WonderBlog

Well, I learned a lot about Hamlet yesterday on my visit to Helsingførs.

I might have thought that Shakespeare made it up, but it turns out that whole story has a long history. Some Danish king felt inadequate and had a scribe write up a history of his ancestors, mostly to prove he had some, and that they had claim to kingships.

It was the Danish Chronicle.

A NEW CHRONICLE TO READ!

it turns out there was this character Amledgh who did just about all the things that Hamlet did.

very good stuff.

But my feet hurt.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 11:51 PM | Permalink

Copenhagen is a more uban city than Helsinki. Translation: tons more graphitti

Helsinki had a little graphitti, but in the neighborhood near my hotel, the graphitti is really all over. Even on the big statues. You would think that they would have more respect.

Then again, there are statues and carvings EVERYWHERE. All the buildings seem to have carved windows and swoops and faces and greek gods and what-not. I guess the graphitti artists have to use what material is available.

I listened in on part of a tour in English. We heard the guide from a distance. I said to Chris, "Hurry! We will hear."

"He´s not speaking english." Chris wouldn´t run to hear.

But he was speaking english, just with a huge accent that made it sound like a different language. He said "The direct translation for Copnehagen is the bay of merchants."

This explained why this city felt a bit like Brussels to me. Merchants, huh? So it was all about the salesman's flash and social mobility. Maybe that´s why they ornamented everything they could reach.

And also the incredible amount of chain stores.

We counted McDonald's, Burger King, Kentucky Fried Chicken and 7Eleven all on one block. With another 7Eleven at the end of the block.

Unfortunately, jetlag is a contant companion. We haven't been too unpleasant to each other, thought. Just a bit snippy when we've been walking too long. We are taking turns being completely brain dead, so that one of us is always available to steer the other towards whatever we need to do next. That is usually eat or sleep.

We have three things to do during our stay in COpenhagen. One, we want to visit Tivoli. Two, we want to see Malmø. And three, we want to go see Helsingførs, known to english-speakers as ELSINORE! Yes, Hamlet's palace.

We have three days to do those three things. I think it will work out.

more to come

Posted by Murphy Horner at 08:10 AM | Permalink

It's a very beautiful city, a small town kind of capital. Only a hundred people there.

It never got above 70 degrees, but still I managed to get sunburned.

Now we are about to go to Copenhagen.

I think Denmark will be warmer, and more populated.

more later

Posted by Murphy Horner at 10:50 PM | Permalink

At least that's what we figured out on the subway back.

We left LAX, and we will not land at our final destination in Helsinki until 29 hours later.

So today we enjoyed the museum of Natural History in Central Park. Since it's humid and about 90, my plan to hang out in the foliage of the park was jettisoned.

We wandered around, amazed at what east coast city folk think of as 'nature'. No wonder this country's environmental efforts are so screwed up.

But we also just tried to stay awake. We are tired. We told ourselves that this will help with the jetlag once we get to Finland. It IS a 10 hour time difference after all.

Now we are back at JFK, and the plane to Finland boards in 5 minutes. It's 8 hours, and maybe we will sleep the whole way.

Wish us comfort and quiet neighbors.

more to come

Posted by Murphy Horner at 01:53 PM | Permalink

So I am at last about to embark on a trip to manhattan with Chris. I have love dreamed of this. He has been to more places than I, but _I_ have been to Manhattan. And he has not.We will have about 3 hours in central park. Perfect!

We haven't left JFK yet. Everywhere there are adds for Office 2007.

There are huge video screens showing all the peaceful people using Office 2007. These screens follow the length of the movable sidewalks. Both of them. The whole way.

"Oh yeah," I told Chris, remembering the huge video ads on time square. "That's another thing about New York. They constantly bitch slap you with advertising."

"Like that doesn't happen in LA?"

I smiled. "Here, it's different."

More later....

Posted by Murphy Horner at 04:07 AM | Permalink

I am going ON THE ROAD

Well, the airways and the subways and the sidewalks.

Which means I may not have access to blogging.

There might be radio silence for a while.

But I'll take notes and get back to you all with my impressions.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 09:40 AM | Permalink

It was one of those courtroom shows, and the girl was convicted of murder or something. She hadn't done it, but she had used her prettiness to manipulate some hapless young man into doing it for her.

And the line was "Pretty is currency for when you are young."

Yeah. It's tradeable on the open market. Out there on the trading floor, "I have pretty. What will you trade for it?"

There is the obvious that goes without saying. But the experienced merchant of pretty...yes, I mean the smart girls, or at least the street smart ones...the wise ones know that it's better to give it out in drops.

What will a smile get you? At the very least some cooperation, don' t you think?

It's interesting to see what pretty does. Like baking soda and vinegar. It has an effect. It's a factor in the project plan, like the direction of the wind.

I have had some experience with the effect of pretty. As a woman, I am not the least or the greatest in the pretty department. But my store of the Pretty element, that mysterious substance, is enough to experiment and observe.

It is not such an easy thing. There have been times when it was a decided pain in the ass.

Even in the times when it's supposed to be useful, say in romantic relationships, it is a highly suspicious thing. If I admit that I desire to be pretty, and that pretty is only in the eye of the beholder...
Then I must place myself in a position to be beheld to fulfill my desire for prettiness.

Which means that someone else has power over me. And what does that mean on the open market? I trade what to get back my own prettiness? What will it cost me to be pretty?

I went back on the dating scene again aware that the desire to be pretty in someone else's opinion was a huge trap. It occurred to me that if someone tells me "You look beautiful", I am disarmed. And for that particular type of encounter [dating, romance] I would need every weapon I had, and every possible form of armor.

I had to look very long in the mirror, yeah just like that. I had to be very very sure that I knew no one could give me or take away from me what I already had.

You have to be so cold. Which is a shame. I would like to have the ability to look down and blush if someone gave me a compliment. Now I only wonder what they are trying to steal from me.

It's my currency, my treasure.

Then again, there are times when the pretty exchange is closed, or at least is supposed to be. There are times when pretty is not the point, and I just forget about it and think that other people probably forget too.

Like at work. Work is supposed to be about hard work and smarts.

At my last job, I was so busy I was losing my mind. Our cubes were short, so people could walk in the cubicle corridor, and lean over the wall to ask me a question. I never wanted to be interrupted. But I knew that being crabby would not improve anything.

I chose to pause for a millisecond after I realized someone wanted my attention. I would take that moment to paste a big old smile on my face before I turned to them. It was just to hide my inner turmoil, really.

The men (was it always men? It seems so in my memory, but surely a female had a question for me once in a while)--the men had the strangest reaction. ALWAYS, they forgot what they were going to say. They were struck dumb, and just stood there for a few seconds. They finally said "what a smile!" and then fumbled out whatever it was they had originally wanted to talk to me about.

I found this odd. The same men might have several questions in one day, and ALWAYS they would turn blithering idiot.

But I had to face the facts. I may have thought I had closed the pretty trading for the work day, but it went on without me.

Sometimes I wish I could unzip my outside and step out slick and smooth as a little green alien. No gender, no complication. Just a big huge head.

But it doesn't work like that. And just like I had to learn not to let compliments disarm me, I also had to learn that even when I wasn't paying attention the pretty element was out there catalyzing things. To ignore it was to leave a hole in my defenses.

So...what is this pretty thing worth? What kind of trade should I be working on for it?

I know that some females get 'free' dinner and even presents out of their measure of pretty. The princesses, as they delight to be called, seem to make a cheap trade to me.

I don't want to be that kind of doll house female. I'm made out of tougher stuff.

You would have to go way back to find the sort of woman I shall be. I will be a shield-maiden. Eowyn showed that life.

If this world were a more beautiful place, then pretty could grow unashamed and free. Until that time, only the smart ones know how to handle it.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 01:28 PM | Permalink

So Chris's basketball league is back in season. They had their first game yesterday.

John, who grew up next door to Chris, had organized the team. It's just a bunch of guys who like to play, and aren't super-duper competitive. They do their best and have a good time.

This is the second season Chris has been a part of. John worked hard to get a bunch of guys together, enough to have at least 5 guys show up for every game. Which means that most of the guys don't really know each other, and so the practicing happens when the game happens.

But last sunday, they were getting to know each other and working on plays and what to expect from each other. There were 7 guys. When one guy was pulled in from the bench, he and the guy coming out of the game would give a low slap of hands as they pass.

I was a bit jolted with this. THIS was the famous touchy-feely teammate behavior exhibited by sports players. Haven't you seen it when the ball players will smack each other on the ass, or do a hand-holding kind of thing?

See, when it with your TEAM, it's not gay.

It's NOT.

Female athletes do this sort of thing as well. But the thing is, females IN GENERAL do this sort of thing. We just do.

We hug, we touch, we get physical with one another in a way that American men do not get with one another. At least not outside of a sports game.

I asked Chris about it after the game.

"Yeah, it's important to let each other know that they did a good job. Or that it's okay if they made a mistake, that we can just keep on playing."

Well, I agree. I completely agree.

But I wonder why they need a game to do that? Why not by more physical with each other in daily life? Don't we all need to know that we did a good job, or that it'll be okay that we made a mistake?

The thing is, I am not trying to tell men to change how they are. They are what they are. Men feel comfortable giving one another physical affection (YES, I said it) when they are playing together as a team.

I listened to the Glenn and Helen Podcast, interviewing Conn Iggulden about his latest :
A Dangerous Book for Boys

Conn talks about how it's important to let boys be boys--that boys and girls are just different and that's okay.

Well, I'm a fan of men. I love men. So, it's interesting to see a herd of them in their habitat.

But it made me think a little. It is possible to consider that women are always interested in teamwork. It's not that we are not competitive, but we are always aware of the other people.

And maybe, just maybe, that is an explanation for why we are so easily affectionate with one another. We know that life is full of work. There is so much work to be done, that we better be connected with our teammates. The game never ends.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 03:10 PM | Permalink

Next week I will be in HELSINKI!

I am very very excited. I will not be there long, but I want to breathe the air and look at the streets.

I have been reading, and have almost completed, the finnish national legend:
KALEVALA

This story rocks my world. I love these kind of stories, where magic things happen and heros run around doing things.

I am sad to discover how wretchedly the women are treated in this story. But so much of it is so overwhelmingly stupendous that I forgive them.

The story was told. It was told for hundreds of years. Someone finally wrote it down in the middle 1800s. This guy went around finland trying to capture all the pieces of the story, and finally found the last piece in the mouth of a very old storyteller. The old man was really old (did I already say that..?) and the story gatherer was very relieved to get all the last pieces.

Once the guy published the Kalevala, Finland exploded with happiness. They are STILL not over it...In fact, the country started it's own independence because of this awesome book.

It is a deep and wide thing, this story. And I will have the story in my head as I walk the streets of Helsinki. I think the streets might very well be named after the heros in the book.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 05:53 PM | Permalink

The idea occurred to me while shopping at the B&N...I saw a shelf of Nicholas Sparks books while trying to find Nabokov..BOTH of them were in the LITERATURE AND FICTION section.

I thought, "how can Sparks and Nabokov be in the same section at the bookstore? Sparks can't touch Nabokov's hem"

[thinking now though, Sparks could probably BUY Nabokov's whole wardrobe. Sparks is a multi-million bestseller...and Nabokov couldn't even aspire to being a full-time professor at university for most of his life]

But thoughts like this take on a life of their own. I have been finishing Glory by Nabokov...since I'd only read Lolita before. This book filled me with hope, because it was good, but not anywhere near as good as Lolita , which means that he did not spring out of God fullly formed as the master author. SO, that means that I will probably have a chance of being a better writer too.

Which led me to think again of how long it takes to write a damn book. And how short of a time it takes to read a book. I am going on vacation for 11 days, and I worry that I will run out of book. And that CAN"T HAPPEN. I MUST have enough book to last me....I am a book addict, like a drug addict. A drug addict, when she runs out of her drug of choice, will take anything...even sniff glue. I don't want to my addiction to drag me down into such degradation, but I have been known to read the phone book when nothing else is available. I can't let that happen.

So I am a monstrous reader, devouring the feast that took so long to prepare. Books that took their crafters years of heart and soul wringing to write, and even more lifebeats to gain the wisdom to be able to start the writing-- these I devour callously and insatiably.

And I do feel sad that I read so fast now. And I approach each new book with eagerness, but still knowing that I am going to have a changed thing after, that the expectation is not going to be the reality.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 10:00 AM | Permalink

After thinking it over, and going through the my five year anniversary of my blog, it occurred to me that I'm never, ever going to have a money-making blog.

I'm just not like other people. And MOST people are not going to be interested in the unadulterated contents of my head.

They are going to want recipes for homemade popcorn. And who can blame them?

But that means that I should not worry about my hitcount. It's just never going to get too high, no way around it. So that means my blog has a different purpose. After thinking about it, I think that it should be what it started out to be. A scrapbook of my thoughts. And an exercise book for writing, just to keep in the habit of stringing words together one after the other.

My blog entries are not all good. Some of them are crap. But then again, there have been a few jewels that I am really proud of. And others that are like elixirs of larger ideas, that I can remember and use while puzzling over bigger ideas.

So, THAT means I should not ever worry about the weirdness of an idea. It's okay to be weird; it's my blog and I can weird if I want to.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 09:32 AM | Permalink

In preparation for next week's journey I bought a book.

I would have got it from the library, but they didn't have it. I read so many books that i have to be incredibly self-discipled about not acquiring too many.

I have begun to mourn the books I have read. It is getting harder to find good books to read.

But today, as I bought Speak, Memory by Nabakov, I was mourning that i would actually be able to read it. Anticipating what a good book it will be keeps it always in the possibility. But reading it destroys forever my ideas about what it might be.

Then I must grapple with what it is.

It is said that the reader is a very important part of the life of a book. Writing it is only part.

As AGONIZING a part as the writing of it is, it is only a part. The reading is the other part. It is a collaborative effort. I write my book, and you others read it. When I have shared my writing with others, they often understand it to mean something I had never thought of. It is a collaboration of creating meaning.

Knowing that, I feel almost as if I am destroying the book by experiencing it.

That reminds me of a scientific principle, whose name i forgot. About how an observed particle behaves differently because of the observation.

that the very act of watching a supposedly inanimate object changes it's behaviour.

so....by reading a book I change it. and in a way, I feel, I destroy it.

I have destroyed hundreds...thousands, perhaps, of books by reading them. Like a ravenous dragon, I tear through them and leave their half-consumed carcasses in a trail behind me creating a never-ending path of carnage.

I may be unworthy of these books, treating them without respect.

But then again, I do at least give them the respect of reading them.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 09:00 PM | Permalink

From the play The Busy World is Hushed

The mother is talking to her 20something son about his life choices

"From here on out, everything is written in ink"

I've had that conversation before...I have had it in my head and I had it with a friend once.

I told him "You wear your freedom like it's a jean jacket, like it can handle all kinds of rough treatment. I wear mine like a prom dress, that it is so delicate. I have to keep it clean and fresh."

and he just looked confused. He didn't know that freedom had consequences.

Which is what that means, you know? "...written in ink..."

"on your permanent record"

reversion
perversion
conversion
inversion

All the versions end up in the final draft of your life.

But that only matters if someone is reading the record.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 09:41 AM | Permalink

Me and my piano have been together for 8 years.

This piano has been an adventure since it first came into my life. It was free, which should mean easy. But no, it was free if I came to get it. And I began to understand right away that pianos are a thing not to be taken lightly. My piano is very heavy.

I took it to my home, and began to refinish it. It took forver, and the process carried me through the toughest time of my life, when my marriage was ending.

But I refinished my piano and it was beautiful in the end. Of course, through the process of refinishing it, I took it apart and got to know it's insides very very well.

It began to really bother me that I did not know how to tune it. I could see the tuning pins right there. I had no problem tuning my guitar, and I could barely play it. But my piano I knew inside and out. I began to feel like I could tune it, if I could only find the right tool to turn the tuning pin. It was my piano, dammit, practically a limb off my body. I would be able to tune it if only I could find a way to get started.

Naturally, I turned to the internet. I found an old tuning tool on ebay. But I didn't know if the price was a good one, or if I could do better. I thought I needed just a little more information.

So I found a book on tuning. It came with high reviews online, so I was pretty excited. Once I got it in my hot little hands, i opened it up to find the chapter on tuning tools and tuning.

it seemed that it was not so simple.There seemed to be more to it.

I thought then that i should pay a tuner to come in, and I could watch and ask a lot of questions. I did, and I learned a lot more. My tuner even told me that there was a correspondence course in how to tune pianos. Wow! I was so going to sign up.

Of course, life caught up with me a little bit and I didn't have time to devote to the pursuit of greater intimacy between my piano and me.

Piano tuning is a career, you know? People can earn a living doing it. But I was too busy doing the things I was already doing to earn a living. Spending all day on pianos was just a dream. I had real work I had to do.

But last night I went to the Pomona Valley Piano Technicians Guild meeting. These people have been piano tuners...no, TECHNICIANS for years. As they introduced themselves, they said, "we probably have more than a hundred years of experience sitting here."

They were very serious and engaged in their work. It reminded me of other technology conventions I've attended, where the people are all eager to talk to one another since it is so seldom that they can find a peer on their level.

Piano nerds. I felt like a noob, but like these were my kind of people. I aspire to be a professional piano technician, but even if I don't make a career out of it, there is no doubt that i will be learning how to tune and repair my own piano.

Apparently way way back, one of the Patriarchs of their group had become interested in learning to tune pianos. I will have to learn more about this man, but they told me that he was determined to learn the skill. Naturally, he went to a local piano tuner and asked him "Teach me how to tune pianos."

The man slammed the door in his face. But Mr. Stubborn wasn't taking no for an answer. He was going to do this thing. He loaded a footpump organ onto the back of his wagon (this must have been before horseless carriages) and took it with him to tune a piano. He tuned the piano to the sound of the same key on the pump organ.

...not the right way of tuning a piano...

Later he found a book on how to do it right, and sold his cow to purchase the treasure.

He later held classes for people in Claremont to learn what he had become a master at: Piano tuning and repair.

This makes me humble. It was so easy for me to find excellent resources to satisfy my curiousity.

It didn't used to be so easy to learn. It didn't used to be so available. People were stingy with their knowledge.

This is a great time to be alive. Information wants to be free. But like my free piano, that doesn't mean it is easy.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 07:30 PM | Permalink

Okay, it's finally hitting me.

I am getting married! In FOUR MONTHS!

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

*pant* *pant* *pant*

I'm very excited. It took a while to sink in that I would be Mrs. Daley. Well, MS. Daley, because I am my own person. And that makes me smile just about all the time.

But there are some details that come with throwing the big party. Wow!

I need a dress. And I need to figure out what kind of food. And I need to get some invitations.

And I need to register.

...register...that seems to weird. I wonder if I can register at home depot?

what I do know is that I better get on this thing, and fast. I want to have a lovely memory, a time shared with all the people who wish me well, to start on this Marriage thing.

...it'll be great...

I just have to remember to scream in my head, not out loud.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 09:38 AM | Permalink

ah, last night went very well. A good time was had by all, and puppy was charming. Cat did not make an appearance. He is chary with his public.

And today, despite our busy Friday and Sunday (mother's day) plans, was the first real relaxed saturday that i think I've had ALL YEAR. I guess it proves my idea that Chris really needed to be jerked away from work by the scruff of his neck and do something else for a change.

This is one of the reasons to have company over. That, and to force you to really clean the house for once.

Chris has been a hero-prince all day. He eve woke me up from a nap to say "I made you dinner. I BBQed for you, and it's all ready now."

How great is that? He's wonderful.

So this is just about the most boring entry ever, especially after all my showcased work. But oh well. I'm feeling good, and I will be boring if I must.

Happy mother's day, everyone!

Posted by Murphy Horner at 10:26 PM | Permalink

I'm having friends over for a game night.

how exciting! This will be the first game night in my new house of joy.

ah...let us pause as I contemplate my beautiful happy home. I love my home. I love that it's mine and I get to make it beautiful with flowers and pretty things all the time, and no one can tell me otherwise.

And one of the ways of making my house even more beautiful is by having a bunch of great people over and doing something that will be remembered as a good time. It's important to have the memories of good times, for the sake of bringing them to mind when I am alone, and even more for the sake of bringing them up with the people you shared them with. I will be able to say "Remember that one time..." and every gets that special look of remembering, which usually includes a smile.

Yes, it's a vortex of looking forward to the time when I can remember the good time that I am looking forward to having tonight, which leads to...

YAY! We are having the first game night at my house!

There is a big selection of games. I have purchased snacks...Salsa and chips and pretzels.... And sodas, and maybe we'll makes margaritas...maybe...depends.

The only outstanding question is the playing surface. Our dining table is up against the wall, and in that configuration seats four. It could be moved away from the wall to seat 6...which may end up being the choice...but that would make it a tight fit in that passage way.

We COULD go in the living room and put the board on the ottoman and sit on the floor. I will have to consult the players when the arrive and see what everyone thinks. Either way is fine with me...

yay!

Posted by Murphy Horner at 09:08 AM | Permalink

It's been 5 years, and I've culled some of what I consider my best entries from that time to share with you all.

But just because I consider them my finest does not make them the most popular.

BY FAR, my most popular entry is this one. It's a recipe for homemade microwave popcorn.

haven't all of you wondered why you should spend ridiculous amounts of cash on a bag designed to pop popcorn in, only to throw it away at the end? Well, even if you haven't, enough of the internet has to lead them to a search, which leads them inevitably to my site.

A strange glitch in the internet makes me the only source of information on this most basic of tasks. Just about every day someone comes to the wonderblog to find out how to make popcorn themselves with common household materials.

I am the dispenser of popcorn wisdom. Do not be tricked into losing your hard-earned money to that suspicious Redenbacher character with his beady little eyes.

The next three most popular are probably tied. I declare them tied because I can't be bothered to actually figure out which is more clicked...

This one is about the camia flower. I was given this pretty flower as a present, and blogged about it. Camia is a pretty name, isn't it? It's such a pretty name that a lot of daughters were named this name. Said daughters do searches on that name. So do the friends, admirers and desperate rejected suitors of these daughters.

Due to another black hole in the fabric of the internet, I am one of the very few sources of information about the camia flower, and the only source that is actually interesting.

This entry is a riff on a Dilbert cartoon. He is meeting his new boss, who introduces himself curtly as "Niel." Dilbert bows on one knee. Get is? KNEEL. I did an entry on all the names I could think of that were action verbs. A silly little execise which resulted in a very popular entry.

This one, a highly popular entry, I am actually proud of. It's a full on personal essay about curly hair. I like it. If I ever get off my butt I may submit it Oprah magazine or something.

This was found by the site naturallycurly.com. They came to me wanting to post in on their site. I negotiated a tank top for my writing. You can find it here.

Yes, I was giddily proud of that at the time. Now, I want more.

My Moose Kill story is still a popular one. People find it searching for moose anatomy.

And I like some of the fictional stories the blog inspire me...This sexy little number was fun...and then my Nadia story.

Miriam wouldn't exist if it weren't for my blog, so I am well rewarded for the last 5 years.

I don't want to stop. But I do want to get better. But this is virgin territory, folks. I am a veteran blogger, even if I am not as well-known as the other people who've been blogging for the same amount of time.

Truth is, I know why those four entries are so popular. It's not rocket science...Someone links to them, pretty much. That's the deal with the curly story and the popcorn. Okay, the powerful names one just stands on it's own, as does the Camia flower. It's an accident of the internet.

I could make like a shark and really go for the hits...Hit me baby! Again! HARDER!

But I can't muster up enthusiasm for it.

Right, that's the other thing I forgot to mention. For a year or two, I was a major poster on Blogcritics...They were a start-up site, and are now something of a force on the internet.

But that was when I was a baby blogger. I reviewed (not very expertly) CDs and movies and such things. But as I got better, I didn't feel like doing that anymore.

We parted ways. I just don't get excited about popular subjects. And so I stopped posting, and they eventually redesigned their site. I wasn't linked to as much and my hits dropped by more than half. That hurt. I guess the internet is a lot like a mall, where traffic matters...I had relagated my wonderblog to an obscure untravelled corner of the internet. And it was not enough to keep the readers.

I don't want to be like the other guys...I want to be me, but better.

And a little rich-and-famous wouldn't be bad...

But thanks so much for those of you who are reading this. it's a journey...I'll try to keep entertaining...at least I know I can entertain myself along the way.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 02:54 PM | Permalink

It is a constantly running train of thought, but here lately it’s been on my mind—the difference between men and women.

I love men. And I love being a woman. It seems to me that these two, when done right, are very complementary.

I know Chris and I work together very well. We have great love and respect for one another, and we manage to do really well on the various projects and entertainments we take up.

There are other men I have known on the job, who I can really click with, who give me respect and collegial affection. I’ve love working with them and miss them terribly when I’ve had to move on.

What is it that men and women give each other? It’s so much more than just procreation. We are broader than that. What, really, do we need each other for?

Of course, need is relative. Do I NEED to go to the gym and work out in the morning? Not really. NEED is for survival. Food, shelter, air.

But perhaps I am too stoic. Perhaps, for the time being, I can count the survival as a given, and set the bottom standard a little above DEATH.

About 8 years ago, I came to the conclusion that it is best not to need anyone for anything. That I am responsible for myself and myself alone. I wanted to be independent and able to get whatever I needed. I didn’t want to have to wait for someone else to get me what I needed.

It turns out I was very able. I pushed my abilities and pruned my wants appropriate to my circumstances. I learned how to be independent and not need things.

But that opened up other questions.

During our first year, while trying to figure all that out, I asked Chris, “If we don’t need each other, what will keep us together?”

He really didn’t understand the question, but he answered: “We will love each other.”

At the time, it was hard for me to understand how he would stay—how could I be sure?—if he wasn’t dependent on me in some way. He should need me.

I’ve learned a lot from trusting his love.

It turns out that instead of being dependent on someone, you can value them highly. In the same way that you would be unwilling to part with an object of value and beauty, you would be unwilling to part with a person of high value and beauty.
And knowing what I value in him, I can try to foster those same things in myself. When I look at myself honestly, I can see that I am of high value. And I can feel confident that he would want to be with this good stuff that is me.

Okay, that’s the micro. What’s the macro? What do men and women need from each other? What desirable thing is it that we are particularly suited to give to each other?

Earlier this summer, I had that highly annoying conversation with a co-worker. You know the one.

“Men and women cannot be friends, because men only want to sleep with the woman.”

Basically, this argument means that men have no use for any part of a woman except…well, you know what I mean.

He brought it up, because I’d met someone who I thought was interesting but who obviously was attracted to me. I’d hoped that he might get over it and be a friend.

“OH no,” co-worker said. “Let me tell you something about men: they never want to be your friend.”

I brought up examples and hypothetical situations. It was a slow day, and we were getting into it. But he was adamant. Friendship was impossible.

I threw this back at him, “So what you’re saying is, while I want to be friends with a guy, he has no interest in my conversation or friendship. Since I am nothing to him, the only thing I’m going to get out of interactions is whatever entertainment I can create….So I should be the biggest possible bitch so that I can get maximum entertainment value.”

The rest of the guys were laughing, but he wouldn’t back down. “I’m telling you, guys do not want to be friends. Ever.”

Well, that made me depressed for a few days afterwards. Upon reflection, I took away two things:

Guys who have that conversation with females are hoping for something. Note to self: avoid that sort of discussion. It’s just an excuse for guys to talk about sex. I thought I had learned that lesson my first year in college, but I guess I forgot. Or hoped that maturity was more widespread than it is.

Also:
Guys who hold that belief have no clue what to do with the huge amorphous feelings they have about women.
Women are highly desirable, but barely understood. The desire they feel is so scary, they try to cover they metaphorical nakedness with this little insufficient scrap called “sex.”

If they have an answer, they can stop asking the question. It matters little that the answer is wrong (or at the least, insufficient). They can put to rest the discomfort of their ignorance with it.

So that leads to another question. What is it that women give men?

I once knew this guy. He was a friend of my ex. He was the most misogynistic young man (~26) I have ever met. He literally had no interest in anything I had to say. I was a woman, and did not count.

It was kind of stunning to realize this. He was never rude, but he treated me as if I were his friend's cat--simply not a source of intelligence.

He had been dating a 16 year-old (get this, ASIAN). Typical stereo-type. How much more controlling can you be? It was a half-step removed from a mail-order bride. He got married her when she told him he’d gotten her pregnant.

I’d never met her, even though we knew this guy for years while they were dating.

Long story short, after baby boy was almost 2, turned out that wifey had had a boyfriend they whole time and the child was his. She left Mr. Misogynist. He was devastated.

During this bad time, after his wife and erst-while son had left him, he called to talk to my (then) husband. When I told him I was the only one home, he wanted to talk.

I thought he had brought this disaster on himself somewhat, but I felt bad for him. I knew he was hurting.

But the amazing thing is, he wanted to talk to ME.
ME.
The woman he had no use for. The female who might as well have stayed in the kitchen and walked three steps behind for all he cared.

He really wanted to talk to me. He really really wanted to hear words from a kind female. That was all. We talked about small things for maybe 45 minutes.

He needed what I had. He needed womanhood.

I don’t know the boundaries of what masculinity and femininity are. I suspect they are not hard and fast.

But we need each other. And we need each other to be strong and independent in order to receive the good stuff from each other. I think that if we could learn to work together like that, the whole world would change and be beautiful.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 10:49 AM | Permalink

Hmmm...thoughts are floating around in my head today.

On the way in to work, I listened to Instapundit's podcast on Marriage and Caste. Ms. Hymowitz has a lot to say, and talks about how marriage is a very valued institution in America.

She also mentions that in the 50s, people got married even younger than ever before. Younger than now, that's for sure. My best research says ladies got married at age 20, on average.

Now...about the 50s...I spent this week sick at home in my cute house.

That house that I love so much and am renovating to look modern, just like the time period it was built, in 1950.

It is staggering, how much was changing in the 50s. They talk about the 60s being a time of revolution, but that was just the people catching up with...well...everything!

okay, the teens and 20s were wild and crazy and full of ideas and wealth. Yes, the wealth and ideas were churned by the Great War, what we now call world war one. Hopelessness, the Flu that killed almost anyone that was left standing after the trenches were abandoned.

Meaning? God? What did that mean to anyone at those times? Wild and free to be...wild and free.

But then the depression knocked the wind out of everyone. Resources? Invention? Everyone was too busy making sure they could eat.

Well, Hitler came along and saved us all by being as evil as anyone could be. Hooray! Let's fight him. Let's everybody fight him.

And in doing so, the economy got back on it feet. There was fighting to be done. And work to be done at home, Rosie. There are ships to put together, and enough work for even the ladies to have paying jobs.

They worked, and they worked together. Everyone sacrificed for a reason. We won the war, evil was smashed and the world was once again as it should be.

But all the pressure that the century had put on people up to that point exploded into the 50s.

It's hard for me to understand how modern the Modern age of 1950 was. How very very much had changed as how fast.

I was researching paint. They said that there were colors that were invented for the first time, because they had the chemical know-how then. That the pinks and pastels and bright colors finally got to be used.

The war had rationed even colors.

And the depression...well, that was entirely in Black and White. Like Fred and Ginger.

Refrigerators and washing machines. And those incredible cars! Modern and sleek and dreamy.

And what did people want to do with this beautiful new world of promise?

they wanted to get married. and live in little houses with a yard and a garage.

and as soon as possible, thank you very much.

We look back at these stories. Ozzie and Harriet. Leave it to Beaver.

I've always thought of them as traditional. But they were not. They were very very modern.

which is kinda blowing my mind right now.

On the other hand, why not have a cute little family in a safe little house that has every comfort in it? In so many ways, isn't that the pinnacle of what we could wish for?

Not the 60s kids, though. They had to tear it down. They wished for anything but.

maybe because they already had it.

Hmmm......

Posted by Murphy Horner at 10:48 AM | Permalink

a tufa on modernism and marriage

Hmmm...thoughts are floating around in my head today.

On the way in to work, I listened to Instapundit's podcast on Marriage and Caste. Ms. Hymowitz has a lot to say, and talks about how marriage is a very valued institution in America.

She also mentions that in the 50s, people got married even younger than ever before. Younger than now, that's for sure. My best research says ladies got married at age 20, on average.

Now...about the 50s...I spent this week sick at home in my cute house.

That house that I love so much and am renovating to look modern, just like the time period it was built, in 1950.

It is staggering, how much was changing in the 50s. They talk about the 60s being a time of revolution, but that was just the people catching up with...well...everything!

okay, the teens and 20s were wild and crazy and full of ideas and wealth. Yes, the wealth and ideas were churned by the Great War, what we now call world war one. Hopelessness, the Flu that killed almost anyone that was left standing after the trenches were abandoned.

Meaning? God? What did that mean to anyone at those times? Wild and free to be...wild and free.

But then the depression knocked the wind out of everyone. Resources? Invention? Everyone was too busy making sure they could eat.

Well, Hitler came along and saved us all by being as evil as anyone could be. Hooray! Let's fight him. Let's everybody fight him.

And in doing so, the economy got back on it feet. There was fighting to be done. And work to be done at home, Rosie. There are ships to put together, and enough work for even the ladies to have paying jobs.

They worked, and they worked together. Everyone sacrificed for a reason. We won the war, evil was smashed and the world was once again as it should be.

But all the pressure that the century had put on people up to that point exploded into the 50s.

It's hard for me to understand how modern the Modern age of 1950 was. How very very much had changed as how fast.

I was researching paint. They said that there were colors that were invented for the first time, because they had the chemical know-how then. That the pinks and pastels and bright colors finally got to be used.

The war had rationed even colors.

And the depression...well, that was entirely in Black and White. Like Fred and Ginger.

Refrigerators and washing machines. And those incredible cars! Modern and sleek and dreamy.

And what did people want to do with this beautiful new world of promise?

they wanted to get married. and live in little houses with a yard and a garage.

and as soon as possible, thank you very much.

We look back at these stories. Ozzie and Harriet. Leave it to Beaver.

I've always thought of them as traditional. But they were not. They were very very modern.

which is kinda blowing my mind right now.

On the other hand, why not have a cute little family in a safe little house that has every comfort in it? In so many ways, isn't that the pinnacle of what we could wish for?

Not the 60s kids, though. They had to tear it down. They wished for anything but.

maybe because they already had it.

Hmmm......

Posted by Murphy Horner at 09:47 AM | Permalink

Never enough

Not so long ago, I came to the conclusion that I am a deeply unsatisfied person. Almost at any given moment, I am thinking of how that moment could be better. How I could be doing something, being something, or experiencing something higher.

I usually consider it my own fault—that I am not organized enough to be the best self I can be. Or perhaps I am lazy and slothful. And St. Paul’s words echo in my mind: the good that I would I do not: but the evil which I would not, that I do [Romans 7:19]

I never get around to doing what I want to do, but all the shit I say I will stop doing—that’s what I end up being very faithful with.

For these and many other reasons, I figured out that I am just an unsatisfied person. This will not change, and I had better find a way of living with it.

I don’t mean that I don’t have things I enjoy. There are also the exciting and exceptional moments of action that absorb my total attention. Sometimes I get in the zone while writing; very very often when I am dancing I am utterly taken away, and sometimes a project can fill me and satisfy me well.

But those are rare and precious moments. For all the other moments, I am wishing for the higher thing—the greater, the more.

I was trying to explain this to Chris. The explanation went somewhat awry, since he is a sweet and wonderful man who wants me to be happy. For him, it is not a good thing for me to be unsatisfied. It is a problem, and must be fixed.

We are both interested in my happiness—he even more than I. But this new understanding I had about my nature seemed both under and over the stuff of “happiness.” Metaphysical realities are not so susceptible to temporal fixes.

But what was it I had really discovered? What did I mean by all this? Maybe it is really a personal problem, something that pills or prayer would fix.

Maybe it was all in my head.

But then I read this from John Stuart Mill:

It is indisputable that the being whose capacities of enjoyment are low, has the greatest chance of having them fully satisfied; and a highly endowed being will always feel that any happiness which he can look for, as the world is constituted, is imperfect.

But he can learn to bear its imperfections, if they are at all bearable; and they will not make him envy the being who is indeed unconscious of the imperfections, but only because he feels not at all the good which those imperfections qualify.

It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied. And if the fool, or the pig, are a different opinion, it is because they only know their own side of the question. The other party to the comparison knows both sides.

Mill, no fool, got it! I discovered my dissatisfaction on my own, but I am not on my own in the feeling.

AND I am a “highly endowed being.” I’ll take that.

Of course, I am also required with my endowments, to bear all the imperfections I so keenly perceive. That brings my mind back to the Bible, this time the red letters of Jesus’s words:
For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required: and to whom men have committed much, of him they will ask the more. [Luke 12:48]

I guess the Endower of my gifts would have a right to require me to do something with them.

And I would not have it any other way. I want to be and make the best of myself that I can.

I’ll just have to find a way to bear my imperfections.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 09:43 AM | Permalink

I love to cook.

I don't get much of a chance to do it, because I always thought I was the only one who would eat what I ate. Chris is very finicky, to my thinking. He doesn't appreciate the experimental.

But this is Thanksgiving, and officially the time to cook and bake. I've been longing to make a pie for weeks now. A good pie is a glorious thing. In fact, I had expressed my longing for piemaing at work and the we all had talked about favorite pies. Rhubarb was a favorite, and also very tart fruit pies. I told them of my walnut pie, which is a regional innovation.

However, our cupboards were bare, and we had to go shopping.

"We have to stock up. Lots of things will be on sale." I told Chris.

"I think you're wrong. I don't rememer things being on sale for Thanksgiving."

"YOU are wrong. I know for sure that things will be on sale. The will have the buy-one-get-one-free sale on things like sugar and flour."

Chris thought that stocking up on sugar and flour was a bad idea. He hardly ever uses flour.

In the store, I was checking on the sugar and flour prices, but he was scoping out the mixes. He has a thing for Betty Crocker. He likes to look at all the pictures of delcious things and think about eating them. He does the same with the dessert menu at restaurants. But the fact is, he seldom eats them.

There were a lot of mixes on sale. He came back over to the cart with a mix for cinnamon coffee cake.

"Baby, you don't need a mix for coffee cake! That's very easy to make. I could make you one, if you really want one."

"But.." he looked at the picture on the package. "It wouldn't have cinnamon."

He's adorable.

So back at the house, I had some baking projects to do.

To my dismay, I had misplaced my holy cooking book, "The Joy of Cooking." I know it's here somewhere, but I can't find it.

Well, no problem. I have the internet! Coffee cakes should be easy to find.

It turns out that internet recipes for cinnamon coffee cakes favor ingredients like sour cream, buttermilk and apples. Didn't pick those up at the store. They also like nuts, which is anathema for my sweetheart. THIS at least I have learned in our time together.It took me into page three of the search results to find an appropriate recipe.

When I mixed it up, and I make twice as much streusel as they called for, because I love Chris and he loves streusel. I made him watch as I sprinkled the streusel on, so he could appreciate what I was doing.

It came out pretty good.

Of course, while the cake was baking, I began to work on the pie.

Pies are a glorious food. Really and truly. On the whole, they are ridiculously simple to make. Except for the crust. But many people choose to have a premade crust, so that takes care of that.

If you ever want to impress someone with cooking skills you don't think you have, make a pie with a premade crust. Pies are only a half a tick more difficult than instant pudding. I mean, geez! You just mix up about 4 ingredients, pour it into a pie crust and cook it. WAY easy.

But, I am not satisfied with premade crusts. I want a little challenge in all this. I want to master the crust.

The last pie I made was lemon meringue, last december. And the crust was too tough.

I hoped to do better with this iternation. I wanted to use my grandmother's pie crust recipe.

My grandmother died during the holidays of 1995. Mom was called to the hospital before she died, and she asked me to come with her. We were able to be with Grandma in her last few days.

I had not grown up near my grandmother. I just didn't know her that well.

But after she had passed we were eating holiday leftovers at my aunt's house, . I was munching on this key lime cheesecake pie.

I exclaimed: "This crust is really good!"

My cousin, who had always grown up around my grandmother, looked at me incredulously. "Yeah," she said, "That's grandma's pie crust. Didn't you know she was famous for her crust?"

Yes, actually, I had heard that. But, I'd never had a chance to taste it. It was only a posthuous pie that let me know.

So, I looked up grandma's pie crust recipe. It was a very different concept from the recipe of the former failed crust attempt.

I mixed up a walnut pie, using the recipe on the back of the Karo syrup bottle. I made two changes:
1. I used walnuts instead of pecans
2. I splashed in a little brandy. Brandy is very yummy.

Walnut pie was introduced to my family by my sister-in-law Karen. Her grandmother's best friend had a walnut tree in the front yard. As Karen said, "That's a lot of walnuts. You come up with as many ways to use walnuts as you can. Therefore: Walnut pie."

But I like it for it's own sake. Plus, Walnus are cheaper than pecans. And it's unusual, so it makes me feel cool and creative.

Karen always used the half walnuts, but one year I could only find chopped walnuts for sale, and I like how that ended up looking. So now I always use the chopped walnuts.

Here, dear readers, is the resultant pie:

Now, that was not enough. I wanted to make cranberry sauce for the dinner. My brother Mark is an excellent cooker of cranberry sauce. Therefore, I am sad when we must resort to canned cranberry sauce.

HOWEVER. Chris's grandmother has a doctor's injunction against seeds. But, I thought...I can strain out the seeds an make a cranberry jelly, instead of a cranberry sauce.

All I have to do is cook up the cranberries and then strain them through a cloth to get the juice and keep the seeds out.

I love cooking fresh cranberries. The skins POP when they are boiling. It's cool.

Straining the pulp was a bit harder than I thought. Probably because I was impatient and did not wait for the cranberry mush to cool. This is what it looked like when I was done:

That's the strained part, not the jelly part. The jelly part is jelling in the fridge. It may need to be put back on the stove with some cornstarch. We'll see.

But that was what I did all night. I love to cook, but I'm pretty tired after that.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 10:42 AM | Permalink

Every woman has a mirror

Every woman has a magic mirror in her heart. In it, she can see foggy images that others don’t see. She can see her family her friends, and the wider world in that mirror.

She will share her visions with the man in her life. For him, to believe what she sees takes faith.

If he doubts, it infects her and the mirror gets even foggier. And she may need to fight him to find her mirror again.

But if he can find that faith, her vision grows stronger. She can believe and be strong and wise. Both of them will be blessed.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 10:41 AM | Permalink

Ask to the Answer

Okay, i thought of what I want to write about. It's disorganized, but let me see if I can explain it.

"Open-Minded" used to be a popular phrase. I don't hear it as much as I used to, but certainly, "Closed-Minded" is a well-established bad thing.

I am seeing more and more the stance that used to connote open-minded as being a closed minded one.

I met a woman at a social event, and she worked with gangster kids. This caught my interest right away. 'Tell me more about that. I am astonished at the lack of attention given to helping kids stay out of gangs.'

She was surprised at my interest. "What do you want to know?"

I said that I thought we needed to ask until we got an answer. That we should not stop and be satisfied with the bad situation that our children are in.

She was taken with that idea. To ask until you find an answer. But she wasn't sure you could ever find an answer. In any question, really.

She had a good point. What happens when you find the answer? Are there questions with no answers?

I believe no. There are no questions without answers.

But then, like the hitchhiker's guide tells us, are you sure you are asking the right question?

Often, the answer to a question will be another question. And when you reach that the question/answer to the question, have you made progress?

I believe yes. I believe that as we sincerely question, even if our questions result in more questions, the understanding broadens. And when we understand we can do more or better than we have before.

I like people who question. I like it when people ask. But I have noticed there are people who ask, but do not believe in the answer. Not that they think the answer isn't correct, but the deny the premise of an 'answer's existence.

They enjoy questions, but only for their own sake. No answers required, or, indeed, allowed. These clever people can deflect any proposed answer with reasons to deny it.

It is as if they wish only to maintain the integrity of the perfect unanswerability of the question.

They stick tot their question until a new more intrigiung question presents itself. Sometimes, this question is what I would call and ANSWER to the first question. But, they don't think of it that way.

I am interested in asking to the answer. Questions are TOOLS to me, not toys.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 10:38 AM | Permalink

My boring life

The fact is, I find my life mostly unexciting. I do rather ordinary things and I am not very interesting. So, I don’t necessarily talk about what I’m doing, because even I don’t find it interesting.

This is a problem for me. Really it is. Because when it comes time to say something, to give an account of myself when someone poses the questions “How are you?” or even “What’s new?”—I am at a loss.

How am I? About the way I was yesterday, the previous day in my unexciting life. Nothing of any significance is new.

So, I end up saying something inane and leaving the question-poser disappointed. Yes, I know they only ask because their life is also without excitement. They are asking in the hope that I would have something to bring to the table, some appetizer of excitement to share.

Nope. I hate to disappoint, but I got nothin’.

Yesterday was a particularly uneventful day. I came home with very boring ambitions. I wanted to eat dinner, exercise and deposit some checks in the bank. Maybe putter into a little housecleaning. I wanted to be sure to charge up my Ipod since I had neglected to do so the day before.

The mind boggles at such humdrummery.

I wasn’t hungry right away, so I got a jump-start on the puttering. I put the Ipod to charge and began righting the housekeeping wrongs of the weekend.

Order and cleanliness emerged shyly in places they usually were not invited to. Good news! Even better, the Ipod was charging faster than I had hoped, so I got to putter wearing the ‘pod.

I was listening to podcasts. Podcasters are enviable to me—people with cleverness and gumption, with something to say, something worth capturing and distributing. I listened and envied and puttered.

Then mom called. No more podcasts, but I got to tell her about the cool stuff I had been hearing. I told her about my despair of being dull as dirt.

Mom had called, because she herself was doing something uninteresting. She had lots of copying to do at school, and just wanted someone to entertain her. I guess I got to be her live podcast.

Well, she had a lot of copying to do with an uncooperative machine, and I had a lot of things to tell her about my boring life, and the artistic poverty of my blog.

“Oh honey! You are an excellent writer! I love reading what you say on your website!”

This is very nice to hear, and adds considerably to my enjoyment of this phone call. But to be realistic, she is my mother. She has to say that. The compliment has a short half-life.

Nevertheless, I spent too long on the phone to my mother. When I hung up I was very hungry. And I still had to get to the ATM! Not to mention working out.

I was rushing now. Grab the checks. Find my shoes. I’m hungry! I am not in the mood for this!

“The library books are overdue. Can you return them?” Chris asks politely.

I’m in a hurry. I’m hungry and I have things I need to finish. “No.”

“It’s right next to the bank. You can do it.” The needle had moved from polite request into the indignant/whine zone.

“Fine!” I snagged the books, hopped into my shoes, crabbier than ever. I shouldn’t have talked on the phone so long! Did I have a pen? I would need it for the deposit slip.

I get into my car. Well, at least the radio is playing something I like. But it’s dark and I can’t remember exactly where the bank is. It’s somewhere on this street. I’ll find it eventually.

Just past the railroad tracks, the car shrieks.

FWEEE! A picture that looks like an inkwell sprung a leak—a gusher of newfound Texas Tea…Oh crap. Something is wrong with my oil.

I don’t want to deal with this! I am not stopping. I’m going to the bank. I’m going to deposit all this stuff and go home and eat.

Where is that bank anyway? It’s got to be here somewhere. I will figure this out, look up this German symbol of an inkwell with a geyser, but only after I reach the bank.

But then I have to yell at myself. Oh great, so now you are going to ruin your car just because you are pissy and don’t want to return library books. Is a seized engine worth this?

FWEEEEE!!!

I answer myself, I’ll do whatever I please and I don’t feel like talking. Where is that stupid bank? I thought it was here.

There was a bank there, but the wrong one. I pulled in anyway and turned off the car and the radio. At that point, the inkwell geyser blinked off.

WHAT?! The car light had been screaming at me, telling me something is wrong, and then just goes silent, like "never mind, you’re busy, I didn’t mean it...”

Don’t toy with me! Either there is an inkwell oil geyser happening or not. Them’s fighting words round here. I pulled over for you, car, and now you want nothing to do with it? I don’t’ think so!

I turned on the radio again. I’m not losing my good tunes for this passive aggressive car. I got the manual out of the glove compartment.

I’ve been through this before. The alarm documentation is not intuitive. It’s not even in the index under ‘alarm’. After flipping back and forth for a while, enough time for the tunes to segue into commercials, I discover that my windshield wiper fluid is low.

I’m certainly glad I stopped.

I drove around and finally found the right bank. There is a line at the ATM. But maybe that's just as well, because I need to add up the total of the checks. No calculator. Well, I should know how to add and carry.

I wonder what they would do if you got it wrong? I mean, is it no big deal, or do you only get so many chances from your bank? You could get some kind of notice.
“Dear Bank member:
After received your third addition failure we are rescinding your ATM deposit privileges.”

That would be very humiliating.

Or worse, maybe they would think you did it on purpose! I know of a girl who was dating this guy. He would deposit empty envelopes to withdraw money out of his account that wasn’t there. He needed the money because he was a crack head. They broke up, thank god. I should call her.

I triple checked the math on this deposit—I’m pretty sure I got it right. And at least that is done. Now to the library.

It is so dark out; I can’t see any signs. Geez, I’ve lived here almost a year. When will I figure out where I am?

I fall back on my strategy of starting one direction and going somewhere until you are there. It worked, and I found the library. I know the distance from the bank to the library was shorter than the drive I took, but I got there, so who cares and leave me alone.

I found a parking space quick. I jumped out, leaving my door open and my purse inside. I grabbed the library books and my keys in my hand. There’s the drop box. Pull it down; in they go. Be careful not to drop the keys in the drop box!

I wonder what would happen if I had dropped the keys in? I wonder what I would do? Good thing I had left the car door open. I could get to my purse and cell phone to call Chris to come help me.

Would the library people come and open the library to get me my keys? Claremont is small and very Mayberry, but I don’t think they are that Mayberry. I would have to wait for them to open in the morning. Well, afternoon. They open at 1.

But I would be okay, because Chris would come get me and there is a spare key to the car and to my house. I’d be okay. The only key I don’t have spares for are the work keys.

Oh man! That would be terrible. I couldn’t get into work. I would have to call there and say I would not be in because I had dropped my keys in the library drop box. That would be beyond embarrassing.

I could just say I was sick. I would have to lie. Call in with a cough or something. There has been a cold going around. I could make it convincing.

I have never called in sick when I wasn’t sick, but I know people that do. Why do we have to do that? Why are we forced to lie? Why must we come up with some story? Why can’t we just be given respect? I mean, we should just be allowed to say, “I will not be able to come in today” and leave it at that. That would have some dignity.

But my keys were in my hand, so I drove home. I knew my way home from the library.

I made some soup and sat down to talk to Chris. I told him about my boring unexciting life, and about all the enviable podcasters and bloggers who are so far above me in importance and relevance.

He was kind and acted interested.

Dammit. I didn’t get to workout.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 10:37 AM | Permalink

Jesus, Buddha, Cold Mountain, and the suffering and salvation of stories

There are times when thoughts come together like objects, and bump against each other. I want to share this thought-object group with you.

I am finishing Buddha by Karen Armstrong. It's a book on CD.

And I just finished Cold Mountain by Charles frazier, read by the author.

First, I would like to say, both of these books were much easier to take as being read to me. I would have found the book about Buddha not such a page turner, but I did want to hear about the enlightened one, so having it 'pushed' at me suited.

And Cold Mountain...well...First, I have seen the movie, which was a good movie, but it was so sad.

But beggars can't be choosers, when it comes to my little library and it's collection of books on tape. I took it.

The book is a masterpiece. The recording of the author reading his book is a masterpiece. I have high standards for books, and this one exceeded my expectations dramatically.

Wow. And wow again. The words. His phrasing and timing. I didn't know it was the author reading it until I sat down to write this post. I continually thought that the reader was perfect for the work, little did I know how perfect. Authors are not always the best ones to read their work, but this one was.

Now, it would have been an excellent read. I loved his writing.

But remember, I saw the movie. I knew the ending. The book, however, was so much richer than the movie. So very many things happened, and so many ponderances took place. It was a leisurely story.

I forgot about the ending, and was enjoying the journey. I was enjoying the way he said 'of' and the old-fashioned-to-the-point-of-ancient phrases he used. They seemed deeply rooted in the time.

But the end of the book got closer. And I couldn't help remembering the end of the movie.

And I couldn't help but hope it would end different. At times I hit stop. I couldn't face that lilted voice telling me what happened next.

I cried sheets of tears fully through the last two cassettes. I remember thinking again that I was glad to be listening to the story. I wouldn't have been able to read the words through my crying.

What a powerful story.

Next thought-object:

In Buddha Karen Armstrong had talked about Siddartha's journey to enlightenment. Siddartha is Buddha's pre-enlightened name, if you didn't know. I didn't know.

He was born Siddartha, and the Brahmin prophesied that he would achieve enlightenment. Either that or be the King of the Universe. Buddha's Dad prefferred Siddartha to be King of the Universe rather than just a boring old enlightened one.

Siddartha, however, chose the path of enlightenment. And when I say "chose" I mean to say he leaned into it. He didn't just meander along and WHOOPS--fall into enlightenment. He worked really hard at it, and sacrificed a lot to get it.

Ms. Armstrong said something that stuck with me about Buddha's road to enlightenment:

Siddartha was totally and completely sure he would achieve it. He had no doubt, he had utter faith, that enlightenment was a destination that existed and he would get there.

She mused for a little bit about what might have happened if he had given up. No Buddhist monks, no marvelous Buddhist scripture, what a loss, she seemed to say. Buddha knew the end of his story: Enlightenment. It was just a matter keeping going until he got there.

Now, I am not Buddhist. I know very little about Buddhism, but from what I've learned, it does not quite appeal to me. It does not fit the world I see around me, and although I would be pleased to learn more about the philosophies of the Buddha, I am a Christian to my core.

It was interesting to hear that Buddha is not supposed to be a god. Literally, he's "The guy who figured it out"--how to avoid suffering and pain. In his world view, and according to Buddhist thought, there are gods and he is not one of them. He is actually better than a god, because the gods need him to help THEM figure it out.

Now, that's a mind-bender to a mono-theist like me. Whoa. It made me think about the nature of Christ.

Next thought-object:

So, Christ is God. And Christ is Man. That's a mind-blower for anybody.

What knife could separate the God from the Man? According to orthodox philosophy, he totally God and totally Man. Which doesn't answer anything at all, really.

Easter is coming up, you know. It's Passion week for most of America. Passion, also known as suffering. Just the sort of thing that Buddha was trying to avoid.

Jesus did not avoid His suffering. In fact, He walked right into it. The whole story of the crucifixion is how He gunned for the cross.

Which part was doing that? The man part? I have always tended to think that it was the God part that gave Him the character to do it, but the man part was the body that they tortured.

But, comparing the story of Buddha to the story of Christ put it in a new light.

How confident was Jesus that everything would turn out okay? Did He ever wonder if He was nuts-a faltering of confidence? Did he have a little voice in His head saying, " 'Son of God'--give me a break! Who are you kidding?"

What was the nature of Christ's faith? Buddha had faith in his story; he believed he would reach enlightenment.

Did Jesus have such faith? It is human to falter. In my experience, it is the nature of faith to include faltering. Part of the mustard seed that is faith includes the part that doesn't quite believe. The part that doesn't believe but does it anyway.

Was that how Jesus had faith?

While I was listening to the end of Cold Mountain, and crying and wishing-wishing-that it would end differently, I thought about suffering. All the suffering that Inman and Ada has been through, and the whole country suffered in the Civil War. All they had struggled and suffered for...why did the story have to end that way? I wanted so badly for it to end another way.

And I remembered Christ in the garden of Gethsemane. He suffered terror and dread, a suffering before the physical suffering. Sweating blood in his pain, he asked God the Father if there was another way for the story to end. He really wanted a different ending.

O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me

He knows what's coming. He knows he's going to be tortured and killed. But does he know the rest? Does he have confidence that He will be the saving of all mankind? What if He didn't know? What if all He knew was that God said he had to suffer and die?

Suffering and dying is the state of all humans. Suffering and dying doesn't require godhood. God could require me to sacrifice my life, and I can only hope I would do as he demands. It is possible that He would enable me to do it. It is certain, though, that if I died for some noble purpose it would not result in the redemtion of all creation.

In Jesus's case, though, it did. My life doesn't have the currency of Christ's.

But that doesn't mean He knew that. Perhaps He knew no more than I know. That the bigger story of suffering, pain and death is in God's hands and He works it all to good.

Jesus suffered so much in His death. And every step along the way, He could have stopped it.

I think about that, and how much I wanted to stop the sad suffering end of Cold Mountain.

Jesus didn't stop his end. Because He believed in the story. I don't know how much He knew of the story. I don't know how much _I_ know of the story. But in this case, in this story, I know it works out with perfect justice, symmetry and beauty. It's the story that God is telling, and it's a story about Him.

Me, and my experiences with suffering and beauty, is only a story inside the big story.

The story, not even a real story in the sense of historical fact, of Cold Mountain is an experience of suffering and beauty and justice because it lines up with the big story, the way the world works, the way God works.

God is the original storyteller. It makes me feel humble to put my spun stories inside of His.

Believe in the stories. That is saving faith.

Posted by Murphy Horner at 10:34 AM | Permalink

What just happened, lady?

[All quotes taken from Diving Deep and Surfacing by Carol P. Christ]

Walking through