I’m a very jumpy person. A door opens suddenly and I squeal. Someone sneezes unexpectedly, and I jump a foot in the air. I can’t watch scary movies. I end up behind myself with fear.
I read something in the Science Times once - nervous mice, the ones that don’t adventure out on their own in uncertain circumstances, are much more likely to die young than mice that are more nonchalant. Apparently being nervous does them in.
Apparently, there's a French version of the beatitudes that reads (roughly) 'blessed are the nonchalant.' Which actually might be closer to the Aramaic, which I understand translates closer to ‘blessed are the bendable’ than ‘bessed are the meek.’
Which means gymanasts alone will be saved.
Brian and I are watching The Secret Window. Maybe I don't want to be a writer after all.
Friday, September 24, 2004
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
"Being a writer" sure is fun - if only I could take those quotation marks away.
Wasn't there a time when this was all simpler? Was there ever a time when rent wasn't a worry, when clothes and washing and food just somehow happened? When a girl could stay home and watch the pigeons outside her window?
How can on viva la vie boheme in San Francisco, where the rent on a studio in darkest Sunset is $900?
I need a benefactor. With low expectations.
Wasn't there a time when this was all simpler? Was there ever a time when rent wasn't a worry, when clothes and washing and food just somehow happened? When a girl could stay home and watch the pigeons outside her window?
How can on viva la vie boheme in San Francisco, where the rent on a studio in darkest Sunset is $900?
I need a benefactor. With low expectations.
Thursday, September 16, 2004
think more: "amoral pagan world" v. world of reason
Once upon a time, the gods were closer to the earth; once they walked among us and sat at our dinner tables. Their movements were discernible in the world: an old couple was turned to wood, their limbs eternally intertwined; a handsome boy, catching the fancy of a nymph, changed into a bug that lived forever.
As much as it could, the world made sense. People lived out their lives in the place they were born, or left their homes, more than likely never to return. Poets, called the Sons of Homer, moved from town to town, reciting stories and poems (there wasn’t much difference then) in exchange for food and shelter. It was widely acknowledged that they were blind, as Great Homer had been, though most of them were not. This paradox didn’t disturb anyone. These poets - blind but not blind - brought the world to common hearths and town squares: it was small, it was vast, it was knowable, but unknown.
ανδρα μοι ενεπε, Μουσα, πολυτροπον −
The man, O Muse, sing to me of that man, ever turning .
Once upon a time, the gods were closer to the earth; once they walked among us and sat at our dinner tables. Their movements were discernible in the world: an old couple was turned to wood, their limbs eternally intertwined; a handsome boy, catching the fancy of a nymph, changed into a bug that lived forever.
As much as it could, the world made sense. People lived out their lives in the place they were born, or left their homes, more than likely never to return. Poets, called the Sons of Homer, moved from town to town, reciting stories and poems (there wasn’t much difference then) in exchange for food and shelter. It was widely acknowledged that they were blind, as Great Homer had been, though most of them were not. This paradox didn’t disturb anyone. These poets - blind but not blind - brought the world to common hearths and town squares: it was small, it was vast, it was knowable, but unknown.
ανδρα μοι ενεπε, Μουσα, πολυτροπον −
The man, O Muse, sing to me of that man, ever turning .
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
I'm (foolishly) hopeing that writing here will somehow make writing easier. I've been running into that old 'N train' problem, where during my morning and afternoon commutes, my head is positively swimming with ideas, but somehow, when I flip open the ol' (new!) computer.... blorp. Nothin'.
Of course, the problem really is that my N Train ideas are just fleeting ideas, and even when they do form themselves into complete sentences, 't ain't enough to actually fill more than a centemeter or two on ze page.
Ok - here are all the ideas I can remember (save these for me, ok?):
Lessing's Lacoon - something to do with words and image. And symbolism. And being a German philosopher in the 189th(?) century. Friedrich II. Anyway - look over the scene in the Aneid.
Invocation of the muse/ Invocation of oral histories & stories passed down in the family (lets call it the "sing in me grandma" idea)
Excercise for self (or for my craft presentation next month?): go through canto one of Dante (or another canto that seems better) and find all the symbolism & brief refrences to other literature. Make a list (She-wolf, leopard, St Lucia, the selva oscura... all that). Write a story using one (or more) of them. Or trying to make my own.
Arma virumque cano - a man and his dog walk in to a bar. Gack. ever get a phrase stuck in yer head? This's been running about in my head all day .
Of course, the problem really is that my N Train ideas are just fleeting ideas, and even when they do form themselves into complete sentences, 't ain't enough to actually fill more than a centemeter or two on ze page.
Ok - here are all the ideas I can remember (save these for me, ok?):
Lessing's Lacoon - something to do with words and image. And symbolism. And being a German philosopher in the 189th(?) century. Friedrich II. Anyway - look over the scene in the Aneid.
Invocation of the muse/ Invocation of oral histories & stories passed down in the family (lets call it the "sing in me grandma" idea)
Excercise for self (or for my craft presentation next month?): go through canto one of Dante (or another canto that seems better) and find all the symbolism & brief refrences to other literature. Make a list (She-wolf, leopard, St Lucia, the selva oscura... all that). Write a story using one (or more) of them. Or trying to make my own.
Arma virumque cano - a man and his dog walk in to a bar. Gack. ever get a phrase stuck in yer head? This's been running about in my head all day .
Saturday, September 11, 2004
First day of school was great and invigillating and scarey. Unnfortunately. a financial mishap (which I was alerted to on my lunch break when my debit card wouldn't work) put me on edge and made me feel raw and vulnerable for the rest of the day. Except when I forgot about it, which was surprisingly often. I like my classmates. I like their writing, for the most part. Suprisingly, I like my writing so far. Now if only I didn't have that gap in my bank account to worry about until payday.
Word of advice: when you transfer money online from one account to another, be sure to hit the 'confirm and submit' button. Otherwise things go all screwey.
Word of advice: when you transfer money online from one account to another, be sure to hit the 'confirm and submit' button. Otherwise things go all screwey.
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
Monday, September 06, 2004
Not what I expoected:
Joe Strummer... you've been through the cleansing
fire of punk, only to pick up a few venerial
diseases along the way. You're more of an
optimist when it comes to fucked-up genius.
But you can write wicked-deadly riffs and lycs.
Which fucked-up genius composer are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
Joe Strummer... you've been through the cleansing
fire of punk, only to pick up a few venerial
diseases along the way. You're more of an
optimist when it comes to fucked-up genius.
But you can write wicked-deadly riffs and lycs.
Which fucked-up genius composer are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
Lists:
Times I might have believed in magic:
1. When I was growing up, we would often spend a portion of the summer - anywhere from a week-end to a month - in a friend of the family’s summer house near a town called Tupper Lake. The house stood at the top of a hill. At the bottom of the hill stood a tall forest of pine trees. When the wind blew a certain way, the trees would sway in a disconcerting fashion. The summer I was eight, I developed a horror of this woods. At night I couldn’t bear to look outdoors, for fear of seeing the trees move against the starlit sky. In the morning, I would avoid looking at the trees, for fear that they had advanced during the night.
2. When I was very small, I can remember making a sandcastle (in reality, it was more a mound of sand, dumped out of a pail and patted into a rounded hump). In frustration, I tried to remember how to make rooms on the inside of the castle. I was convinced I’d done it before, and had made a home for a small farmer.
3. Walking in the woods with my dog, I thought I heard a noise. It sounded like a single note, played upon a flute or recorder. I quickly hurried home. Even in the suburbs, the sound was uncanny.
4. If my boyfriend goes to bed before me, I always have to turn on the light before I lie down next to him. Some primitive part of my brain is not convinced that the sleeping hump beneath the blankets is him, and needs reassurance.
5. Despite ample evidence to the contrary, I believe I can 'sense' the future.
Things I wish I haddn’t said:
1. To my mother (age 13): “Up yours.”
2. To an ex-boyfriend (age 19), when told he missed me: “Get a dog.”
3. To a prospective landlord (last week): “This storage space is so large, I could take in a family of refugees”
4. Numerous other things that require a lifetime of context for their true horror to show.
Things I saw this afternoon:
1. A wonderfully ancient woman meditating. Her face was unwrinkled, but she looked as if she’d seen eons pass before her.
2. A moth dying in a pond. Its wings seemed motionless, but a multitude of tiny ripples radiated out from it, evidencing a stuggle just below the surface.
3. Three grouse, hiding beneath a bush.
4. A bride and her bridesmaids, having their photos taken in the park.
Times I might have believed in magic:
1. When I was growing up, we would often spend a portion of the summer - anywhere from a week-end to a month - in a friend of the family’s summer house near a town called Tupper Lake. The house stood at the top of a hill. At the bottom of the hill stood a tall forest of pine trees. When the wind blew a certain way, the trees would sway in a disconcerting fashion. The summer I was eight, I developed a horror of this woods. At night I couldn’t bear to look outdoors, for fear of seeing the trees move against the starlit sky. In the morning, I would avoid looking at the trees, for fear that they had advanced during the night.
2. When I was very small, I can remember making a sandcastle (in reality, it was more a mound of sand, dumped out of a pail and patted into a rounded hump). In frustration, I tried to remember how to make rooms on the inside of the castle. I was convinced I’d done it before, and had made a home for a small farmer.
3. Walking in the woods with my dog, I thought I heard a noise. It sounded like a single note, played upon a flute or recorder. I quickly hurried home. Even in the suburbs, the sound was uncanny.
4. If my boyfriend goes to bed before me, I always have to turn on the light before I lie down next to him. Some primitive part of my brain is not convinced that the sleeping hump beneath the blankets is him, and needs reassurance.
5. Despite ample evidence to the contrary, I believe I can 'sense' the future.
Things I wish I haddn’t said:
1. To my mother (age 13): “Up yours.”
2. To an ex-boyfriend (age 19), when told he missed me: “Get a dog.”
3. To a prospective landlord (last week): “This storage space is so large, I could take in a family of refugees”
4. Numerous other things that require a lifetime of context for their true horror to show.
Things I saw this afternoon:
1. A wonderfully ancient woman meditating. Her face was unwrinkled, but she looked as if she’d seen eons pass before her.
2. A moth dying in a pond. Its wings seemed motionless, but a multitude of tiny ripples radiated out from it, evidencing a stuggle just below the surface.
3. Three grouse, hiding beneath a bush.
4. A bride and her bridesmaids, having their photos taken in the park.
Monday, August 30, 2004
So, I can no longer blog from work - blogger's homepage has run afoul of the company's site-blocking software. It joins a hallowed set of sites I can't acess from work, incuding Aaron's comment section (oddly, other blog's comment windows are not verboten), resources on urban gardening, and craigslist's writer's forum. Hmpf.
In other news, I am now the proud owner of a !new! G4 ibook (this is my first real new-to-everyone-not-just-me computer ever - I'm very excited). Thanks to dadoo and mamita for the graduation gift!
Now to work on that application - there are two slots still oopen in the grad school program I've been procrastinating about appying to for the past few months. No excuses now.
So, in brief, here's what I haven't blogged about since blogger access was blocked from work:
One of my co-workers, discussing a recent news item: "I think emulation would be just about the worst way to go"
Another co-worker, upon learning that I am not a fan of the electoral college: "Well you don't understand the Bill of Rights then. And regardless, you have to agree that we were damn lucky Bush was president on September 11th" (I had to go outsided and breathe deeply for several minutes after that one).
Luckily, most of my life takes place outside of work. Dadoo has been visiting since Friday, and we've had great fun revisiting the city with him, and discovering new treats, like the fabulous (and free!) streetcar museum.
Anyway, c'est tout for now.
In other news, I am now the proud owner of a !new! G4 ibook (this is my first real new-to-everyone-not-just-me computer ever - I'm very excited). Thanks to dadoo and mamita for the graduation gift!
Now to work on that application - there are two slots still oopen in the grad school program I've been procrastinating about appying to for the past few months. No excuses now.
So, in brief, here's what I haven't blogged about since blogger access was blocked from work:
One of my co-workers, discussing a recent news item: "I think emulation would be just about the worst way to go"
Another co-worker, upon learning that I am not a fan of the electoral college: "Well you don't understand the Bill of Rights then. And regardless, you have to agree that we were damn lucky Bush was president on September 11th" (I had to go outsided and breathe deeply for several minutes after that one).
Luckily, most of my life takes place outside of work. Dadoo has been visiting since Friday, and we've had great fun revisiting the city with him, and discovering new treats, like the fabulous (and free!) streetcar museum.
Anyway, c'est tout for now.
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
From Michelle's Daily Dose for Writers:
Living the middle class life in America, many of us tend to get complacent about physical danger. That complancency is occasionally shaken by some unanticipated event: a mugging, the violent death of someone we know, a natural disaster such as an earthquake or hurricane. 9/11 reminded us all just how imminent and unannounced death can be.
memoir: Write about a time when you or someone you know was in grave physical danger.
I just checked my teeth in the mirror of the green plastic compact I bought at Walgreen's last year when I decided it was time for me to start wearing makeup (I haven't started yet). One of my two front teeth is still slightly chipped. I say 'still' because the other one used to be more chipped, but I had it fixed.
'Grave physical danger' it wasn't. It was one of those stupid accidents that has you second-guessing your self for days: 'If only I'd stood up sooner, or not let the dog jump on me when we were playing, or had the sense to wear a mouth guard, like boxers do.' It happened easily, like chipping teeth were a natural progression in the life of a sheltered urbanite.
Brian and I were living in Chelsea. Not the fun hip Chelsea outside of New York, but rather the seedy/scenic yet chronically unhip Chelsea in-the-near-of-but-virtually-inaccessible-from downtown Boston. We got a dog, Bowie (aka Mr. Boo) because our neighbors had one that we loved and because we both like running our hands over warm furry things with brown limpid pools for eyes and easy, unedited grins. And it was good, most of the time. Mr. Boo (as we call him) was wiggly and full of energy, and bore a disturbing resemblance to one of those flying monkeys from the Wizard of Oz. But he was also stronger than me, with a tendency toward misbehaviour ("he's one," I told Brian "he'll grow out of it").
Anyway, one morning, Brian and I were dancing (as me and Brian do, from time to time), and just as I bent over to shimmy at the dog, he (the dog) jumped up to meet me.
crack!
ow.
My two front teeth were only slightly chipped, but one had a hairline crack that in the ensuing weeks started to widen and shift. One visit to the dentist wasn't enough to repair the damage - ultimately, it took a surprise root canal and a porcelain implant over most of the tooth to make me whole seeming again.
The worst part was when the dentist had to file down my tooth in order to fit me with the implant. For some reason, he felt compelled to give me a glimpse of what I looked like 'before.' The memory of my flushed, anxious face, one tooth filed down to a smooth, un-toothlike nub, still haunts me.
Losing teeth has been a recurring nightmare of mine. For months - years now, actually - the remaining ding on my smile has been a source of mild horror for me - a reminder of the transience of all flesh (mine in particular) and the empty, hollow sound one's vanity makes when struck.
blech.
Living the middle class life in America, many of us tend to get complacent about physical danger. That complancency is occasionally shaken by some unanticipated event: a mugging, the violent death of someone we know, a natural disaster such as an earthquake or hurricane. 9/11 reminded us all just how imminent and unannounced death can be.
memoir: Write about a time when you or someone you know was in grave physical danger.
I just checked my teeth in the mirror of the green plastic compact I bought at Walgreen's last year when I decided it was time for me to start wearing makeup (I haven't started yet). One of my two front teeth is still slightly chipped. I say 'still' because the other one used to be more chipped, but I had it fixed.
'Grave physical danger' it wasn't. It was one of those stupid accidents that has you second-guessing your self for days: 'If only I'd stood up sooner, or not let the dog jump on me when we were playing, or had the sense to wear a mouth guard, like boxers do.' It happened easily, like chipping teeth were a natural progression in the life of a sheltered urbanite.
Brian and I were living in Chelsea. Not the fun hip Chelsea outside of New York, but rather the seedy/scenic yet chronically unhip Chelsea in-the-near-of-but-virtually-inaccessible-from downtown Boston. We got a dog, Bowie (aka Mr. Boo) because our neighbors had one that we loved and because we both like running our hands over warm furry things with brown limpid pools for eyes and easy, unedited grins. And it was good, most of the time. Mr. Boo (as we call him) was wiggly and full of energy, and bore a disturbing resemblance to one of those flying monkeys from the Wizard of Oz. But he was also stronger than me, with a tendency toward misbehaviour ("he's one," I told Brian "he'll grow out of it").
Anyway, one morning, Brian and I were dancing (as me and Brian do, from time to time), and just as I bent over to shimmy at the dog, he (the dog) jumped up to meet me.
crack!
ow.
My two front teeth were only slightly chipped, but one had a hairline crack that in the ensuing weeks started to widen and shift. One visit to the dentist wasn't enough to repair the damage - ultimately, it took a surprise root canal and a porcelain implant over most of the tooth to make me whole seeming again.
The worst part was when the dentist had to file down my tooth in order to fit me with the implant. For some reason, he felt compelled to give me a glimpse of what I looked like 'before.' The memory of my flushed, anxious face, one tooth filed down to a smooth, un-toothlike nub, still haunts me.
Losing teeth has been a recurring nightmare of mine. For months - years now, actually - the remaining ding on my smile has been a source of mild horror for me - a reminder of the transience of all flesh (mine in particular) and the empty, hollow sound one's vanity makes when struck.
blech.
Thursday, August 12, 2004
Liar, Liar
So, this morning I awoke at 7:45 (from a lovely dream, natch) with the realization that, even if I left right then, I'd be late to work.
I shuffled to the baffoom and set about my morning ablutions, halfheartedly wracking my brain for some...any... not-too-overused excuse. Vauge abdominal distress? Done. Wracking headaches that mysteriously appear and disappear? They'll probably insist I get a cat scan if I drag that one out again.
And then it happens. I slip, just barely catching myself on the edge of the sink. An involuntary 'eep!' escapes my lips.
Brian rushes to the doorway - "You okay?"
"Yup"
"That was quite an 'eep!' you had there."
"Yeah? Well I was startled okay? I could've twisted my... THAT'S IT!!!!!"
Which is why I'm going to have to wear an ace bandage to work tomorrow. Send left-foot limpy vibes my way.
And find it comforting that I'm such a lousy liar. You, gentle reader, will never run afoul of my wicked, weary ways.
So, this morning I awoke at 7:45 (from a lovely dream, natch) with the realization that, even if I left right then, I'd be late to work.
I shuffled to the baffoom and set about my morning ablutions, halfheartedly wracking my brain for some...any... not-too-overused excuse. Vauge abdominal distress? Done. Wracking headaches that mysteriously appear and disappear? They'll probably insist I get a cat scan if I drag that one out again.
And then it happens. I slip, just barely catching myself on the edge of the sink. An involuntary 'eep!' escapes my lips.
Brian rushes to the doorway - "You okay?"
"Yup"
"That was quite an 'eep!' you had there."
"Yeah? Well I was startled okay? I could've twisted my... THAT'S IT!!!!!"
Which is why I'm going to have to wear an ace bandage to work tomorrow. Send left-foot limpy vibes my way.
And find it comforting that I'm such a lousy liar. You, gentle reader, will never run afoul of my wicked, weary ways.
Friday, July 30, 2004
Tales of the Strange: Inappropriate Workplace Conversations
I'm sitting here trying to remember how the conversation I'm about to relay got started. Somewhere, somehow a door was opened. A doorway to someplace terrible. Like one of those space-bending Cthulu* stories. But more disquieting.
A bit of background here. As some of you know, I work as a secretary (excuse me - 'assistant') at a small brokerage firm here in San Francisco. It pays me bills, provides a paycheck, and is the kind of work I can forget about entirely when I walk out the frosted glass doors at 5:00.
Overall, I like the people I work with. Brokerage tend to have a bit of a frat house/locker room atmosphere, but I pride myself (to an extent) on being the kind of girl who can hear dirty jokes and ribald anecdotes without batting an eye. Words can't hurt me. And some of those jokes are pretty fucking funny.
Anyway, there's this one guy in my office. I'll call him Tom ('cause that's his name). If my lines are ever crossed, he's the one doing it. And the thing that gets me is that he has no freakin' clue where those lines are. I've met homeless transvestite schizophrenics with more tact. I'm not kidding.
So. Sometime today, I get cornered into a conversation with Tom. He's at my desk with no sign of leaving. We're having this stupid argument about the words 'awful' and 'offal.' Tom maintains that when people use the word 'awful' to mean 'terrible,' they really mean 'offal,' since awful really means 'awe-full,' or awe-inspiring. I am holding the line that while 'awesome' and 'awful' may have been synonyms once upon a time, the current usage of awful is fairly widely accepted. Plus, terror and awe are synonyms, form time to time.
Anyway. Somehow, this conversation takes a turn. And I do mean for the worse. I forget how or why, but suddenly, I see it coming - Tom's going to tell me an anecdote. About sex. And there's nothing I can do to stop him.
I turn my eyes toward my computer screen. Oh dear, he's going there. I make noncommittal noises. He's going into graphic detail. I'm trying not to look at him. Oh. No.
And then he laughs and saunters away, obviously feeling like he just told a great story. That he just showed his studly side.
Ugh. Cluelesness. God's gift to the truly offal.
* my spell check tinks Cthulu should be "cutely." How droll.
I'm sitting here trying to remember how the conversation I'm about to relay got started. Somewhere, somehow a door was opened. A doorway to someplace terrible. Like one of those space-bending Cthulu* stories. But more disquieting.
A bit of background here. As some of you know, I work as a secretary (excuse me - 'assistant') at a small brokerage firm here in San Francisco. It pays me bills, provides a paycheck, and is the kind of work I can forget about entirely when I walk out the frosted glass doors at 5:00.
Overall, I like the people I work with. Brokerage tend to have a bit of a frat house/locker room atmosphere, but I pride myself (to an extent) on being the kind of girl who can hear dirty jokes and ribald anecdotes without batting an eye. Words can't hurt me. And some of those jokes are pretty fucking funny.
Anyway, there's this one guy in my office. I'll call him Tom ('cause that's his name). If my lines are ever crossed, he's the one doing it. And the thing that gets me is that he has no freakin' clue where those lines are. I've met homeless transvestite schizophrenics with more tact. I'm not kidding.
So. Sometime today, I get cornered into a conversation with Tom. He's at my desk with no sign of leaving. We're having this stupid argument about the words 'awful' and 'offal.' Tom maintains that when people use the word 'awful' to mean 'terrible,' they really mean 'offal,' since awful really means 'awe-full,' or awe-inspiring. I am holding the line that while 'awesome' and 'awful' may have been synonyms once upon a time, the current usage of awful is fairly widely accepted. Plus, terror and awe are synonyms, form time to time.
Anyway. Somehow, this conversation takes a turn. And I do mean for the worse. I forget how or why, but suddenly, I see it coming - Tom's going to tell me an anecdote. About sex. And there's nothing I can do to stop him.
I turn my eyes toward my computer screen. Oh dear, he's going there. I make noncommittal noises. He's going into graphic detail. I'm trying not to look at him. Oh. No.
And then he laughs and saunters away, obviously feeling like he just told a great story. That he just showed his studly side.
Ugh. Cluelesness. God's gift to the truly offal.
* my spell check tinks Cthulu should be "cutely." How droll.
Friday, July 23, 2004
Monday, July 05, 2004
Friday, July 02, 2004
Wednesday, June 30, 2004
So I have a confession to make: I hate the idea of disagreeing with someone in public. I know, I know - most of you have no problem with it (hello, Shaw), but this is something I've never been good at, even in anonobloggy land.
Which is too bad, 'cause I've developed a new shameful habit: reading conservative Christian blogs.
One forgets about such things, holed up in San Francisco with her books and wacky neighbors.
Which is too bad, 'cause I've developed a new shameful habit: reading conservative Christian blogs.
One forgets about such things, holed up in San Francisco with her books and wacky neighbors.
Tuesday, June 29, 2004
I feel like I should mention something I didn't include in last night's post. I like Dawn Eden's blog. She's a good writer. I sypathize with a lot of what she writes about: she's self-reflective (is that a word?), trying thoughtfully to make her way in the world.
And I know that the pang I felt reading her post about gay pride was probably very similar to the pang she felt watching gay pride. Its hard watching someone you'd rather respect than judge engage in behaviour that makes your bowels clench.
And I know that the pang I felt reading her post about gay pride was probably very similar to the pang she felt watching gay pride. Its hard watching someone you'd rather respect than judge engage in behaviour that makes your bowels clench.
Monday, June 28, 2004
I stumbled across this blog a few weeks ago, The Dawn Patrol. And I don't really know what, exactly, to say about it.
There's a line in Inherit the Wind: "God created man in his own image, and man, being a gentleman, has returned the favor."
So goes one of the most frustrating day-to-day trials of religion. Everyone that lingers on the idea of, I dunno God? eternity? - whatever - be it me or Dawn Eden - wants a God that feels the way we do about the world. We feel love and we want it reflected back through eternity; we feel revulsion and we crave judgement raining from on high.
But that's the problem with our image of God. We're so quick to judge - millenia worth of survival instinct, I guess. But this quickness denys one central fact: we are not God, nor can we know the mind (for lack of a better term) of God (for lack of a better term).
There's the rub: the very idea of being right is blasphemy. And as much as I feel frustration and anger at reading some entries in Dawn Eden's blog, I know that that frustration and anger is mine, alone.
There's a line in Inherit the Wind: "God created man in his own image, and man, being a gentleman, has returned the favor."
So goes one of the most frustrating day-to-day trials of religion. Everyone that lingers on the idea of, I dunno God? eternity? - whatever - be it me or Dawn Eden - wants a God that feels the way we do about the world. We feel love and we want it reflected back through eternity; we feel revulsion and we crave judgement raining from on high.
But that's the problem with our image of God. We're so quick to judge - millenia worth of survival instinct, I guess. But this quickness denys one central fact: we are not God, nor can we know the mind (for lack of a better term) of God (for lack of a better term).
There's the rub: the very idea of being right is blasphemy. And as much as I feel frustration and anger at reading some entries in Dawn Eden's blog, I know that that frustration and anger is mine, alone.
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