I remembered that I had made an anniversary honoring post for my older sister and her husband. I told my sister that I would make an effort to make one this year as well.
I don't recall whether I have done it these past two years. Though I could easily check, I think that anything that spurs me to make an effort to write shouldn't be self-questioned. Therefore this superfluous introduction as I talk myself through this.
Four years. It doesn't seem that long ago to me. But it is wonderful and it makes me very happy to notice and know. Truth is, that I feel like I shall always be somewhat in her shadow, but I enjoy the shadows. It makes it ever so much easier to observe proceedings as they take place.
I have always admired her, and it gives me even more joy to know that she is in excellent hands. Her husband, John, is one of the finest fellows I have had the pleasure of knowing. When he began courting my sister, he asked my opinion on their relationship as her sibling. I replied that I had no such reservations, it baffles me that he considers me one of his best friends.
It is one of the highlights of my week whenever I get to see them, to way they interact and support one another is a beautiful thing to witness. They both have a knack for making work fun, of using whatever tools they have available to engineer a fun solution to any creeping possibility of boredom. They both go the extra mile in their efforts to add a personal touch to their projects. To make sure that those affected by the result are pleased as punch, whether they would ever notice WHO did the little things isn't as important as the things being done.
They are active, but are not so consumed by their schedule's demands to miss the opportunity for quiet moments. Kels and John have taught me many things, in games and in life. Whether it is a fond cribbage match, original Super Smash Bros. on the N64, or telling stories, their company puts me at ease.
I did not manage to raise a mug of coffee in salute, but was able to share bottles of IBC root beer with them earlier this week.
Traditions change as the people within them shift.
May they shift gears together for many more years, as they did in their manual Civic, until it becomes as instinctual as an automatic transmission in their current Intrigue.
Friday, October 10, 2014
Saturday, October 4, 2014
Classic - Class
This Saturday did not proceed as originally scheduled, but I enjoyed it for what it was anyway. I was just happy that my friends wanted to hang out with me all day. It started with a drive to visit my sister and brother-in-law, some of the best friends in my life. Once arrived, I caught up with a third friend who I hadn't seen in a couple of weeks. We all went to breakfast at a newly opened Chick-fil-a, telling stories about our week past and my sister regaled us with tales from childhood.
I admire her ability to recreate a memory - the words she chooses are descriptive and convey emotions very effectively. As a writing tutor at the university from which I graduated, one of her exercises involves free-writing early experiences from her life. As she brought these tales to light, I prompted her with suggestions and details to learn her perspective on the shared memories.
When we returned to her home, she sat down to commit these tales to paper, while I trailed her husband around their property. It was my task to take notes on tasks that he intended to finish before pre-winter cold settled in to make such activities inconvenient. At the end of the tour, my brother-in-law took his 3-wheeler out for a joyride and offered to let me take the reins. I had never piloted one of the contraptions before and he casually explained that the shifter was under the left foot, the rear brakes on the right foot, and the throttle was a thumb press to the right. I am not a natural multi-tasker, so I started out slowly, kicking it into first gear and tapping the throttle.
Did I mention I was standing up because the seat cover was loose and the exhaust pipe was therefore exposed? Yeah. There was that concern too.
I stutter-stepped up his gravel driveway and, when I reached the concrete, managed to execute a full turn and head back. It was something that my brother-in-law enjoys doing - introducing his friends to new experiences and watching their reactions. This 3-wheeler was his new toy and "one of his greatest recreational pleasures in life at the moment."
I headed back to the house, jittery from the short ride and the two cups of coffee I had drank over breakfast. My sister offered me another cup from a freshly pressed batch, and I drank it while reading X-Men: Schism by Jason Aaron and multiple artists & Sacrifice by Sam Humphries and Dalton Rose. I enjoy Aaron's writing because the dialogue often connects with my sense of humor & there are moments in the script that lent the mutant characters touches of humanity and dimension.
Humphries' tale required a little more attention on my part to understand what was going on in the story, but I enjoyed it as well for what it was. His take on Uncanny X-Force for Marvel was what introduced me to his work, piquing my curiosity enough to follow him to this independently published graphic novel. I listened to Humphries talk about this book for his interview with Kieron Gillen's podcast "Decompressed."
My third friend rejoined my sister and I in the house after popping back to his place for a change of clothes. He and I listened to my sister's updated accounting of childhood memoirs, one of which featured humor at my younger self's expense. I didn't mind: It was a good tale and I am not that child any longer. It made me laugh and my friend did as well, relating a similar experience from his family's memories.
As my sister returned to her writing, my friend sat down to a game of cribbage, which I lost. Then a game of golf - similar to polish poker, except with nine cards instead of six - which I lost as well. I smiled and congratulated him on his uncanny luck, then rushed off to meet another friend at his campus cafeteria for dinner. As he is an RA, he is responsible for the enforcement of no alcoholic beverages in the dormitories. I brought along a 6-pack of IBC Cream Soda bottles as a friendly gift to play with the spirit of the prohibition while technically not breaking it.
He was happy to see me, thanking me for my presents of the drinks and a mix-cd featuring mid-2000's pop songs from my music library, but even more so with my presence. He reciprocated on the second gift with a mix of his own. (As I listened to the first 6 tracks on my way home, it has a considerably more 60's-70's ballad pop aesthetic.)
As we talked over dinner, we quoted Mean Girls, G.K. Chesterton, Scott Pilgrim vs. the World (mainly me as I am very fond of that movie), Princess Bride. I was taken aback when my friend mentioned he had only seen the last listed but once, and that was perhaps 9 years ago. Other friends greeted my friend as we ate, because he is a friendly sort of fellow and knows many people on campus.
As we walked back to his dormitory hall, we passed by a television... which happened to be playing the boulder scene from Princess Bride. I grinned at him and insisted that this was too coincidental an opportunity. Alas, I was that horrible person who got way too much enjoyment trying to quote every other line of dialogue, more often than not messing it up. (It had been a little while since I had last seen it as well.). An advertisement announced that Matilda was to be shown next week. My friend and I had discussed Roald Dahl's books over dinner, and I reminded him of the horrible plot elements from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I had been reading it to my two youngest sisters before bed and had learned from writer Patrick Rothfuss's take of its being a horrifying children's tale if read and taken seriously. (Rothfuss's review features some profanity, but is quite eye-opening and accurate.)
Although I have never seen the movie Matilda, I am very fond of Mara Wilson now that I follow her on Twitter. She is a wry and well-adjusted former child star who does not suffer fools lightly. And she plays the Faceless Old Woman who Secretly Lives in Your House in the podcast Welcome To Night Vale.
During a commercial break, I learned that my friend had performed in a talent show on campus and I complimented him on his snazzy style of piano-playing. My friend was pleased with my sentiment and told me that I didn't have to be so nice. I told him that "If I am not being 'too much,' I am not being enough." That made him laugh and he insisted on writing it down. I feel that way with most of my friends. I think that they are fantastic and am happy that I get to spend time with them.
After the Princess Bride ended with the words, "As you wish," the channel started The Sandlot. The only time I had seen that movie was with this friend, and it was after a poker night held at his house. I was satisfied with that being a one-time memory and it was getting late in the evening, so I bid my farewells and started homeward.
Good night, readers, good night...
I admire her ability to recreate a memory - the words she chooses are descriptive and convey emotions very effectively. As a writing tutor at the university from which I graduated, one of her exercises involves free-writing early experiences from her life. As she brought these tales to light, I prompted her with suggestions and details to learn her perspective on the shared memories.
When we returned to her home, she sat down to commit these tales to paper, while I trailed her husband around their property. It was my task to take notes on tasks that he intended to finish before pre-winter cold settled in to make such activities inconvenient. At the end of the tour, my brother-in-law took his 3-wheeler out for a joyride and offered to let me take the reins. I had never piloted one of the contraptions before and he casually explained that the shifter was under the left foot, the rear brakes on the right foot, and the throttle was a thumb press to the right. I am not a natural multi-tasker, so I started out slowly, kicking it into first gear and tapping the throttle.
Did I mention I was standing up because the seat cover was loose and the exhaust pipe was therefore exposed? Yeah. There was that concern too.
I stutter-stepped up his gravel driveway and, when I reached the concrete, managed to execute a full turn and head back. It was something that my brother-in-law enjoys doing - introducing his friends to new experiences and watching their reactions. This 3-wheeler was his new toy and "one of his greatest recreational pleasures in life at the moment."
I headed back to the house, jittery from the short ride and the two cups of coffee I had drank over breakfast. My sister offered me another cup from a freshly pressed batch, and I drank it while reading X-Men: Schism by Jason Aaron and multiple artists & Sacrifice by Sam Humphries and Dalton Rose. I enjoy Aaron's writing because the dialogue often connects with my sense of humor & there are moments in the script that lent the mutant characters touches of humanity and dimension.
Humphries' tale required a little more attention on my part to understand what was going on in the story, but I enjoyed it as well for what it was. His take on Uncanny X-Force for Marvel was what introduced me to his work, piquing my curiosity enough to follow him to this independently published graphic novel. I listened to Humphries talk about this book for his interview with Kieron Gillen's podcast "Decompressed."
My third friend rejoined my sister and I in the house after popping back to his place for a change of clothes. He and I listened to my sister's updated accounting of childhood memoirs, one of which featured humor at my younger self's expense. I didn't mind: It was a good tale and I am not that child any longer. It made me laugh and my friend did as well, relating a similar experience from his family's memories.
As my sister returned to her writing, my friend sat down to a game of cribbage, which I lost. Then a game of golf - similar to polish poker, except with nine cards instead of six - which I lost as well. I smiled and congratulated him on his uncanny luck, then rushed off to meet another friend at his campus cafeteria for dinner. As he is an RA, he is responsible for the enforcement of no alcoholic beverages in the dormitories. I brought along a 6-pack of IBC Cream Soda bottles as a friendly gift to play with the spirit of the prohibition while technically not breaking it.
He was happy to see me, thanking me for my presents of the drinks and a mix-cd featuring mid-2000's pop songs from my music library, but even more so with my presence. He reciprocated on the second gift with a mix of his own. (As I listened to the first 6 tracks on my way home, it has a considerably more 60's-70's ballad pop aesthetic.)
As we talked over dinner, we quoted Mean Girls, G.K. Chesterton, Scott Pilgrim vs. the World (mainly me as I am very fond of that movie), Princess Bride. I was taken aback when my friend mentioned he had only seen the last listed but once, and that was perhaps 9 years ago. Other friends greeted my friend as we ate, because he is a friendly sort of fellow and knows many people on campus.
As we walked back to his dormitory hall, we passed by a television... which happened to be playing the boulder scene from Princess Bride. I grinned at him and insisted that this was too coincidental an opportunity. Alas, I was that horrible person who got way too much enjoyment trying to quote every other line of dialogue, more often than not messing it up. (It had been a little while since I had last seen it as well.). An advertisement announced that Matilda was to be shown next week. My friend and I had discussed Roald Dahl's books over dinner, and I reminded him of the horrible plot elements from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I had been reading it to my two youngest sisters before bed and had learned from writer Patrick Rothfuss's take of its being a horrifying children's tale if read and taken seriously. (Rothfuss's review features some profanity, but is quite eye-opening and accurate.)
Although I have never seen the movie Matilda, I am very fond of Mara Wilson now that I follow her on Twitter. She is a wry and well-adjusted former child star who does not suffer fools lightly. And she plays the Faceless Old Woman who Secretly Lives in Your House in the podcast Welcome To Night Vale.
During a commercial break, I learned that my friend had performed in a talent show on campus and I complimented him on his snazzy style of piano-playing. My friend was pleased with my sentiment and told me that I didn't have to be so nice. I told him that "If I am not being 'too much,' I am not being enough." That made him laugh and he insisted on writing it down. I feel that way with most of my friends. I think that they are fantastic and am happy that I get to spend time with them.
After the Princess Bride ended with the words, "As you wish," the channel started The Sandlot. The only time I had seen that movie was with this friend, and it was after a poker night held at his house. I was satisfied with that being a one-time memory and it was getting late in the evening, so I bid my farewells and started homeward.
Good night, readers, good night...
Thursday, October 2, 2014
Boxer - Endings
As I have been working these past weeks, my mind dislodges previous memories and the impressions left behind are like little vulnerabilities. Not pain, but acute feeling in those areas, so I poke about in the memory wondering why it has come to light now. One of these is the memory of Boxer, the farm horse in Animal Farm by George Orwell. I don't typically reread books once completed, but Orwell makes a compelling argument to consider it on a case-by-case basis.
A revolution takes place on a farm, the pigs mastermind a plan to overthrow the yoke of their farmer and start their own government. As the book continues, the pigs gradually succumb to power's allure and become corrupted masters of their fellow creatures to a crueler degree than their former farmer. But it is worse because the pigs call this government "freedom" while enforcing psychological fear tactics, while before, animals knew they were slaves and did their jobs but were otherwise free.
Boxer is the farm horse who patiently endured the farmer's demands, but believes in the cause when the pigs propose this new government. His faith in the cause never wavers, even as the pigs go from making hiccup mistakes in government to outright treason of the original social contract. Whenever there is difficulty, Boxer repeats his mantra. "I must work harder." Boxer is a tragic character for many reasons, but is admirable all the same to me. Yes, he is being exploited, but I guess we all are in our own ways. I have my own deceptions which pain me to acknowledge. I want to grit my teeth and redouble my efforts instead of admitting weakness.
In the end, this character really sticks out as excellent in my mind, and though he isn't human, his flaws are altogether too much so. Animal Farm is a satire, an allegory, a modern day parable. It is many things. It is a story and the readers will each take away something different from the text. But there is a commonality of feeling and reference, though for varying reasons and amount of identification with the cast. I enjoy stories that connect with me emotionally and make me care about what happens to the character. Some ongoing stories I follow for the arc of one character.
To see what happens to them.
I am conflicted about endings, as they are a difficult thing to perform. They have no obligation to satisfy everyone, whether they be fictional or real life, but I can blame the writers in fiction. Perhaps they didn't give the justice I believed it should have been bestowed, but they owe nothing to their audience except to entertain their thoughts and attentions in exchange for time and money. Real life is trickier, as often I have no one to blame but myself for my lack of peace with any endings I encounter. Bitterness after the parting of ways with another, be they dead or dead to me. Bittersweet farewells as time was cut too short between diverging paths in life or death. But every so often, I have the grace to recognize an ending and enjoy it. The closing of a book after the final chapter (satisfying thump as I flip it over and sigh). The parting embrace of a friend as they go off to a new adventure (“For you shall go out in joy and be led forth in peace." - Isaiah 55:12. It lies in script above my back door at home).
And so many other smaller ones which I forget.
Until a time comes when my mind dislodges one of these memories, drifting like a fall breeze, and brings a smile to my face as it all comes full circle once more.
A revolution takes place on a farm, the pigs mastermind a plan to overthrow the yoke of their farmer and start their own government. As the book continues, the pigs gradually succumb to power's allure and become corrupted masters of their fellow creatures to a crueler degree than their former farmer. But it is worse because the pigs call this government "freedom" while enforcing psychological fear tactics, while before, animals knew they were slaves and did their jobs but were otherwise free.
Boxer is the farm horse who patiently endured the farmer's demands, but believes in the cause when the pigs propose this new government. His faith in the cause never wavers, even as the pigs go from making hiccup mistakes in government to outright treason of the original social contract. Whenever there is difficulty, Boxer repeats his mantra. "I must work harder." Boxer is a tragic character for many reasons, but is admirable all the same to me. Yes, he is being exploited, but I guess we all are in our own ways. I have my own deceptions which pain me to acknowledge. I want to grit my teeth and redouble my efforts instead of admitting weakness.
In the end, this character really sticks out as excellent in my mind, and though he isn't human, his flaws are altogether too much so. Animal Farm is a satire, an allegory, a modern day parable. It is many things. It is a story and the readers will each take away something different from the text. But there is a commonality of feeling and reference, though for varying reasons and amount of identification with the cast. I enjoy stories that connect with me emotionally and make me care about what happens to the character. Some ongoing stories I follow for the arc of one character.
To see what happens to them.
I am conflicted about endings, as they are a difficult thing to perform. They have no obligation to satisfy everyone, whether they be fictional or real life, but I can blame the writers in fiction. Perhaps they didn't give the justice I believed it should have been bestowed, but they owe nothing to their audience except to entertain their thoughts and attentions in exchange for time and money. Real life is trickier, as often I have no one to blame but myself for my lack of peace with any endings I encounter. Bitterness after the parting of ways with another, be they dead or dead to me. Bittersweet farewells as time was cut too short between diverging paths in life or death. But every so often, I have the grace to recognize an ending and enjoy it. The closing of a book after the final chapter (satisfying thump as I flip it over and sigh). The parting embrace of a friend as they go off to a new adventure (“For you shall go out in joy and be led forth in peace." - Isaiah 55:12. It lies in script above my back door at home).
And so many other smaller ones which I forget.
Until a time comes when my mind dislodges one of these memories, drifting like a fall breeze, and brings a smile to my face as it all comes full circle once more.
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