Friends

Now, this is partly an observation, and partly a consideration, the observation being of myself and the consideration being of two more universal, and conflicting, states of mind and being, and the possibility of reconciliation or at least reliable co-existence concerning said two.

(And it's also me blogging, for which there is a very small but very pointed demand, small being meant literally and pointed being meant in the way that people annoy me when I do not.)

It is one of those recurring things you see in books and websites and other things that concern themselves with the casual improvement or comprehension of social life - I say, it is one of those things which, having first defined the term good friend (or close friend or trusted friend or otherwise similar), to ask the reader actively or passively how many good friends he or she has. This number is often evaluated or compared or placed on a scale and things are said (again, actively or passively) about it. Concrete yet somehow nebulous statements are made, most often beginning with People with X good friends tend to... and so on and so forth.

Anyway. The definition of good friend is as a rule about as simple as: "one to whom you could talk to about anything." Now: taking this as a working definition, and considering what is usually written about this concept, I tend to do objectively well on good friend tests. On having lots of good friends, I mean. I could name a rather healthy number of people to whom I could tell anything, and an even larger number of friends who I think would be willing and able to become good friends in the event that all my current ones perished in an earthquake or something (I don't mean to be dark, it's just that I'd gone four paragraphs without an analogy or example). That is to say if the need arose.

Another thing I have noticed is, excepting those people whom I've known for many years, most of my good friends became so after knowing them for a median of, perhaps, two and a half days. I have no particular desire to delve into potential sentimentality by mentioning names, but - the number is perhaps not unrelated to some certain short, but intense trips such as HT conferences. Anyway - it seems, and I'm sure most or all of you are familiar with this, that if you and another person are enough alike or alike in the proper ways then it is more or less impossible not to be talking with each other and becoming friends from the instant that you have been introduced.

Another thing I notice is that, very nearly without exception, all of my good friends are homeschooled Lutherans. Interesting. This can hardly be said to be unexpected. Now, some part of me wonders where my tolerance is if I (apparently!) cannot stand people of other lifestyles, and beliefs, enough to even lead a proper social life in regards to them. But this is obviously an exaggeration. I do have non-homeschooled and non-Lutheran friends, and as far as I know I do a good job of being civil to people pretty indiscriminately. So of course I say again, this is not what I would call unexpected. That particular sub-sub-culture to which I belong (and for which I have a world of affection) is somewhat striking, in terms of society at large*. This comes as a result of our beliefs and practices, and is thus all the preferable. In short, considering the nature of that culture, of Lutheranism, of what I am, and remembering our working definition of good friend, it would certainly make sense that I would have some trouble talking about anything (note emphasis) with someone who differed in their opinion of the life after this, or indeed didn't see the need to place more concern in it than in this one (not saying that I am any more successful than my neighbors in setting my eyes on things above; but I know that I ought).

Oh, where was I going... well... I'll post this as it is for now, though it only covers the first of the two things I said I'd discuss. WHAT'S THIS! A promise of a part 2?

No, because if I ever promise to write some particular blog post I always fail to follow through, so for now we must restrict ourselves to cautious optimism that my follow-up post will materialize.

('til then)


*Originally I wrote American culture, but then I remembered traveling to Germany, arriving in the evening at a small Lutheran church we had found online, exchanging stunted greetings (only my dad is fluent in German), and within minutes having joined in singing a number of hymns, complete with harmonization and my dad pointing out an error in the sheet music. It is hard to feel more Lutheran (temporally speaking, of course) than hymn-singing for the sake of hymn-singing.

Tangled Skein

As often happens in the case of fitting-with-contemporary-standards-of-cool people such as myself, I have been pushed into intellectual musings after reading a fantasy novel.

Actually I read With a Tangled Skein a few months ago; it's the fourth of the seven book Incarnations of Immortality series (five of which I've read) by Piers Anthony, and which Pr. Stuckwisch originally suggested to me. The series has (in my opinion) a wealth of strong points and also a wealth of flaws; I won't go into it exactly here, suffice to say the Anthony is an older, prolific writer, and as it is unsurprisingly his wisdom concerning the basic emotions and sentiments of people that is where he is at his best, and fantasy elements and colorful prose where, er, he is not.

With a Tangled Skein opens with a woman of about 22 in a pre-arranged marriage with a young man (16-17) whom she has never met. She, as an older, logic-using being and he, as a gentleman, are both more than a little awkward at first. Of course, they know what is expected of them. As various plot points come and go they grow more comfortable with each other, but not particularly with the situation. Now, I don't remember what exactly it is that happens or how long after their marriage it happens, but he reveals to her that he is in love with her - that he has been since shortly after their marriage, when they were walking in the woods and he really saw who she was. She's shocked, and she says that she wants to love him, but... and he understands. In one very direct line, she says something like "These things take longer for women." As a preliminary disclaimer, by the way, this post is about my impression of things, I am well aware that at eighteen years there may be some stuff about interpersonal relationships that I have yet to learn. Ha. Anyway. Some years pass and the young man goes to college and learns stuff and grows in his vocation as husband, and so forth. . . until one day when she comes to visit him at the college. She is about to be assaulted by some, er, unsavory characters (pun not intended) when her young husband happens upon them and cracks all their heads together in a more or less literal fashion. At that moment, seeing who he's become over the past years, how he's grown and what he's done for her, she finally loves him, as well.

Like I said, Anthony has a learned insight into the human emotions, and it is these gross, overt actions of his characters, the interpersonal actions and the intrapersonal emotions, that are often the most, to my eye, true-to-life.

Now I do not know what the origin of this old adage is: "Women are, men do." I tried googling it but the only thing I found was some modern article critical of the concept. But it is an adage that fits in with a lot of what I see in people - and what I see in myself. I have often heard people (specifically, wives) discussion how men always want to do something to fix a problem. This is the sort of behavior I notice in myself quite frequently. Some may know more than others how eager I can be (can be) to help out with things. Sheepish grin.

Is it too simple to say that a man loves a woman because of who she is, and a woman loves a man because of what he does? I don't know. Perhaps that is only useful insofar as temporal psychological or marital issues are concerned... and perhaps not. You could argue the point that what a male does is dependent on who he is, and likewise that a woman will do based upon who she is. And I don't want to suggest that there is some sort of dry, arbitrary, or straight-forward exchange rate between a guy's actions and a lady's affections, which by the way is an excellent way to objectify women. (Perhaps I am taking an overly cynical view of that song.)

Regardless, I find, as I said, that the old adage has a lot of truth in it. It follows, as in the book, that a guy loves a girl (my nouns, see how they vary!) because he knows her, has seen who she is, and finds her beautiful. Her personality, her temperament, her little quirks - everything about her. And, there is... some analogous sentiment on the girl's part, although you may understand if I don't feel quite as qualified to articulate it.

This fits in with the theology of marriage: the church is Christ's bride. Thus, Christ loves us because of what we are: lambs of God. And, we love Him - ought to love Him - owe our salvation to Him - for what he has done for us: died on the cross.

...Correct? I am interested in getting feedback (or validation) on these various lines of reasoning. I feel more or less able to confirm the male's end of the whole affair, but, not much further than that.

Bread & Water

My blog entries arise from excess energy and excess thought... as I have had much of the latter it will make sense if I say I have had none of the former.
Operetta rehearsals have a voracious appetite for energy; I think voracious is the word I want there. I learned some time ago how to commit nearly my whole body and energy to a given action, and on stage this is demanded of me at every instant. Rehearsals are perhaps the most tiring thing I've ever regularly done - then again, there is very little I have ever done four or five or six hours an evening, four or five days a week. Such a time frame is almost incomprehensible to my attention span. I have a job, of course, but working is like sleeping in comparison.

Last week was the week of dress rehearsals and of performances and of much setting up and setting down. I find it is a quarter as difficult to act a silly pirate when you are wearing a silly pirate hat and a silly pirate shirt. One week ago I put on make-up for quite literally the first time in my life. One of the girls showed us (the neophyte guys) to put a bit of whatever on the back of your wrist before dabbing it on your face; by the end of getting ready I had dabbed and re-dabbed so much that, even after washing it, my left hand looked as though I had tried to win a fist-fight with a wall or something. Being a comic opera, our instructions are simple (to accentuate, enunciate and indicate), and the process, for one as inexperienced (and uninterested) as myself, is the same as shading a pencil-drawing: to put a splotch of dark where you know dark needs to be, a splotch of light where you're told a splotch of light ought to be, and then to sort of smudge the crap out of it until your canvas (in this case, your face) is a mess of smooth, easily-indentified and perhaps even human-looking gradients, red to brown to skin-pink and so forth. I have lucked out in the hair department, wearing a hat in both acts (aforementioned silly pirate one in the first act, and constabulary in the second) and thus needing nothing - well, except for my handlebar mustache in the second act. Yes, it's real hair! Who's hair? I dunno, some person's.

Performances started on Thursday and ended on Saturday, five in total. I was glad to have a lot of people to laugh at my visual jokes and take plight in my visual distresses. Not to mention pay my salary! Ha ha, I kid. I was also glad to see the bally thing over and done with. Oh joy unbounded! Oh sweet relief! Oh rapture unexampled! Whatever measure of amiability has been allotted to me at birth allowed me to enjoy the practices despite... extraneous circumstances, but those - extraneous circumstances, that is - were fairly abundant. I did not mind the practicing itself; it tired me, but merely being tired is not hideous to me. It is rather the things that I was not doing, the things I was missing. All rehearsals started at 7ish, 6ish or 5ish (as we neared the performance-dates) and have gone until the actors are reduced to quivering masses of jelly on legs, and occured on basically whatever weekdays are available, preferably all of them. Out of the five weekday evenings, four of mine had conflicts. Vespers is on Monday and Wednesday, Monday having also Bible class; Tuesday ends with Ju-Jitsu, and Thursday with Probability & Statistics (here at the college). These were, well, dropped. Except the most latter, which was only dropped the afore-mentioned week, the week of performances. My work schedule is variable and it is only by coincidence that it only once conflicted with rehearsal schedule (obviously I asked off the performance days, but, none of the others, specifically). My incredulity at losing not one but both of my mid-week church services eventually faded somewhat (perhaps as a wound begins to heal over) - those very services which, as I've said in the past, I very carefully directed work and classes to skirt. That is to say avoid. There was a time when I was used to one service a week, but... that was years ago, and though there is fun to be had being a pirate it is awfully lonely to wait a whole week to hear about my Lord's sacrifice for me.

Some of the actors missed nearly every Wednesday or nearly every Monday, presumably because of a class or something. I had no such regular absence; surely if I had thought of it I would have established one, but, it didn't really occur to me that I would accept any position which required such a ridiculous, almost malevolent schedule.

I am not used to being so consistently tired... sleepy or sleep-deprived, occasionally, but not genuinely tired. Very many days started with class, segued into work and then segued into rehearsal, out of which I stumbled bed-ho, with perhaps one or two hours of total free time inbetween activities. These were frequently required for sleep, as the nature of rehearsals, my classes and my transportation often dictated that I was not physically home long enough to get the proper amount of sleep at night (I consider eight hours to be "standard"). As I am (until tomorrow, as it were) almost wholly dependent for transportation, and rehearsals often start at around 5, my meal-eating sort of dissolved out of discrete segments and into quantitative sustenance, the only definite guide being my gut (both figuratively and literally). I took up buying small loaves of bread from Panera (about $2.80, or $0.90 with my discount) to put in my backpack and eat inbetween scenes or such. I also gave up my normal water-bottle for a one-quart size. Since I only fill it with water - filling it with juice or pop would make me worry about my teeth - which constant presence - that is to say, having water with me - tends to lead to my drinking it - I often have felt as though I have defaulted to some older style of nourishment.

Ta-ran-ta-ra, ta-ran-ta-ra...

Anyhoo. You should understand that being in an operetta was a very interesting and rewarding experience. I am not in a position to say a great deal about the artistic merit of the other agents whereby the production was produced, but I am in a position to say what little I can say in quite a great deal of words and with altogether an inadvisable amount of detail and/or speculation.

Stereotypes are interesting things, and I am always amused when I meet them. While common sense and voracious (what is that word doing there again?) reading has lead me to regard most cultural, racial, political and (emphasis here) occupational stereotypes as dubious at best, my lack of real-world (as it were) experience has only rarely offered definite proof - and so I can merely approach things with an open mind; which is why I am, as I said, amused when I meet stereotypes face-to-face.

Theater people are loud. They seem never to stop singing. Male falsetto singing (for comedic purposes) is so common it is like its own peculiar art form than its usual classification as novelty. Many males also seem self-conscious of their necks, and endeavor to shield them from cynical eyes with turned-up collars or large, brightly-colored scarfs which are worn at all times. Hats are plentiful and usually fairly unique, and are also generally worn at all times. Hair is all over the place. These are certainly the prime variety of the artistic types, the types who breathe art - be it through mouth or nostril or inhaler or gills - but there is also the other type, who favor the highly utilitarian gym shorts and hoodie, and whose approach to performing, that is, as though it were a physical sport, generally serves them quite well. These types spend slightly more time asking questions of the leaders.

There have been things said about theater people, but I do not generally mind them (the people, that is). As a self-described artistic type myself, but of a different medium - writing - I feel like some not-too-distance cousin to them. The very first rehearsal I felt I understood completely the difference between writing (at least, fiction) and acting (at least, operetta): the quintessential, elusive dictate of prose is subtlety; that of acting, strikingness. To fail in writing is to tell your reader too much, too grossly and bluntly, what has happened, so they see merely a swath of printed words and not the scene. To fail in acting is to show your audience too little, too quietly and too reserved, so that they see merely a sweaty actor on a bland stage miming cliched movements and speaking through his teeth. I can say almost universally that, in all of practicing for Penzance, there were exactly two types of criticism from the directors: either of technical problems, or of insufficient expression, that is to say, of using not enough energy and projecting too little emotion.

There were some criticisms raised with certain of our directors, but it would be inappropriate to relate them here. I call them our directors because I was never wholly clear on all their titles, but in short we had the acting director, the musical director, and the choreographer (thus: acting, singing, dancing). The acting director is a lazy-looking man with a keen eye and a stronger sense of theater business - that is to say, real-world theater, acting as a career, and whathaveyou - than anyone else I saw; at least, as far as I could tell. He is also generally the most romantic and steadily enthusiastic. His great strength is his insight into the whole of a scene, into its emotion and character. The musical director (an old colleague of my father's and the only one whom I had priorly known) is a sober but good-natured man, and certainly the sanest of the three. His sincerity and especially his pure ability at what he does endears him to me. The choreographer, finally, is (to my eyes) the most stereotyped of the directors - which I say as an observation, not as a criticism. She is small, very small, and very thin, with shortish very pale hair, as though bleached by her constant, excited movement. She was a dancer originally, very flexible physically, and kept good on her promise to never make us do anything she could not herself do (except perhaps some of the lifts). Her special gift was in little particulars, little effects added here and there which brought color to characters and to simple movements.

The casting was impeccable. Granted, I am not familiar with the theater regulars here at the college, so I do not know who all was left out, but of those who were a part, I think hardly a player was in anything less than a perfect role. The student with the best voice and singing ability was the Pirate King; the best actor (actress) by far was the girl playing Ruth; Samuel was played by the fellow with the greatest sense of vocal theatrics present; the two people with the highest capacity for romanticism (in expression, in movement) were Frederick and Mabel; and even the Police Sergeant was played by the man with, from what I heard, the strongest bass voice of the lot. And of course the Major-General, despite being one of the youngest-seeming students there in voice and visage, is also perhaps the most perfectly silly in the way that is required for that role. Not a bad job with the patter-song, either.

I must also make a note of the quality of the performances which we ultimately yielded, as much as I am not an expert or a critic of musical theater. During all this time I have watched many incarnations of The Pirates of Penzance, perhaps a dozen or so (rarely in their entirety), ranging from both professional versions staring Kevin Kline, the Australian Opera version with a Jack Sparrow-style Pirate King, and some rather cute highschool versions. The movie (with Kevin Kline) is useful in showing how the show makes a lousy movie, and is mostly full of artistically questionable silliness. The theater version with nearly the same cast is far preferable. Of the Australian version, only two scenes were to be found (on YouTube, that is) but both were very entertaining. And so forth. But back to my note on our performance: with as many productions and versions as I watched, as many Foemans and Cat-Likes and Away, Aways and Modern Major Generals, in not one (except perhaps the aforementioned, highly artificial movie) was there nearly as much pervasive energy. During nearly every version of Pirate King (the song, that is - I forget its exact title) all the pirates are standing still and staring blankly at their King; during nearly every Modern Major General, they are staring open-mouthed; during nearly every Sighing Softly to the River, they tend to sway around where they are. Maybe there's some flaw here that I'm missing, maybe our acting director was just insane, but he would never let us sit out a song. We were pirates, damn it, and we took every opportunity, occasionally (but only occasionally) to a fault, to be pirates, to talk amongst ourselves and to react to things. Of course, we didn't have famous actors playing the lead roles and soaking up attention, but still. I think that just by the natural course of things, every one of us had our own very nice moments.

I could go on with that but somehow I don't feel like it; it's a topic that's better to talk about than write about.

I think later I'll explain quantum physics because there seems to be some confusion about it.

Pirate VS Ninja

I don't totally get it. Is that a robot with laser guns? Or something. It's hard to tell. Frankly I'm going to have to say that it's pretty awesome. The choreography is impressive (to me), as well.

Not death! Not death!

I am embarrassed that as much as I often feel I have a grasp on the art of putting one word in front of another, I can still be so ignorant to how some things I say or write may be perceived in others...

So, to put it shortly, some people registered a considerable amount of concern regarding my last two posts. The first thing I should say is that I am FINE. The second is that this shouldn't have surprised me. I have a really hard time complaining (to all but my closest friends), because complaining is one of the most annoying things in the world, to me. I want to say that when I'm annoyed or angry or something I just keep it in, but that's a bad way of putting it because of the things that "holding it in" currently connotes. It's not that I sort of hoard my bad feelings until they spill over some place or another - it's just that I am predisposed to rarely relate them to the people I know, if they have not asked. I also am a sort of positive person, and, I hope, an amiable one. What this means, though, is that those times that I end up in a bad mood or wanting to shout at someone, very often are shocking and distressing to people.

I will explain Friday's post, but I'll warn you that it won't be brief. The post WAS the brief version, and often the brief version is enough, and I'm never even sure if people finish my long posts, but this time because people are worried and they've asked, I'll give you the long version.

Friday was a bad day. Thursday was a bad day, too, but for the same reasons that Thursdays usually annoy me. Friday I felt hot all day, and didn't get anything done (really, nothing at all).

Now as much as I enjoy my individualism (where I have it), one thing that always has the potential to make me feel lonely is my attitude towards the weather. I hate the heat. I love the cold. Direct sunlight ranges from annoying to terrible. Every Fall I start to go outside just to feel the air, while everyone else goes indoors and complains about it. Every Summer people start doing things outdoors while I want nothing more than to stay in, and they say how nice the weather is and I simply don't agree. I don't have the heart to just go around contradicting people, though - I've tried that on rare occasions, and do you have any idea how annoying it is to other people if you go around complaining about 72 degree weather? Most people I've met in this insane country wait for the absolute hottest days to schedule outdoor activities, days when you are sweating in a T-shirt while sitting. In my mind working up a sweat should involve actual working, but maybe others don't agree.

Anyway. Being overwarm and being irritated are, to me, the same thing. I mean that literally. There is no real difference that I feel between being annoyed, angry, irritated, etc., and being too hot. They feel the same, they have the same effects (sweating, loss of focus, fidgeting), and they are both cured by cold air. One of my favorite things about Winter is that at any time, if I'm having trouble with something, I can go outside for half a minute or a minute and I will calm down.

So as Friday came to a close and I sat uselessly at my computer, I felt annoyed with myself and the heat. It's just one of those quirks of life that some days you feel better than others; that day I felt warm, though I had no reason to. The house was the same temperature, I wore light clothing, and there were even times when I could feel that my skin was cold, but that did not make any difference. So, several times, I went out to the back porch (in my button-up shirt and jeans and sneakers) and sat on one of the frozen metal chairs and let my body lose some of its heat. I felt tired, and I considered the rather extreme notion that I might fall asleep and die of exposure. This is ridiculous, obviously, but who can say how many ridiculous things pass through the mind throughout the day? I thought about the fact that, from what I've heard (mostly in movies and stories, but it's consistent enough to be believable), dying of exposure amounts to feeling more and more pain, then no pain, then just falling asleep, which, you must admit, doesn't sound too bad, all things considered. I thought it might be more appealing to me based on my agreeableness to cold weather.

Is that a rather dark train of thought? To consider what sort of death you may or may not prefer? I guess. Frankly, I don't shy away from macabre thoughts. It's all very intellectual for me. It's part of being a fan of science fiction and speculative fantasy*. It's part of being a writer (you want to see something really dark, ask me for some of my writing). It's part of being male. If this sort of thing surprises you, it's either because I try not to flaunt it or because you don't ask me my opinion on things enough. There is often a discrepancy between how dark a person's manner can be and how dark their humor can be. I recently had an opportunity to watch Monty Python's Flying Grail with a certain good friend who has a reputation for being cynical. When it got to the tale of Sir Lancelot - in which, to remind you, he sort of gets carried away and murders most of a wedding party for no particular reason - this friend, despite her reputation, seemed rather put-off - certainly more so than myself or either of her younger brothers who were watching the film.

I have no problem thinking of death. I don't think I think about it to an alarming degree, but the subject isn't repulsive to me. We all have to die sometime and most of the people reading this know as well as I do that death is not something to be feared, even though we spend most of our lives fearing it. As I mentioned, I am capable of being very intellectual (and consequently unemotional), and this is something I do mostly when convenient. Anyway, I think everyone's considered at some point whether one method of death might be better or worse than another. Is falling to your death really painless? How long would you live if attacked by sharks? What would electrocution feel like? I don't think it's healthy to obsess over macabre thoughts, but I also don't think it's healthy to avoid them altogether. (Chesterton's character Syme said, One should leave nothing in this world that he is afraid of.)

It's like something my sociology professor said, something that was meant to be shocking or concerning or thought-provoking: 47% of Bethel students have thought about suicide. Well precisely what does that mean?? Does it count if you've held the concept in your mind and you know what the definition is? Then uh-oh, I've thought about suicide, and murder, and genocide! You'd better watch out for me.

Lastly, like I said, I try to be an amiable guy, but the truth is this blog exists for my benefit, and anything anyone else gets out of it is just a bonus. So, I try not to censor it. Otherwise there's really no point.

I'm tired of writing now, so, good night.



*Bradbury speculated what it might be like to suffocate in the void of space; Sturgeon imagined a man trapped in a single horrible day, living it forwards and backwards for the remainder of his soul's existence; Huxley put forth a world where "mother" is an insult and free time is taken up by random sex and drug-induced comas; Orwell gave us The Ministry of Love; Star Trek gave us the Borg; Ellison gave us I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream.

If I got to choose,

I know the answer is usually "quietly in my sleep," but I think freezing to death would be pleasant. One possible downside is that my body might look gross, but closed casket is OK.

Thursday, Thursday, Thursday

After Biology lab, I went out to the small gazebo that sits somewhat between the cafeteria and the science building. Lab was a mess; I was warm and tired, and the microscope hurt my eyes. I left half the answers blank and wandered away from the building, slowly. At the gazebo, I took out one of my work gloves and brushed the snow off of enough bench space to lay my backpack and myself, and sat for a half an hour with the cold wind brushing my eyes and jeans, to cool down a bit. Like most in-book assignments, lab is done mostly by finding words in the glossary, index or color-coded charts which match the words in the question and then copying the necessary information and various long words. It is not complicated and not pleasant. Two of the three other guys at my table are phys. ed. majors, one the clichéd type, the other from England, studying abroad after or during (I'm not quite sure) his professional soccer career. Dunno about the third. None of us really get biology and we combine our four limited abilities to collectively finish each assignment.

Progress is the number in red ink on the top of your page when you get it back; it is not what you have learned. I have hope that there is a realm of academia wherein this is not the case - but less that I will ever see it.

I glanced at the schedule for practice/rehearsals for the musical, in my dad's office. I think on all but one of the next six, seven, or eight weeks are scheduled Monday and Wednesday night. Someone will be talked to about this; perhaps I will check what the minimum number of practices is for a participant. I did not carefully organize my work and my classes to leave me free to go to Monday and Wednesday vespers, only to then sacrifice them to a small chorus part for Gilbert and Sullivan.

If the upcoming four years of actual college enrollment bear a moderate resemblance to this semester, I doubt profoundly my ability to weather it.