Solidarity of the Scar

If you read the title and instantly knew what I was talking about, you’re well on your way to sharing in the fascinating and complex solidarity of the scar.

a.k.a. Harry Potter fandom.
Official announcement: I am a geek. I am a literary geek most of all. And so, with some inbred sense of sheepishness, I joined the crowds flocking to the theater last night to watch the 12:01 premiere of Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince.
There were a lot of high schoolers there. And middle schoolers. Not a lot of college grads or adults. But oh, the dynamics were fascinating.
I think everyone in the long lines waiting to enter the theater took a turn pointing to the few, the proud, the unashamed who were wearing Harry’s signature round eyeglasses, a maroon-and-yellow Gryffindor scarf, or a full-length Hogwarts robe. The more subtle fashionistas had opted for the temporary tattoo of a lightning shaped scar on their foreheads.
And I think every uncostumed individual in those long lines was secretly envious that they had lacked the courage to dive in 100% and would therefore be sorted into the disappointing-by-comparison Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff if their turn ever came.
I know I was. Especially when the news cameras were right next to me in line.
When we marched into the theaters at 12:14, no one waited for the big screen to tell them to turn off their cell phones. As soon as the lights went down, little blue lights winked out all across the room, like an aerial view of a gradual power outage in New York City. The chirping noises of various phone models never fail to amuse me.
There was some whispering during the previews, a little last-minute plot-catching-up of friends who *gasp* hadn’t read the book. Some final wagers on the merits of Tom Felton, a few parting shots about the robes vs. casual clothes debate. But the funny thing was, unlike the usual movie theater commentary, in which TMI is a standby, here, everyone knew. Everyone cared. Everyone had an opinion. We all had the decoder. We spoke the same language.
That’s why people unashamedly showed off their Kleenex packs in the way back from the bathroom.
(That’s also why I accidentally went into the wrong theater when I came back from the bathroom. All the marquees spoke the same language too…a two word-language: Harry. Potter.)
That’s why no one minded the spontaneous, “When I say Harry, you say Potter: Harry – Potter – Harry – Potter,” and many, in fact, joined in. That’s why there was a theater-wide cheer when John Williams’ music crept out of the speakers and wrought iron-looking letters began to form in a swirl of dark clouds.
That’s probably why I felt like I should issue a public apology letter when I rattled my box of Mike ‘n’ Ikes in the middle of one of Dumbledore’s conversations with Harry.
It was 3:15 a.m. when we left the theaters. I’m pretty sure that what was I thinking? was on many a mind, especially of those of us who had to work this morning. But I’m also pretty sure that I’ll never do this again was not. Because I, at least, know I’ll more than likely be doing the exact same thing for Deathly Hallows. Except with Kleenex.
Now that’s what I call solidarity.

A Poem About Loss

I moved recently.
When you move, you lose stuff:
Like your address book,
And thank you cards,
And office supplies,
Including stamps,
All things which, seemingly,
Would be in the same box,
But are nowhere to be found.
A sad story:
Sad, but true,
Like a poem someone writes
While standing in an animal shelter
But living in a “no pets” apartment.
And then you find the address book,
And thank you cards,
But the office supplies
And stamps
Are still nowhere to be found,
As if your neighbor adopted
The golden retriever puppy
And the persian cat
But left the litter of kittens behind.

The Trash Conundrum

There’s something about a full trashcan that really wreaks havoc on the moving process.

It’s as if the entire system of cleaning, packing, and moving suddenly gets constipated.
The solution is so simple: take out the trash. And yet, when I’m feeling a little a lot overwhelmed with life, it’s much easier to collapse on the bed and claim defeat by the small dimensions of the largely decorative trashcan I inherited from my grandmother.
I feel somewhat sorry for the trashcan. It’s not at fault because I just realized how much stuff I’ve hoarded over my lifetime. It doesn’t look very comfortable either, stuffed with freshman health papers and scraps of cardboard and old instruction manuals. But then again, that’s its job, so I can’t feel too bad.
Moving is a daunting task, no matter how many times you tell yourself, “I don’t own very much stuff.” It may not be furniture, but you do. You really do. Chances are good, you’ll stuff most of it in another closet by the end of the week.
What is more, moving involves change. A lot of change. Change is scary, especially when it means accepting new and broader responsibilities.
And so the trashcan becomes a bizarre metaphor for my capacity to absorb change. It’s full. End of story.
Except that it can’t be the end. Because I really do have to finish packing by this weekend. And I can’t do that unless I have someplace to put the trash. So…
Solution
Bring out the big trashbags.

Why Having a Blog Is Like Pet-Sitting

Having a blog is like pet-sitting.

Maybe you’ve been there – remember that cute little animal face peeking out at you from behind your friend’s leg. You’ve always wanted a _______ (hedgehog, hairless cat, fainting goat). It’s all the rage, everyone is talking about how fun they are, and here’s your chance to get in the loop.

Besides, you can always leave at the end of the week.
Famous last words.
Two days in, it’s great. The hedgeless goat is adorable, you put pictures up on Facebook and renamed your childhood stuffed animal after this creature. You spend hours cleaning the water bowl and brushing its hair. You bring it special treats from home and check on it every couple of hours.
Three days in, your schedule is getting busy, and the novelty is wearing off. The creature bit you last night because you brought your friend over, and they took a strong dislike to each other. You just need a bit of a break from pet responsibilities.
Five days in, you only went by once yesterday. This morning, the pet is moping around the house looking at you with big sad eyes because its water bowl is empty and it’s lonely from lack of visitors. It was only recently tamed by your absent friend, and it’s suffering bereavement. Guilt trip ensues.
Six days in, you’re exhausted. Trying to make up for your neglect, you spent hours with the animal last night, coaxing new games and treats out of your already-weary mind, and hating the pet more every minute.
Seven days in, your friend calls. “Can you keep GeorgiaCuteFace for a few more days? My flight was cancelled.” You should say no. You should absolve yourself of all pet responsibilities forever. But it feels like abandonment. What about the pictures on Facebook? What about your intense desire to have a hedgeless goat? What if you never have another chance at pet-owning stardom?
You keep it around. Resentment grows, and care fluctuates from intensive over-cultivation to extreme neglect. Before long, you have to get counseling for the guilt complex GeorgiaCuteFace has brought about.
Fifteen days in, your friend FINALLY returns. But instead of handing over the litterbox with a cry of “Freeeeeeedooooom!” and “Never again,” you volunteer to be on standby in case your friend ever needs you again and to stop by and visit from time to time, privately resolving to start running and never turn back. You might keep the Facebook pictures, though, just for the memories, and in case you ever go through hedgeless goat withdrawal.
That’s why having a blog is like pet-sitting.

High on a hill was a lonely…sock

Sometimes life is just like that.

You lose a sock somewhere in the deep recesses of space-time, otherwise known as BusyLifeMessyRoomSockEatingLaundry. You hang on to the poor, widowed sock for a suitable grieving period, in hopes that its MIA partner will soon be found.
But then, you just have to cut it loose and send it to the special home for widowed socks (a.k.a. the trash), unless you happen to be a connoisseur of sock-wallets or sock-cell-phone-holders or sock-mug-warmers (*eww*), which I’m not.
It never fails. Less than a week later, just long enough for the trash to reach the dump, bingo: house cleaning, missing sock found. Throwing that second sock away now seems doubly wasteful, not to mention cruel, but what else can you do? 
Maybe save it and try to matchmake it with the next sock to lose a partner to the BLMRSEL? But I doubt they’d just randomly have enough e-Harmony compatibility points to make it work. So what can you do?
See, sometimes life is just like that.

30 Degrees of Perspective

Sometimes, I do strange things when I’m sleeping. Sometimes I remember them. Sometimes I just wake up with a really sore neck. 

Like today.
I’m currently walking around with my head tipped 30 degrees to the right because it hurts to keep my head upright, tilt it 31 degrees to the right or tilt it at all to the left. 
So you could say, I’m seeing life from a different angle today.
Haha.
I think sometimes that small shift is all it takes. For me, reading and writing trigger a lot of those “ah-ha!” (or “uhh”) moments. I’ve been working on a novel and a few short stories lately. I wrote the novel before I started college, and now I’m rewriting, trying to give it greater rounding and complexity.
I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to analyze how my fictional characters would behave, and how to make sure their actions are grounded in their personalities, past history, and prior experiences.  I want them to be human. I want them to be sympathetic. I hate one-dimensional villains. 
I was working on that project yesterday when it hit me: I spend far more time making fictional characters human than I do granting the people around me the right to be human. I am far more eager to discover the rationale behind my characters’ actions than I am to discover the reasons behind the actions of people I struggle to love.
Unlike the literary characters, they are acting in the same play and scene as I am. They antagonize me (and I them), not another fictional personality. That makes it harder to want to know their story. I can manipulate my fictional characters. I can give them a rationale that makes sense to me. I can’t do that to real people. I can’t always understand why they do what they do.
And then I have to stop again. Some of the most complex, compelling literary villains/antiheroes in existence are not entirely comprehensible: Macbeth, Iago, Heathcliff, Javert, Messala, Ahab, Rogozhin… I dislike them, but they also draw me because I have this deep belief that they too have reasons, a story, even if I can’t see the whole picture or understand it fully. I still care, because I think of them as human. 
So why not people I know are human? It would seem that I care more about people who only exist on a piece of paper than I do about the real people God has placed around me. 
Ouch.
Life lessons can be such a pain in the neck.

Misleading book titles and my lack of patience

Taking a break from my heavier reading list, I recently decided to pick up The Inheritance “Trilogy” by Christopher Paolini. Friends who know I enjoy fantasy had recommended it to me, and I’d had a copy of Eragon I purchased at a library book sale sitting on my shelf for almost a year. 

Knowing that I can’t start a book and not finish it unless severely provoked, I thought this would be a good reading project for a week or so; self-contained, pick-up-and-put-down etc. Even if it wasn’t that good, I thought it would be a nice break. 
So I read Eragon. And I checked out Eldest and Brisingr from the library. And read them. For those of you who haven’t read the books, they’re long. Upwards of 500 pages each. They’re okay. Not great literature, but not bad.
Just over a week later, as I neared the end of Brisingr today, I started realizing that the plot was winding up, not down.  There’s no way he can finish this in 75 pages, I thought. Just as the books are getting more original and interesting, he’s going to do a presto-changeo, slap-bang ending that will be horrible. Great.
And then I hit the last page and saw the words–To Be Continued. I know, I know, all the Eragon fans out there knew that already, but I never got caught up in that craze, so I was still riding on the word “trilogy” from book 1. He decided to make it a “cycle” not a “trilogy” and do four books.
Dang it. 
Now I have to wait for book 4, which I’m guessing will have a black dragon on the cover. Whenever it comes out. And I obviously can’t not read it. So I have to a] buy it new (not likely), b] borrow it from a friend (I don’t know many fanatics of this one), c] wait for it to hit the libraries and stay on a mile-long reserve waiting list, or d] wait for it to hit used paperbacks on Amazon.  
But most of all, I have to keep thinking about how it will end and which of the more-or-less predictable ending patterns Paolini has chosen. 
“Self-contained”
“Pick up and put down”
Patience?
Ha. 
Grumble.

Further proof is in the texting

You know for certain that you’re an English major geek if you become insanely frustrated by your inability to type apostrophes on your cell phone, and you stop sending text messages that require the words “it’s” “I’m” or “we’ll”. 

Large interstates have gas stations every few miles, right? So why can’t they have dancing stations every twenty miles or so, for stress relief? I think that would go a long way toward decreasing road rage. Just sayin’… Take note, DOT.

Why do bruises make good stories…

…if grass stains don’t? and other questions that run through your mind after the sixth hour in the car. Such as…

  • Why do people have such a strong urge to look for the rainbow?
  • Why does no one stop their car in a rainstorm to get out and jump in puddles?
  • Why do we seek information about other people from everyone except them?
  • Why do police officers never drive red cars?
  • Who invented hugs?
  • Do turkeys know they taste good?
  • If eyes cry and mouths turn down, how do ears express emotion?
  • What does it mean to love and support someone?
  • How much do good intentions count?
  • What does joy smell like? How about sadness?
I’m feeling philosophical tonight. How about you?

If Only We Had 42 Cuticles

I have a feeling that the answer to all of life’s riddles (I can hear someone spontaneously bursting out with a “42”! but you’re wrong so keep reading) is somehow mysteriously imbued in the skin that acts as a picture frame for your fingernails. 
Also known as your cuticles.
How do I know this?  Well, let me enlighten you.
Start a difficult conversation. Get in a fight. Give someone a lecture. Watch a movie or play that asks tough questions. Sit in church and listen to a sermon. Now look around – how many people are studying their hand as if in art class, forming a sign language “a” except looser, or in extreme cases, inching that hand closer and closer to their mouth to surreptitiously gnaw on it?
They have discovered the secret: the answer to all of life’s riddles is there, right in your cuticles. 
And somehow this answer can only be internalized only by intense staring, like basilisk eyes except not deadly, or by ingestion. That must be why we chew our cuticles and (in a misplaced and misinformed effort) our fingernails. 
It’s sort of like the connection in Phillip Pullman’s The Golden Compass between a child and his/her daemon (soul?). Affect one, you affect the other. Get rid of that dangling cuticle, and the guilt triggered by the words your pastor is reading will go away. Smooth that ragged edge of a nail, and your parents will be proud of you. Stare at the half moon shape long enough, and you will have worth. 
When you think about it that way, all the world needs is more manicures and pedicures. Turns out the folks at AIG had it right. It’s all so simple, really.
Or is it?