a bell, and never knew it until at that moment I was lifted and struck."

When looking at art, or any representation of beauty, please do not treat it like a cryptogram, or "begin beating it with a hose to find out what it really means" - Rather, let the beauty you see play on you, and take you where it will. You will most likely not end up where you expected to; you may suddenly understand the beauty of a single blade of grass, you may experience that strange sensation of "being seen" for the first time, but it is of first importance to let the art speak for itself.

It will gladly speak to you, as long as you aren't trying to torture a confession out of it.

Succor

2007-06-09T02:13:00.000-07:00

The Land of Dreams
by William Blake

Awake, awake, my little boy!
Thou wast thy mother's only joy;
Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep?
Awake! thy father does thee keep.

"O, what land is the Land of Dreams?
What are its mountains, and what are its streams?
O father! I saw my mother there,
Among the lilies by waters fair.

"Among the lambs, cloth'd in white,
She walk'd with her Thomas in sweet delight.
I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn;
O! when shall I again return?"

Dear child, I also by pleasant streams
Have wander'd all night in the Land of Dreams;
But tho' calm and warm the waters wide,
I could not get to the other side.

"Father, O father! what do we here
In this land of unbelief and fear?
The Land of Dreams is better far
Above the light of the morning star."

Dear child, I wonder the same thing myself . . . when dreams remind you of what was, or perhaps what could have been, and you wake to the same, cruel reality you try to ignore at every waking moment. Some times are better than others, but at the prick of the most insignificant image or thought, a scrabble board, a shaving razor, it all flows back to you. Everything around you seems to scream out with one inaudible voice, "She is gone!" Sleep gives brief respite, but sweet dreams only make waking to that absence more painful. Perhaps I assume too much or too little about you, and I know you have much more cause to mourn than I, but know that if your pain at all resembles this, than you do not mourn alone.

Hello Again

2006-08-07T18:14:00.000-07:00

Well well well . . . it has definitely been a while since I posted, although I suspect I wasn't missed a terrible lot. But, ironically, I have a lot I want to say but no words to say it. So, rather than bore with my own tedious ramblings, I'll let someone speak who is much more qualified than myself . . .

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night
As a Feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain

Come, read to me some poem
Some simple heartfelt lay
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not form the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And tonight I long for rest

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care
And come like the bendediction
That follows after the prayer

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs
And as silently steal away.

--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I'm a melancholic, so sue me.

From the mouths of babes . . .

2006-06-28T13:46:00.000-07:00

There is nothing that clears a frustrated mind quite like a little time spent at the happiest place on earth. I really cannot tell you how much I enjoy that little slice of Anaheim, and consequently I cannot tell you exactly what I find so enjoyable about Disneyland, but one of those factors definitely has to be listening to the conversations that kids have with each other, and wonder to myself if I was ever prone to the same leaps of logic that these children take on a regular basis. This example has to be my favorite from yesterday afternoon; two young boys, who have randomly met in line to get into Disneyland and who are both clutching stuffed animals, begin to discuss which of their stuffed animals would be victorious if they were ever to enter into a physical altercation. Boy #1 is holding a cheetah and Boy #2 is holding a dog, and their conversation went something like this . . .

Boy #1: RAaarrRgh!
Boy #2: Rooowff!!
Boy #1: There's no way a dog could beat a cheetah!! Cheetahs eat dogs for breakfast!

(A short period of silence ensues)

Boy #2: . . . Not a dog with SUPERPOWERS!!!!

If only all answers in life were so obvious.

Because good poetry should never be kept to oneself

2006-06-13T23:56:00.000-07:00

To Will. H. Low.

Youth now flees on feathered foot.
Faint and fainter sounds the flute,
Rarer songs of gods; and still
Somewhere on the sunny hill,
Or along the winding stream,
Through the willows, flits a dream;
Flits, but shows a smiling face,
Flees, but with so quaint a grace,
None can choose to stay at home,
All must follow, all must roam.

This is unborn beauty: she
Now in air floats high and free,
Takes the sun and breaks the blue; --
Late with stooping pinion flew
Raking hedgerow trees, and wet
Her wing in silver streams, and set
Shining foot on temple roof:
Now again she flies aloof,
Coasting mountain clouds and kiss't
By the evening's amethyst.

In wet wood and miry lane,
Still we pant and pound in vain;
Still with leaden foot we chace
Waning pinion, fainting face;
Still with grey hair we stumble on,
Till, behold, the vision gone!
Where hath fleeting beauty led?
To the doorway of the dead.
Life is over, life was gay:
We have come the primrose way.
-Robert Louis Stevenson

Nothing much to add to this, but a resounding Wow! and one extra thought of mine; there are, in the whole of literature, very few pieces that evoke feelings from me as strongly as music does. This is one of those pieces.

And Ms. Cannon, if you ever read this, I finally did read Treasure Island, and it was fantastic. Although it is odd to think that the same man who wrote this also made these lines famous;

"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!"

Go figure.

In which I dearly wish to be somewhere else

2006-06-01T01:28:00.000-07:00

"Who can tell how scenes of peace and quietude sink into the minds of pain-worn dwellers in close and noisy places, and carry their own freshness, deep into their jaded hearts! Men who have lived in crowded, pent-up streets, through lives of toil: and never wished for change; men, to whom custom has indeed been second nature, and who have come almost to love each brick and stone that formed the narrow boundaries of their daily walks: even they, with the hand of death upon them, have been known to yearn at last for one short glimpse of Nature's face; and carried, far from the scenes of their old pains and pleasures, have seemed to pass at once into a new state of being, and crawling forth, from day to day, to some green sunny spot, they have had such memories wakened up within them by the mere sight of sky, and hill, and plain, and glistening water, that the foretaste of heaven itself has soothed their quick decline, and they have sunk into their tombs as peacefully as the sun: whose setting they watched from their lonely chamber-window but a few hours before: faded from their dim and feeble sight! The memories which peaceful country scenes call up, are not of this world, nor of its thoughts and hopes. Their gentle influence may teach us how to weave fresh garlands for the graves of those we loved: may purify our thoughts, and bear down before it old emnity and hatred; but beneat all this, there lingers, in the least reflective mind, a vague and half-formed conciousness of having held such feelings long before, in some remote and distant time; which calls upon solemn thoughts of distant times to come, and bends down pride and wordliness beneath it"
-Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist

I can think of few things more enjoyable than reading Dickens while listening to Vaughn Williams. But oh to read Dickens in the company of the rustling grass, with a friendly oak or amber looking over your shoulder! To listen to the melody of the wind as it tumbles over hillsides and rivers, rather than the sound that struggles out of my computer speakers! To look up from my book and see not the drab, off-white of my ceiling, but the deep and clear blue of a country sky!

And on a (somewhat) unrelated note . . .

They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. It also makes one go a bit funny in the head.

Joy: A Post Easter Reflection

2006-04-21T11:10:00.000-07:00

Easter has always been an interesting day for me, to say the least. I'm never entirely sure how to feel. Don't get me wrong, I will always be excited because of the risen Christ our Lord, but I for one, have a tendency to get so bogged down in Good Friday that sometimes it is difficult for me to rejoice in the fulfilment of my salvation. Realizing the enormity of Christ's sacrifice in relation to the enormity of my sin . . . I cannot fathom the grace that is given me. How underserving am I of his love? How pure and blameless the lamb that was slain for a dirty, ungrateful soul like me! My unworthiness, my sin, my iniquities cry out in the depths of my soul along with the Sanhedrin "CRUCIFY HIM!!" And yet Christ still dies in my stead? Now, these are not wrong things to feel; in fact, one of the biggest problems with modern Christianity is that most believers never come to this point. Without a realization of one's own depravity, the realization of Salvation does not seem like that big of a deal. But what is wrong with my situation, and with many others I have discussed this with, is that on Easter morning, instead of rejoicing in the resurrection, all I can see is my own unworthiness.

This is NOT the right response!! Christ did not die in order that we might feel guilty and undeserving for all eternity, he died that we might live!!!!! There is a time and a place for introspection, for the realization of sin and our need for the blood of Christ, but that is not the final realization we should come to. I think there comes a point where one needs to move from this place of despair to a place of Joy and Gratitude for the amazing grace we have been given.

That is what these past two days have taught me . . . that it is okay to be happy. We need not navel gaze our lives away. It is okay to enjoy a game of volleyball, to run across creeks in the only pair of pants you brought with you, to eat good food with good friends, to stop driving for the sole purpose of frolicking in a field to your hearts content, to try on silly clothes in vintage stores, to sing and make music into the night with people you hardly know, to sit on a dock and look at the stars with someone who is close to your heart, to have JOY in life!

And perhaps even to find joy in writing a term paper, or reading a philosopher who is way over your head . . . which I must go do now. Thank you Josh for the companionship and excitement, be it jumping around in grass or chopping down trees with swords, Dave for the music and the insight, Anna for your quiet diginity in putting up with three crazy boys in a small car, and Morielle for your passion and the light you bring to my life and wherever you walk.

If you can't fix him . . .

2006-04-03T22:11:00.000-07:00

*DISCLAIMER: This blog contiains nothing definitive or even remotely intelligent; it is merely the excess musings of a very confused college student.

"Before anything else I declare that this youth, Alyosha, was in no sense a fanatic, nor even in my opinion at any rate a mystic at all. I shall state in advance my opinion; he was simply an early lover of mankind, and if he had struck out along the monastery road it was only because he had at that time made a strong impression on him and presented itself to him as, so to speak, an ideal of deliverance for his soul, straining as it was out of the murk of worldly hatred unto the lights of love."

"Add to this that he was in part a youth of our most recent times, that is to say honest by his very nature, demanding truth and justice, seeking and striving to believe in them and, having come to do so, demanding with all the power of his soul an immediate part in them, demanding a quick deed, with the unbending desire to sacrifice everything for that deed, even his life."
-The Brothers Karamozov, Fyodor Dostoyevsky

To tell you the truth, I'm getting very tired of these kinds of questions, but in light of my understanding of the Brothers K it is a question that needs to be asked; What shall we do with Alyosha? The question seems absurd to most people who have read the book, seeing as Alyosha is the one that we sympathize the most; he is the one who is trying to heal his family from all the dysfunction and madness that threatens to consume it. Of course he is less of a threat than the over-intellectual Ivan and the base-driven Mitya, right? Hmmmmmmmm. . . . maybe the answer is't as clear as one might think. Sure Mitya is the one who revels in his base pleasures, but who is he likely to harm by his actions? Besides the odd house servant, only himself. Ivan? Although he is unnervingly intelligent and could probably think circles around any other character in the book, this does not serve to his credit. All his rationale and philosophy leaves him alone in his house, raving mad, unable to do harm to, again, anyone but himself. But Alyosha . . . this is where things get interesting.

Most of this has been brought about when I learned that Dostoyevsky intended to write a sequel to his novel The Brothers Karamozov in which the Alyosha that we all know and love becomes a revolutionary (that is, he would have written it if he hadn't died first). Yes, our dear humble and religious minded Alyosha ends up a revolutionary. This, while it should not totally change your view of Alyosha, colors our perceptions of him, especially in regards to the passages listed above. This may serve to confuse even more, seeing as characteristics such as being an "early lover of mankind", and "demanding truth and justice" are not normally considered character flaws. These things are not necessarily dangerous, but can be within the right person. Why is Alyosha "this" person? Two things, the first of which is this; Dostoyevsky makes it painfully clear that Alyosha is on the religious path because it is what happened to make the strongest impression on him at the time, and he decided that this would be the instrument for the "deliverance of his soul". If socialism had gotten to him first, he would have been the most gung-ho socialist you ever set your beady little eyes on. What does this show us? That Alyosha is not in the monastery for the right reasons; he is an imressionable youth looking for relief for his soul. He is NOT looking for Christ. He may accept Christ as part of the deliverance of his soul, but not as the object of his worship. The Orthodoxy just happened to get ahold of him before anyone else did. And look what happens when his mentor Father Zosima dies; he jumps ship and decides to bury himself within that murk of worldy hatred he was trying to get away from. This leads us to our second problem; Alyosha is not in search of a changed life, which will inevitably take time. He is looking for a "quick deed", like a martyrdom, that will immediatley satiate his desire for truth and justice to be served. Sadly for Alyosha, this "quick deed" is nowhere to be found within the constructs of the Orthodoxy. Perhaps it is for that very reason that Father Zosima sends Alyosha out into the world, knowing full well that what he is seeking does not lie inside the walls of the monastery.

There is one last thing to consider here; Alyosha is described as a "lover of mankind", not a lover of men. The difference in wording is miniscule, but the difference has immense importance, because this is what makes Alyosha the perfect Revolutionary. When one is a lover of mankind, you are not necessarily a lover of individual men, but a lover of men as an idea. With this perspective, the sacrifice of individual men is allowable for the good of Man as a whole. So what is a young, impressionable, Russian youth with a desire for the quick enaction of truth and justice to do? The Orthodoxy can't help him because, again, it does not offer the quick enaction of truth and justice upon the masses. The prospect of Revolution, however, does. Christianity offers a lifetime of sanctification and slow progress of character. Revolution offers the chance to satisfy your desire for justice in the time it takes to pull the trigger of a pistol. Couple this with his love of "mankind", and you've got yourself a dyed-in-the-wool Bolshevik revolutionary.

So what can we do? We can't kill him before he does any damage, because then you become Alyosha, opting for the "quick deed" that satisfies your thirst for justice. We can't let him roam free, because then there is nothing to stop him. To quote Reynolds, "It's easier to exterminate the ruling class than kill Anastasia." Can we put him back in the monastery? Maybe, but what's to keep him there? Once he sees that the Orthodox can't give him truth and justice now, won't he just leave? Perhaps the question is how do we fix him . . . and to tell you the truth I have no idea if you actually can fix him. And where does that leave us? Is it enough to follow in his wake, doing damage control the best we can and as fast as we can? Is it enough to live the best we can and hope he stays clear of us and our children? I don't think that we can resign ourselves to that. But still . . . I have no answers (big surprise), only more questions and doubts. Ugh.

In other news . . . Morielle is amazing and it's okay that I can't figure this out. Take that Dostoyevsky.

In case you were wondering . . .

2006-03-25T10:59:00.000-08:00

philandegg

PUQ has the egg!!!!!!!!!!

For better or worse . . .

2006-03-10T02:26:00.000-08:00

If you know me, you probably know that I have a bit of a self-image problem/complex/thingamambob, and at times feel very uncomfortable in my own skin. In fact, at one point it was difficult for me to see anything of worth inside of myself. I am actually doing much better in this paranoid insecurity, but a few piercing insights from friends this semester have helped me to better see the damage this insecurity does not only to myself, but to my relationship with God. So, after much thought and contemplation, I think that it's time that I try to accept myself for who I am, for better or worse. I guess the next logical question is, who am I?

I, Philip Timothy Glenn, am . . .
-A sinner saved by Grace
-Slightly obsessed with root beer
-Made in the image of our Lord
-A loving and devoted fan of Charles Dickens
-Very obsessed with the Beatles
-Blessed with amazing friends that I don't deserve
-A bit of a hopeless romantic
-Not good for much oustide the areas of music and literature
-A fan of feeding and watching ducks in parks as the sun is starting to set
-A bit of a Tolkien freak (I've read the Silmarillion 3 times)
-In need of a haircut
-Terrible at bowling
-Desperately trying to be a good music major
-Scared of Vulnerability, with God and other people
-Trying to be a good friend

This is not a definitive list by any means, it's just what happened to come out at 3 in the morning. But, in an attempt to keep this relatively short, suffice to say I am trying to look at myself in the morning and say "Philip, you are by no means overly attractive or intelligent, but you are who you are, and that is okay"

An Oddly Introspective Morning

2006-02-25T01:34:00.000-08:00

First, let me say that I am in no way talented in the art of writing poetry; I am about as wieldy with the english language as a garbage man with an English broadsword (translation: I no speak so good), but this morning necessitated a brush with the more creative side of writing. Thanks to the new system my Torrey mentor has instituted, I am forced to stay on schedule and hand in my pull questions every two weeks. I woke up with one to finish, and I figured I would bang it out in half an hour and head off to lunch. Then I looked at the question: "Following the pattern of Psalm 78, write a recollection of your own life to be passed on to the next generation". For those of you not familiar with this particular Psalm (there is no reason why you should be, although it is an interesting Psalm), it is for the most part a recollection of the unfaithfulness of Israel despite the demonstrated faithfuness and provision of the Lord. So there I sat, still shaking of the last vestiges of sleep, trying to take stock of my life so far. And not only my life, such as it is, but specifically my own weakness and unfaithfulness towards God.

Interestingly enough, it may have been just the thing I needed that morning. There is nothing like a reminder of your own shortcomings and bull-headedness to remind you of the grace and mercy of our most sovereign Lord. So, instead of writing another formulaic pull question, I decided to try my hand at Psalmistry (I really hope that is a word, or I shall be extremely embarassed). Ladies and Gentlemen, here is the fruit of my pathetic efforts:

"Give heed, friends, to my words
And I will speak of the steadfast love
Of the Father, and of the wayward actions
of a son; so that you may
Praise the Lord, your rock and salvation
with greater strength and understanding

He provided for his every need, from the
Beginning, and blessed him with life, family
And love.
But this son, proud even in his youth,
acknowledged his heavenly Father
in name only.
Instead of looking and seeing the hand of God
He saw only his own strength, frail and
feeble as it was, and did not give
Honor to the Lord for his steadfast love
and provision

And so the Lord’s anger was kindled against
His son, and He stretched out his hand
Striking his family with sickness and pain.
O how terrible the wrath of a
Jealous God! How perfect His judgement!
Still, even brought low by his pride, this son
Refused to let go, loving his freedom and
Trusting only in his own strength, rather than
The strength of He who parted the Red Sea,
He who struck down the armies of Pharaoh and
caused the mighty Nile to run red

Yet You, O Lord, in your unending and steadfast Love
Did not forsake your son and leave him
to wander in the wilderness for forever.
Just as You brought your chosen ones, the children
of Israel, into the promised land, You brought him back
To your side and directed each of his footsteps
in the way he should go.
Even when he walked in darkness, your hand was
There to guide and protect him
from those who wished him harm,
As a shepherd watches over even the least of his flock

You heard him, O Lord, when in the depths of his despair
he cried out to You, weeping in knowledge
Of his folly and his pride
and seeing the steadfast Love of the Lord, and
His guiding hand, even as he trudged
through the muck and mire of his iniquity
Who can know the extent of your wisdom, O Lord,
God of hosts,
Who can fathom your power? You who make
the mountains tremble with your voice,
You who make the seas boil and rage in your wrath?
Who can know the width and breadth of your Love?
Love enough to set aside your perfect judgement, and
Have mercy on those who cry out to you?
O friends, know that this is the Lord your God
And know that He is merciful
And just."
--Me

This dratted thing won't format it like I originally wanted, but regardless, I tried to be as honest with myself as I could. Perhaps we could all use a morning every once in a while to look back and see not only our own insufficiency, but the hand of the Father as well.

Someday

2006-02-20T01:58:00.000-08:00

*DISCLAIMER: This next post consists of nothing but word vomit. Sadly, all vomit needs to be expelled sometime, so here goes . . .

"Man is a vast deep, whose hairs you, Lord, have numbered, and in you none can be lost. Yet it is easier to count his hairs than the passions and emotions of his heart"
-St. Augustine, Confessions

I'm trying not to make this sound like I'm complaining, but whenever anyone tries to scribble down their tangled thoughts on this subject it ends up sounding like it. So just to clarify: this is not a pity party. This is me laughing at myself. Sometimes I think there is a bright red stamp on my forehead that reads "I'm that nice guy that you will never think of seriously in a romantic way." People always say that someday, someone will come along who can look me in the eye and truthfully say they aren't settling for me, and then we can ride off into the sunset with James Taylor playing in the backgrond. The problem is that it's all a bunch of talk. Thus far, nothing in my experience in that area of life has even hinted at the possiblity of that happening. The human heart is a very very very interesting thing. I know that I don't need a girl in my life to make me happy, I do. I know that the only place for me to find the true rest that my soul is longing for is within the Lord God almighty who makes all things new according to his good pleasure. But while I am content and satisfied in that truth, some nights I just feel unspeakably lonely. I don't know what its like to be wanted, to be needed by another person. It sounds kind of selfish, but it is something that is common to all of us because we all are human. This feeling will probably by gone by the time I wake up for class, but let the records show that I, Philip Glenn, being of sound mind and character, would like that someday to come a bit sooner.

Vomiting terminated, and now back to our regularly scheduled programming . . .

Cheer up, kiddo

2006-02-13T02:44:00.000-08:00

No matter how hard I try to get it done early, it is unavoidable that I will be doing my laundry at 2 in the morning. Methinks I must have offended the laundry goddess by wearing my jeans for longer than a week, but tonight she was extra surly, causing one of my dryer loads to be dripping wet at the end of the cycle. So, as long as I have another hour to kill . . .

Going to concerts has always been one of my favorite things to do, but due to my strange propensity for weird music I always am at the shows that not many people show up at. Every now and again I'll find someone else who wants to go see a Ska show or Bela Fleck and the Flectones, but those people are very few and far between. That is why going to the Mae concert was very interesting for me. Especially coming from a rudie background (that's what you call a kid who listens to ska FYI) I'm used to the strange and comforting cameraderie shared by most people at concerts. You're here to dance and have good time, and so am I, so lets get to it! But tonight was interesting; I've never been in a gym full of people more determined not to have a good time. For the first two bands there was barely a foot tapping, head nodding, or even a sign that these people were even listening to music. Just blank stares, and every once in a while a disgusted look at another concert-goer. I guess it's to be expected in a scene where your greatest aim is to care less than the person next to each other; put a thousand or so of them into a gym and the result is one very depressing sight.

Cheer up kids! Maybe if you look up every once in a while, you'll see that everyone else has to deal with the same crap that you have to.

Misdirected Ramblings from the afflicted

2006-02-06T00:00:00.000-08:00

"You're a blowout on a birthday cake
and I'm a birthday candle"
-Ryan Adams

There's nothing like melancholy folk music to accentuate the unfortunate situation you find yourself in. Suffice it to say, I am sick, which is weird in itself. Because I don't get sick. I just don't. I honestly can't remember the last time I got sick; must've been junior year or something. And of course, I am stricken with this the week that Biola is performing an opera. There's nothing like a fit of coughing from the orchestra pit to ruin the drama of the magic flute. . .

"Where is Tamino?"
"He is here, to bid you a last Farewell."
"A la-"
(COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH)
"A last Far-"
(COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH)

I think I'm doing a little better, thanks to the wonder that is Tylenol cold and sinus, but something is still bothering me. Maybe not one something, but a couple of somethings and I can't quite put my finger on it.

This whole thing could be another friendly reminder from the Big Guy upstairs that I'm not in charge of this life I'm trying to live, which to me is the scariest part about being sick. I can take all the medicine I want, but on some days nothing I do keeps me from coughing my lungs up. But it also reminds me that, in reality, I'm not in control of much anyway. I'm sure glad God knows what he's doing, because I sure as heck don't.

There's always that weird feeling that comes out of nowhere when you see a good friend finally happy with someone. You want to be happy for them, and you are, but for the most part it is a constant reminder that you have yet to find someone.

Music is one of the most powerful forces that moves the hearts and minds of men, right? Why, then, were many of those that created some of the most beautiful stuff so messed up? Why was Mozart, for lack of a better term, a pompous ass? Why was Lizst an egomaniac?
And, to change the focus for a bit, why did Chopin die of TB alone and miserable? Why did Beethoven, who singlehandedly brought music from classical to romantic, go deaf? Why did Nick Drake overdose on deppression medication before he was recongized for any of his work?

Why did Oedipus deserve anything that happened to him? Why do birds fly in V's and how the heck to they know to do it? Why do minor keys evoke sadness? Why do some people see animals in the clouds where some just see cumulus, nimbus, etc? Why do sunsets make us feel amazing and strangely sad at the same time?

This doesn't make much sense, I'm noticing, but no one said it would. So there.

What? More Poems? WHY???

2006-01-28T03:30:00.000-08:00

Sorry for this, but I have yet another poem to post by one of my new favorite people; Billy Collins. I guess what is intriguing is to me is that he isn't as eloquent as some, and that he isn't as romantic as some; to quote a friend of mine on this subject, "It's not anything special... but its part of modern poetry that I like. I guess its the idea of looking at something perfectly normal with a different perspective...."

On Turning Ten

The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I'm coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light--
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.

You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.

But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.

This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.

It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.

--Billy Collins

Thank you Mr. Collins

2006-01-22T01:15:00.000-08:00

The First Dream

The Wind is ghosting around the house tonight
and as I lean against the door of sleep
I begin to think about the first person to dream,
how quiet he must have seemed the next morning

as the others stood around the fire
draped in the skins of animals
talking to each other only in vowels,
for this was long before the invention of consonants.

He might have gone off by himself to sit
on a rock and look into the mist of a lake
as he tried to tell himself what had happened,
how he had gone somewhere without going,

how he had put his arms around the neck
of a beast that the others could touch
only after they had killed it with stones,
how he felt its breath on his bare neck.

Then again, the first dream could have come
to a woman, though she would behave,
I suppose, much the same way,
moving off by herself to be alone near water,

except that the curve of her young shoulders
and the tilt of her downcast head
would make her appear to be terribly alone,
and if you were there to notice this,

you might have gone down as the first person
to ever fall in love with the sadness of another.
--Billy Collins

I am normally wary of any modern poetry not written by Dr. Seuss or Shel Silverstein, but this poem has definitely given me the reassurance that someone out there still can write good poetry. And this isn't the only good one, so if you are as yet unaware of the wonderful poetry of Billy Collins (which I was up until this past wednesday) look him up. Now. It's not Yeats or Tennyson, but it's good. Damn good, pardon my french.

Cheers, Billy. Cheers indeed.

Washington, Rain, and Meditations on Trees

2006-01-16T12:05:00.000-08:00

So, despite extreme weather conditions, I am alive and well in Washington. This is also the first time I'm posting something before midnight. I don't know if that is significant in any way, but it might mean I might be more coherent than I normally am in these candid, shocking, and wholly uninteresting insights into my tangled psyche.

It was definitely an interesting trip up, but between seeing a car flip over in front of us on the ice and almost losing my car trying to put chains on it, what has been the most interesting to me on this trip so far are my meditations on the tree's in Lindseys backyard.

I don't know why I decided to go outside onto her deck and stare at the trees, but I did. And it's kind of scary when you just let your thoughts wander wherever they please, with no intended point or destination. So here is where they went. There are mostly big, majestic Evergreen trees back there, but there are two dead maples in the middle of them all, and for a while I couldn't keep my eyes off them. Those two images of death in the middle of all this life was a little disconcerting. It might have been because of the lighting back there, or something weird going on in my head, but they looked frightened, almost like they were lifting their branches up to shield themselves from something. And there they stood, gnarled and bare. And there I stood, with the most random of thoughts coming into my head. It was like someone pressed play on an old VCR in my brain, and a fuzzy picture of my AP English teacher came up from the beginning of Seinor year, saying "One of the most important questions asked by all authors, from all cultures, and from all time periods is the question of "How do you face your own death?"

Thankfully, I've already worked through that morbid subject (very superficially, of course) in my last entry, so I won't bore you. I then turned my attention to the giant Firs towering above my head, and my strange talent for making random connections again surfaced, which of course means that my next thought was of J.R.R. Tolkien (hear me out on this one). Trees had a very special place in the mind of Tolkien, seen most vividly in his vision of the Ents in the Rings series; great and ancient beings, who have seen more years than we could ever hope to see. And I wondered what it was that these trees saw as they grew up here in the beautiful woods of Washington; what did these woods look like before houses were built, roads were paved, even before people ever arrived in these parts? What did these woods sound like, without the constant buzzing of lights, generators, and cars whizzing by, with nothing but the sounds of the wind rustling in the trees, the light patter of rain on the earth, and the babbling of little brooks, whispering their secrets for none to hear but the birds and the clear night sky? Call me nostalgic, but shivering out there in the cold, I hoped to God that there was still someplace where it was possible to hear and see something like that. It really reminded me of Dave Matthews (hooray again for random connections) talking about the inspirations behind some of his work; "I can remember sitting out on the edge of the Grand canyon, of course trying to distance yourself from the McDonalds that is peering out over the canyon with you, and Imagining the quiet there must have been, and the people that enjoyed it . . . "

Could any human endeavor ever come close to recreating even that simple view from the deck? Sure, they could come close; songs could be written, photos could be taken, paintings could be painted, sketches could be sketched, but could they recreate the same feelings that you have when you see the real thing with your own eyes and experience it firsthand? The cold on your skin, the smell of the pines, the light mist in the air?

I really doubt that anyone will be interested in reading this stuff, or if anyone reads this thing at all, but if you have suffered this far (whoever "you" happens to be), here's comes the point of all this crazy nonsense. There is something special about actually being among the wonders of God's creation that I forget much too quickly living in the concrete jungle of Los Angeles, and southern California in general. I'm going to make it a point to spend more time in that park outside school, sit on the swings, and take a break from the craziness of city life. You can join me if you want. I'm sure the trees and I would enjoy the company.

I wish . . .

2006-01-09T23:33:00.000-08:00

Someone please make sure that this song is sung at my funeral:

DEAD MANS WILL
By: Iron and Wine/Calexico

Give this stone to my brother
Because we found it playing in the barnyard
Many years ago
Give this bone to my father
He'll remember hunting in the hills
When I was ten years old

May my love reach you all
I locked it in myself and buried it too long
Now that I've come to fall
Please say its not too late
Now that I'm dead and gone

Give this string to my mother
It pulled the baby teeth she keeps
Inside the drawer
Give this ring to my lover
I was scared and stupid not to ask
For her hand long before

May my love reach you all
I lost it in myself and buried it too long
Now that I've come to fall
Please say its not too late
Now that I'm dead and gone

I have no Idea why this song resonates with me so much, but I think there are times that everyone, be you a angst-ridden college student or a teamster, must contemplate his or her own mortality. I don't mean to be morbid, but the subject has been on my mind as of late, in no small part due to me listening to this song on repeat to help me sleep. The funny thing is, it keeps me awake, despite the soft folk stylings of Iron and wine, (which I highly recommend by the by). All I can think about is what it is that I have done with my life thus far, and all that still is left to be done.

Sometimes I think it would be interesting to have a George Bailey experience and see what would happen to the world you knew if you had never been born. What would my High School have looked like, what would Biola be like, what would my torrey group be like if I had never shown up? Would things be better? Worse? Or, in the worst possible scenario, would nothing have changed? What if I have had so little effect on the people around me that nothing is different? This isn't a pity-party or a desperate cry for attention on my part, but rather an honest question of myself.

So here I sit in my living room (which, incidentally, has become my living quarters for my stay at home due to the reposession of my old quarters by my dear, loving sister), asking myself a question to which I do not have the answer; What am I going to do about this? I suppose I could sit and mope about whether or not people see my contributions or my inability to articulate myself in any coherent manner when around members of the opposite sex, but I've tried that before, and all it does is cement your face into a permanent frown. So, as I have nothing better to do . . . I'll make a list (don't tell Reynolds!!!).

Things I would like to do with my life before I am dead and gone, serious or trivial
(This is not definitive, by any means, but it's a start)
1. Write a song that makes people cry
2. Live on the east coast
3. Show my parents they raised me right
4. Have a white christmas
5. Remember the wrath of God as well as his grace
6. Find a girl who isn't just settling for me
7. Try every single existing brew of Root Beer
8. Love the Lord more than I did the day before

I guess what I'm trying to say is best said in the song that I started with.

"May my love reach you all
I locked it in myself and buried it too long
Now that I've come to fall
Please say it's not too late
Now that I'm dead and gone"

Hopefully, Before I'm dead and gone

Blargh.

2006-01-02T01:50:00.000-08:00

Blargh is word that I stole from Elina

And I just watched the entire 2nd season of 24 in 2 days. The situation being what it is, I feel wonderful and terrible due to a television headache.

Blargh.

I will say it again just to make sure you heard.

Blargh.

Why do I always put a space between lines like this?

Oh well.

Blargh.

Christmastime is here

2005-12-25T00:24:00.000-08:00

"Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more; and to
Tiny Tim, who did NOT die, he was a second father. He became a as good a friend,
as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other
good old city, town or borough, in the good old world . . . and it was always
said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive posessed
the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim
observed, God Bless Us, Every One!"

I think I'm going to try to read this book every year at Christmastime, and maybe even in the summertime. Mr. Dickens, thank you for the blessing that this book has been!

There was one problem though. I, like many of my friends, have seen many different cinematic renditions of this Christmas classic before actually reading A Christmas Carol. That being the case, all I could hear in my head as I read was Gonzo reading along with me. The Muppet Christmas Carol was a very formative part of my childhood (don't laugh), and to it's credit, much of the movie is taken line for line from the book! Hurrah!

So before I go off to dream of sugarplums dancing, or whatever it is they're supposed to be doing, I would like to thank Amy Cannon for coming up with the most amazing adjective ever: Neato Spameato! And to echo Tiny Tim (sniff) God Bless Us Every One!

zzzzzz . . .. . .

2005-12-14T12:11:00.000-08:00

In the past two days

I've gotten a grand total of . . . .

2 hours of sleep

But I got an A at Don Rags

I think I'm going to sleep for a week

Can you say amazing? Cause I can

2005-12-12T03:45:00.000-08:00

Wedding Dress

(words and music by derek webb)

if you could love me as a wife

and for my wedding gift, your life

should that be all i’ll ever need

or is there more i’m looking for

and should i read between the lines

and look for blessings in disguise

to make me handsome, rich, and wise

is that really what you want

(chorus)

i am a whore i do confess

but i put you on just like a wedding dress

and i run down the aisle

i’m a prodigal with no way home

but i put you on just like a ring of gold

and i run down the aisle to you

so could you love this bastard child

though i don’t trust you to provide

with one hand in a pot of gold

and with the other in your side

i am so easily satisfied

by the call of lovers less wild

that i would take a little cash over your very flesh and blood

(chorus)

because money cannot buy

a husband’s jealous eye

when you have knowingly deceived his wife

It's been awhile since a christian artist has made me think. If anyone could be considered the lyrical equivalent to Bob Dylan in the evangelical world, it would be Derek Webb. Although I've heard this song a million times, each time is like hearing it for the first time. Like seeing a sunrise, or hearing your loved one laugh, it is new with every experience.

I am a whore. To lust, to pride, to avarice, to gossip, to the chains of sin

I am a bastard child, adopted into the family of God, saved by the deep and unfathomable grace of Christ.

I am covered, in all of my filth, all of my rotten, despicable nature, by the purity of Christ

I am weak

I am strong

I am a slave

I am free

Hooray for Random, or maybe not so random posts

2005-12-11T03:52:00.000-08:00

"Why do you fight, Maximus"
"For the glory of Rome"
"And what is that? There was a dream that was Rome. You could only whisper it. Anything more than a whisper and it would vanish, it was so fragile."

"Is Rome worth one good man's life? We believed it once. Make us believe it again. He was a soldier of Rome. Honor him."

"Death smiles at us all. All a man can do is smile back."

For the glory of Rome . . .

For now . . .

2005-12-09T03:51:00.000-08:00

"After all, he's not a tame lion"
"But he is good . . ."

I think my social fantasy is thinking that if Lewis and I ever met, we'd get along pretty well, and I would be able to call him Jack. Except it'd be one of those socrates/mentee kind of relationships

"Yes Mr. Lewis"
"Of course Mr. Lewis"
"I don't know, Mr. Lewis, would you please enlighten me?"

Something about the image of four children sitting on thrones really sticks out to me, but it is much too late for me to ponder this, so I will leave my ruminations for tommorow, if anyone cares.

Why?

2005-12-05T00:02:00.000-08:00

Tonight was good. Not just because it's christmas time, not just because there's cold root beer in my refrigerator, but because maybe, just maybe I'll make it through the next 4 years. My torrey group had a christmas party today, semi formal (I will never ever figure out what that really means), and it's really interesting to see how close we've gotten in such a short time. To see a group that was akwardly sitting around making akward comments and looking akwardly at each other a few months ago at convacation and now see us laughing and carrying on like we've known each other our whole lives is not only refreshing, it's an answer to prayer. Near the beginning of the semester I was really wondering whether I made the right choice to come to Biola, whether I should have gone to Michigan instead and studied english. Now I know that I'm where I'm supposed to be, not because I'm around a bunch of smart people who talk about literature, but because we've gotten past that. We can stop trying to impress everyone around us and get down to who we really are underneath. Homer group may not be perfect, I may not know everyone as well as I would like, but we're getting there and there's no where I'd rather be.

But then there's always the walk back down to Stewart by myself to get me thinking again . . .

I've been pretty good about it this semester, mostly because I've been too busy to think about it or too tired to care, but it popped up in my head again.

I guess I'm just tired of being alone

I'm not clawing to get into a relationship or anything like that, and I know that there are more important things I need to worry about (like the paper I need to finish up tonight), but I also know from this semester that man was not made to live alone. I don't even want any of the hand holding or kissing stuff; I just miss having someone to talk to about everything, anything, and nothing at all. I miss having someone to talk about Fawlty towers, about British Comedy, about bluegrass, about God. I miss having someone to listen to. I miss having someone who wanted to tell me the stupidest, smallest, most insignificant part of their day.

But I guess it really doesn't matter anymore.

Can you feel it?

2005-12-01T01:39:00.000-08:00

I am a music major.

I am the epitome of impracticality.

Is that okay?

It's been said that beauty is its own reward.

I believe it.

It's just hard sometimes.

People dream of ending hunger.

People dream of riches and fame.

People dream of finding the one.

I dream of a world where people have learned to feel again . . .