In four weeks and one day I will be leaving for Japan. I am so incredibly terrified at the thought. But I've started putting together a separate blog to chronicle my experiences while I'm over there. I don't know what the future of this blog will end up looking like, but anyhow, here's the link:
MY NEW JAPAN WEBLOG!!!
Enjoy.
Much love.
29 July 2008
01 July 2008
camping with friends and hiking alone
I remember going camping with my family as a kid and having those few experiences where we were situated within close proximity of a group of young adult campers who spent their time laughing loudly, getting boozed up, and shouting at one another like they were the only ones in the whole wilderness. My parents would grumble loudly about those "obnoxious kids" who were ruining everything for the people who actually went camping in order to enjoy nature. In my eight- or nine-year-old mind I heartily agreed with my mom and dad. I may have even rolled my eyes exasperatedly and joined them in muttering under my breath, "Yeah! Obnoxious kids!"
And this is, I think, how I grew up with the vague idea that going camping with one's friends ought to be regarded as somewhat edgy or even rebellious. I don't know if that mindset had a direct effect on the fact that it took me so long to do so, but, this Friday as I stood over a camp stove preparing the fixings for an incredibly dense and starchy burrito, it struck me that this was the first time that I had ever gone camping with a group that was neither family nor church-affiliated. Just me and my pals. And beer, too. We had beer. And somehow we managed to be non-obnoxious. What fun.
The brief camping trip didn't entirely satiate my weekend thirst for nature, so on Sunday I drove out east of San Diego to Cleveland National Forrest and hiked the Big Laguna Trail. Although I would categorize my experience as mostly pleasant, I don't recommend this hike for hot sunny days (of which last Sunday was one), as the vast majority of it is out in a meadow and completely lacking in shade. The trail also diverges and splits off in several parts, so it's entirely possible to do what I did and intend to take maybe a two-hour hike and find yourself completing a four-and-a-half-hour one instead. In sunny, 85 °F weather, such a combination leads, most naturally, to utter exhaustion.
And this is, I think, how I grew up with the vague idea that going camping with one's friends ought to be regarded as somewhat edgy or even rebellious. I don't know if that mindset had a direct effect on the fact that it took me so long to do so, but, this Friday as I stood over a camp stove preparing the fixings for an incredibly dense and starchy burrito, it struck me that this was the first time that I had ever gone camping with a group that was neither family nor church-affiliated. Just me and my pals. And beer, too. We had beer. And somehow we managed to be non-obnoxious. What fun.
The brief camping trip didn't entirely satiate my weekend thirst for nature, so on Sunday I drove out east of San Diego to Cleveland National Forrest and hiked the Big Laguna Trail. Although I would categorize my experience as mostly pleasant, I don't recommend this hike for hot sunny days (of which last Sunday was one), as the vast majority of it is out in a meadow and completely lacking in shade. The trail also diverges and splits off in several parts, so it's entirely possible to do what I did and intend to take maybe a two-hour hike and find yourself completing a four-and-a-half-hour one instead. In sunny, 85 °F weather, such a combination leads, most naturally, to utter exhaustion.
25 June 2008
17 June 2008
the birds, the bees, and the Australian flame trees
With the weather being so pleasant lately, I’ve found a good deal of pleasure and relaxation in spending the afternoons lounging in my parents’ back yard with an interesting book in hand. As I read, I am often startled back into my surrounding by the whir of a curious hummingbird hovering inquisitively just a foot away from my head. I watch as it, satisfied that I am neither a threat nor a source of food, flits over to a nearby flower and inserts its beak into the blossom. Delightedly, I observe him move on to another flower, then another and another. How unaware he is of the entirely crucial rôle he is currently serving! He and the other birds and pollinating insects who frequent the garden are unwittingly responsible for the variety and general vitality of the flora therein, but to them it is simply a matter of sustenance. For the flowers, it is a matter of sustenance. For me, too, it’s a matter of sustenance, because I’m reliant on the plants and, indirectly, their pollinators for food. But where do I fit into the circle? Lounging on a deck chair beneath an umbrella, with a glass of ice water in one hand and a novel in the other, I feel like a bit of a freeloader.
I grew up in and lived in the same house my entire life, up until moving away for college. It’s the house where my parents still live today and the house where I’m currently residing as I wait for the next epoch in my life to take hold and whisk me away overseas. There’s a tree in the front yard that my parents planted before I was born—a Brachychiton acerifolius, more popularly known as an Australian flame tree, not very commonly seen in Southern California besides, perhaps, at the San Diego Zoo—with a thick, sturdy, and perfectly perpendicular trunk. Throughout my childhood I recognized that it was an exceptionally nice tree; it looked attractive and never made a big mess. When I was about fifteen years old, my parents were forced to remove the fig tree from our back yard because of its tenaciously expanding and increasingly-threatening roots system. To replace the empty space left in the lawn, they opted to plant a young Brachychiton, noting that the one in the front had served them so well for so many years.
The next spring, however, something happened which none of us could have anticipated: the new flame tree began sprouting a profundity of brilliant purple flowers and the old tree in the front yard, which had never before given any sort of bloom in all the years on our lot, broke out into a perfect profusion of reddish-violet blossoms. Amazing. We had never known or even suspected that this tree held the capacity for such splendor, but there it stood: decked out as magnificently as though it had been practicing this for years. It was cross-pollination with the flame tree in the back yard that finally allowed it to demonstrate the true full capacity of its inborn potential.
Naturally, I’m struck by the allegorical parallel that can be made between the cross-pollinating Australian flame trees and the self-actualization that comes through human communion; about how, so often, we are not free to truly be who we were created to be until another person calls it out in us.
Living at home these last few months has taught me several things about the importance of human relationships. It has also brought to the forefront of my mind several conundrums over the nature of family that remain, as of yet, unresolved. Why did God command his people to honor our father and mother? So that we wouldn’t put our hand on the stove or walk out into the street unattended? Or was there some deeper meaning?
Human relationships. I met with a few of my fellow future AETs for lunch on June 7th and am all the more excited about the amazing times we will have together in Japan over the next year. Laura Hoppe and Jared Christenson are married now, and their wedding was beyond beautiful. Jared Tharp lives in Senegal, but still finds time to chat with friends over the internet. And, as I write this, I’m aware that I need to start getting ready for work at the self-serve frozen yogurt place where I’ve been employed for almost a month. If you come in to visit, I can’t give you free yogurt. But I can feel happy that you are there, and tell you so.
I grew up in and lived in the same house my entire life, up until moving away for college. It’s the house where my parents still live today and the house where I’m currently residing as I wait for the next epoch in my life to take hold and whisk me away overseas. There’s a tree in the front yard that my parents planted before I was born—a Brachychiton acerifolius, more popularly known as an Australian flame tree, not very commonly seen in Southern California besides, perhaps, at the San Diego Zoo—with a thick, sturdy, and perfectly perpendicular trunk. Throughout my childhood I recognized that it was an exceptionally nice tree; it looked attractive and never made a big mess. When I was about fifteen years old, my parents were forced to remove the fig tree from our back yard because of its tenaciously expanding and increasingly-threatening roots system. To replace the empty space left in the lawn, they opted to plant a young Brachychiton, noting that the one in the front had served them so well for so many years.
The next spring, however, something happened which none of us could have anticipated: the new flame tree began sprouting a profundity of brilliant purple flowers and the old tree in the front yard, which had never before given any sort of bloom in all the years on our lot, broke out into a perfect profusion of reddish-violet blossoms. Amazing. We had never known or even suspected that this tree held the capacity for such splendor, but there it stood: decked out as magnificently as though it had been practicing this for years. It was cross-pollination with the flame tree in the back yard that finally allowed it to demonstrate the true full capacity of its inborn potential.
Naturally, I’m struck by the allegorical parallel that can be made between the cross-pollinating Australian flame trees and the self-actualization that comes through human communion; about how, so often, we are not free to truly be who we were created to be until another person calls it out in us.
Living at home these last few months has taught me several things about the importance of human relationships. It has also brought to the forefront of my mind several conundrums over the nature of family that remain, as of yet, unresolved. Why did God command his people to honor our father and mother? So that we wouldn’t put our hand on the stove or walk out into the street unattended? Or was there some deeper meaning?
Human relationships. I met with a few of my fellow future AETs for lunch on June 7th and am all the more excited about the amazing times we will have together in Japan over the next year. Laura Hoppe and Jared Christenson are married now, and their wedding was beyond beautiful. Jared Tharp lives in Senegal, but still finds time to chat with friends over the internet. And, as I write this, I’m aware that I need to start getting ready for work at the self-serve frozen yogurt place where I’ve been employed for almost a month. If you come in to visit, I can’t give you free yogurt. But I can feel happy that you are there, and tell you so.
02 June 2008
Das Bunker, das Gute
Okay, you got me: I don't speak German. But that doesn't stop me from believing that there are few things in life more enjoyable than taking a good turn on the dance floor to some dirty German techno hit whose only lyric I can confidently say I comprehend is its hypnotic refrain of "Deutschland." As a matter of fact, the only thing I can think of that's more enjoyable than taking said turn on said dance floor to said German techno jam is doing so with Mr. Christopher Heintz, who could probably easily make it onto anyone's shortlist of favorite dance partners of all time.
So, when Chris facebooked me earlier last week and proposed that I join him and a few others to Das Bunker on Friday night, consideration didn't even come under consideration. I was there.
Trying to describe the night would be superfluous. Of course it was great. The pictures below I hope will suffice as testaments. I love dancing. More than almost anything. Period.
My point is this: please come visit me while I'm in Japan so we can go dancing together. See you there.
So, when Chris facebooked me earlier last week and proposed that I join him and a few others to Das Bunker on Friday night, consideration didn't even come under consideration. I was there.
Trying to describe the night would be superfluous. Of course it was great. The pictures below I hope will suffice as testaments. I love dancing. More than almost anything. Period.
My point is this: please come visit me while I'm in Japan so we can go dancing together. See you there.
18 May 2008
hey, this is kind of fun!
Yesterday was a nice day. I read, wrote in my journal, played the piano, made art, listened to music, played games, spent relatively little time on the internet, and felt overall rather good. But, in spite of all the niceness going on around me, I couldn't shake off that feeling that I should be doing something more "productive." I check my bank account again and feel the anxiousness for fiscal stability creeping up and suffocating my ability to relax and enjoy life. I express these concerns to a family member and they reply, "Then get a job." They make it sound so easy. In the past, it always was.
There are a few books I've been reading lately that have been helping me through this particularly discombobulating state of being. The first of those is Madeleine L'Engle's Walking on Water, which I had to read once in college and was recently recommended to me as a valuable re-read. L'Engle, who passed away last September and was most famous for her "children's" novel A Wrinkle in Time, which I read several times and deeply adored as a child, uses the 240 pages of Walking on Water to explore the tenacious question of what it means to be a Christian artist. Though I don't always agree with everything L'Engle says in this book, and though I find some of her many digressions to be rather confusing, distracting, or simply unnecessary, I'm reassured and chastened by her reminder that taking time to "be" is not only admissible, it's strongly advisable, and should certainly not be regarded as a waste of time. She states,
Again with the example of standing in line. I guess the image appeals to me because it's an effective microcosm of my situation in life right now. Somewhere up ahead in the future I see Japan and an exciting new life there. In the meantime, I'm waiting. And the more I focus on the wait, the slower it seems to go by.
Madeleine L'Engle says a lot about time: about the difference between twenty-four-hour-a-day chronos-time and the measureless kairos-time in which God dwells and in which we, as poets and saints, are called to dwell as well. I'm learning to focus more on the kairos, to pray and play the piano more often, to write stories and teach myself to juggle (seriously, I'm starting to get pretty good at it, too).
Having a job is important. I can't deny this much. We live on a physical planet that rotates around the sun and is therefor governed by time. And time is money, no? Nothing has ever made that particular cliché more resonantly true than having a tedious eight-to-five job. And I'm sure I'll have many more tedious eight-to-five jobs before I reach the age of retirement. But before and when that comes, I hope to continuously look to Jesus for direction in most effectively filling the hours I am given; to put more effort into serving him and the creative passions God has given me than into serving my bank account; and to watch in awe as he miraculously provides.
There are a few books I've been reading lately that have been helping me through this particularly discombobulating state of being. The first of those is Madeleine L'Engle's Walking on Water, which I had to read once in college and was recently recommended to me as a valuable re-read. L'Engle, who passed away last September and was most famous for her "children's" novel A Wrinkle in Time, which I read several times and deeply adored as a child, uses the 240 pages of Walking on Water to explore the tenacious question of what it means to be a Christian artist. Though I don't always agree with everything L'Engle says in this book, and though I find some of her many digressions to be rather confusing, distracting, or simply unnecessary, I'm reassured and chastened by her reminder that taking time to "be" is not only admissible, it's strongly advisable, and should certainly not be regarded as a waste of time. She states,
A more subtle time waster is being bored. Jesus was never bored. If we allow our "high creativity" to remain alive, we will never be bored. We can pray, standing in line at the supermarket. Or we can be lost in awe at all the people around us, their lives full of glory and tragedy, and suddenly we will have the beginnings of a painting, a story, a song (108).Along the same lines I found personal reassurance in Gabrielle Bell's graphic novel, Lucky. Bell recounts the tedium of unemployment, the torment of taking jobs modeling for art classes in order to make some quick, easy cash, and the accompanying feelings of uselessness and degradation. She then demonstrates how she uses the memory of these unpleasant emotions to cheer herself up later on. In one panel, she stands in an unmoving line, thinking, "I hate this! Wait a minute, I'm not modeling. Hey, this is kind of fun!" (9).
Again with the example of standing in line. I guess the image appeals to me because it's an effective microcosm of my situation in life right now. Somewhere up ahead in the future I see Japan and an exciting new life there. In the meantime, I'm waiting. And the more I focus on the wait, the slower it seems to go by.
Madeleine L'Engle says a lot about time: about the difference between twenty-four-hour-a-day chronos-time and the measureless kairos-time in which God dwells and in which we, as poets and saints, are called to dwell as well. I'm learning to focus more on the kairos, to pray and play the piano more often, to write stories and teach myself to juggle (seriously, I'm starting to get pretty good at it, too).
Having a job is important. I can't deny this much. We live on a physical planet that rotates around the sun and is therefor governed by time. And time is money, no? Nothing has ever made that particular cliché more resonantly true than having a tedious eight-to-five job. And I'm sure I'll have many more tedious eight-to-five jobs before I reach the age of retirement. But before and when that comes, I hope to continuously look to Jesus for direction in most effectively filling the hours I am given; to put more effort into serving him and the creative passions God has given me than into serving my bank account; and to watch in awe as he miraculously provides.
12 May 2008
真岡!
Tonight I did something I had imagined I wouldn't be able to do until ten years from now: I finished paying off my student loans. Entirely thanks to a wholly unanticipated and incredibly generous gift, the burden of debt was prematurely lifted from my shoulders and I found myself confronted with a staggering sensation of freedom.
But wait. It gets better.
On Thursday evening, May 8, I received a phone call from Mr. Steve Bishop of Glendora, California's Sister-City Program informing me of my acceptance for the position of Assistant English Teacher (AET) in Moka City, Japan. The program sends six Americans overseas each year to teach English in one of six junior high schools in Moka, providing the AETs with housing, airfare to and from the country, a generous salary, medical and dental benefits...even a bicycle to ride to school in the morning. On top of all this, my dear friend Josiah was also accepted for the program, meaning that I will not only have the opportunity to live in an exciting new place and experience another culture for a year (at least), but that I will be able to share these things with someone whom I'm already close to.
So there you have it: in four months I will be living in Japan, working at the job of my dreams and encountering people, things, ideas, and places that I now can't even begin to anticipate. Until then, I'll enjoy the freedom of not having to worry about student loans. To boot, I also happen to be single, childless, lacking of any major investments, real estate, or basically anything that requires dramatic overseeing or concern on my part. My oh my. What a place to be.
The purpose of this blog then, I suppose, is not just to reflect gratuitously on the amazingness of my current situation, but also to posit this little question: when given three and a half solid months of absolute uninhibited freedom, but also very little money with which to explore it, what should one do? Find a crummy summer job so as to save up a little pocket change for that first month abroad? Say to hell with it and move to Monterrey, CA or some other not-very-exotic-but-still-interesting place to spend the time writing and working at some crummy job that pays the rent but allows no pocket change for the first month in Japan? Or something else that I haven't even considered?
I don't think anyone ever reads this blog whom I don't love. The very fact that you do read it, despite the fact that I seldom have anything interesting in insightful to say, makes you all the dearer to me. And so your input is valuable to me here. Or lack of input, even. I just love you so gosh darn much.
*Translation of title: "Moka!"
But wait. It gets better.
On Thursday evening, May 8, I received a phone call from Mr. Steve Bishop of Glendora, California's Sister-City Program informing me of my acceptance for the position of Assistant English Teacher (AET) in Moka City, Japan. The program sends six Americans overseas each year to teach English in one of six junior high schools in Moka, providing the AETs with housing, airfare to and from the country, a generous salary, medical and dental benefits...even a bicycle to ride to school in the morning. On top of all this, my dear friend Josiah was also accepted for the program, meaning that I will not only have the opportunity to live in an exciting new place and experience another culture for a year (at least), but that I will be able to share these things with someone whom I'm already close to.
So there you have it: in four months I will be living in Japan, working at the job of my dreams and encountering people, things, ideas, and places that I now can't even begin to anticipate. Until then, I'll enjoy the freedom of not having to worry about student loans. To boot, I also happen to be single, childless, lacking of any major investments, real estate, or basically anything that requires dramatic overseeing or concern on my part. My oh my. What a place to be.
The purpose of this blog then, I suppose, is not just to reflect gratuitously on the amazingness of my current situation, but also to posit this little question: when given three and a half solid months of absolute uninhibited freedom, but also very little money with which to explore it, what should one do? Find a crummy summer job so as to save up a little pocket change for that first month abroad? Say to hell with it and move to Monterrey, CA or some other not-very-exotic-but-still-interesting place to spend the time writing and working at some crummy job that pays the rent but allows no pocket change for the first month in Japan? Or something else that I haven't even considered?
I don't think anyone ever reads this blog whom I don't love. The very fact that you do read it, despite the fact that I seldom have anything interesting in insightful to say, makes you all the dearer to me. And so your input is valuable to me here. Or lack of input, even. I just love you so gosh darn much.
*Translation of title: "Moka!"
30 April 2008
the pushover
This morning the vice principle at the San Diego Academy called to ask if I could sub for the same second grade class I subbed for on Friday. I told her I didn't feel well.
Tonight she called me again, explaining that their second grade teacher was very ill and out with the flu. Could I possibly sub for her tomorrow?
I am pretty extremely benevolent.
Tonight she called me again, explaining that their second grade teacher was very ill and out with the flu. Could I possibly sub for her tomorrow?
I am pretty extremely benevolent.
28 April 2008
a tale of 22 2nd-graders and a 22-year-old substitute teacher without the capacity to control them
A little girl named Cielo sits on a chair in the front of a classroom, explaining to twenty-one of her peers that the little stuffed teddy bear on her lap is her fourteenth favorite toy. Though my mind is fettered with the anxiety of a long, miserable day in the clutches of an unruly, disobedient, and disrespectful room of second graders, I allow myself to appreciate, briefly, that in this moment they are cute. Though difficult, they are not evil. This day has probably been the most miserable working day of my life to date, but if nothing else, it has provided me with this: the reconfirmation that I just don’t really like being around little kids very much. And I sure as hell never want to teach them.
With my interview for an English teaching job in Moka City, Japan coming up on Friday, I lament that my first experience as a substitute teacher provided only prolonged torture, rather than any recognizable insights on classroom management or pedagogical theory. All I did, it seems, was stand in front of a classroom for five hours and yell at children to be quiet, stay in their seats, stop calling each other names, and use their markers to color on paper, not on each other’s faces. Certainly, this one disastrous day does not compel me to toss out all at once my ambitions of being a teacher. But I wish there had been something—anything—positive about it.
If I ever sub for early elementary school again, it will only be out of extreme benevolence or else financial desperation. Fortunately, the program in Moka involves teaching at the junior high level. Preteens, I can relate to. Seven-year-olds who scrupulously serialize their favorite toys and run to me every five minutes to tell on each other, not so much.
THE END
P.S.: I hope that this blog post will not leave me misunderstood in terms of my feelings towards kids. It’s not that I dislike young children or that I don’t believe they can do or say adorable things from time to time. I also think that polar bears are cute. But I don’t want to be trapped in a classroom with twenty-two of them for five hours. Yes, it's the same thing.
With my interview for an English teaching job in Moka City, Japan coming up on Friday, I lament that my first experience as a substitute teacher provided only prolonged torture, rather than any recognizable insights on classroom management or pedagogical theory. All I did, it seems, was stand in front of a classroom for five hours and yell at children to be quiet, stay in their seats, stop calling each other names, and use their markers to color on paper, not on each other’s faces. Certainly, this one disastrous day does not compel me to toss out all at once my ambitions of being a teacher. But I wish there had been something—anything—positive about it.
If I ever sub for early elementary school again, it will only be out of extreme benevolence or else financial desperation. Fortunately, the program in Moka involves teaching at the junior high level. Preteens, I can relate to. Seven-year-olds who scrupulously serialize their favorite toys and run to me every five minutes to tell on each other, not so much.
THE END
P.S.: I hope that this blog post will not leave me misunderstood in terms of my feelings towards kids. It’s not that I dislike young children or that I don’t believe they can do or say adorable things from time to time. I also think that polar bears are cute. But I don’t want to be trapped in a classroom with twenty-two of them for five hours. Yes, it's the same thing.
23 April 2008
peanut butter pie and the pursuit of paid work
It quickly closes in on three months since I packed up my life in Azusa and moved down to my city of origin--San Diego--and the search for secure employment has begun to look, admittedly, rather bleak. Each week I send out perhaps five or so résumés to prospective employers and each week I receive this many calls in response: zero. Miraculously, I manage to ward off depression most of the time by surrounding myself with books and the eager self-reminder that, surely, international employers will not be nearly as choosey and I'll almost certainly nail an overseas teaching job before the summer wears through.
Sigh.
Then today, at last, the moment I've been waiting for finally arrived: the principal at a local private Christian school called me up to see if I could substitute for a second grade class on Friday. Well, it's a start. I happily agreed. And, although, to be honest, the idea of being stuck in a room for five hours (it's a half-day [thank God]) with twenty-two seven- and eight-year-olds completely terrifies me, I'm looking forward to the change of scenery. Not that I don't cherish the warm glow of my laptop screen against my retinas for hours upon hours, day after day; but my fish, Bludough, and I have simply run out of things to say to each other.
This afternoon, in an unceremonious act of celebration for myself, I assembled a delectably rich peanut butter cream pie. The recipe came from Vegan with a Vengeance, which is still easily my favorite cookbook ever. I swear, it tasted as good as it looks. If not better.
In conclusion, I like this band. I just bought their new album and it is good.
Sigh.
Then today, at last, the moment I've been waiting for finally arrived: the principal at a local private Christian school called me up to see if I could substitute for a second grade class on Friday. Well, it's a start. I happily agreed. And, although, to be honest, the idea of being stuck in a room for five hours (it's a half-day [thank God]) with twenty-two seven- and eight-year-olds completely terrifies me, I'm looking forward to the change of scenery. Not that I don't cherish the warm glow of my laptop screen against my retinas for hours upon hours, day after day; but my fish, Bludough, and I have simply run out of things to say to each other.
This afternoon, in an unceremonious act of celebration for myself, I assembled a delectably rich peanut butter cream pie. The recipe came from Vegan with a Vengeance, which is still easily my favorite cookbook ever. I swear, it tasted as good as it looks. If not better.
In conclusion, I like this band. I just bought their new album and it is good.
27 March 2008
12 March 2008
more like home
Slowly--amid studying frantically for the GRE subject test on Literature in English, planning an irresponsible seven-day escape to Mexico City, and trying haphazardly to get hired as a substitute in the local school district--the elements are coming together.
Mostly, I found, the solution was more color.
Mostly, I found, the solution was more color.
27 February 2008
regressa
Indulgent? Indubitably. For the unbeatable price of $176USD I've just booked a return flight to Mexico City with the budget airline AVIACSA.
I visited D.F. for the first time this last August, with the lovely and intrepid Marie Hafeman. The capital city had been a long-standing Mecca for the both of us, to which she and I--separately and severely--had desired to venture for a long, long time. At last, we had discovered this desire in one another and happily became travel companions to that fervently anticipated destination. We saw ancient ruins, lush parks, ornate cathedrals, solicitous squirrels, massive monuments, seemingly endless museums, a lot of old things, and a lot of new things. I ate the most delicious churro of my life and watched an old man guide Marie through a few Aztec dance steps amid a group of casual street performers. In short, it was wonderful. And I was hooked.
So now I'm going back. For only seven days, which I already predict will not feel like enough. So I may even do it again before the year's out. I can't help recognizing that, in my current financial situation (no job and, responsively, a rapidly dwindling bank account), the move is irresponsible and purely self-gratifying. Oh, well. At least I'm going to Mexico City.
I visited D.F. for the first time this last August, with the lovely and intrepid Marie Hafeman. The capital city had been a long-standing Mecca for the both of us, to which she and I--separately and severely--had desired to venture for a long, long time. At last, we had discovered this desire in one another and happily became travel companions to that fervently anticipated destination. We saw ancient ruins, lush parks, ornate cathedrals, solicitous squirrels, massive monuments, seemingly endless museums, a lot of old things, and a lot of new things. I ate the most delicious churro of my life and watched an old man guide Marie through a few Aztec dance steps amid a group of casual street performers. In short, it was wonderful. And I was hooked.
So now I'm going back. For only seven days, which I already predict will not feel like enough. So I may even do it again before the year's out. I can't help recognizing that, in my current financial situation (no job and, responsively, a rapidly dwindling bank account), the move is irresponsible and purely self-gratifying. Oh, well. At least I'm going to Mexico City.
19 February 2008
Frankie
I've been trying to come up with a reasonable excuse to post gratuitous photos of my cat on the internet, but I'm just going to haul off and do it. She is after all, precious.
Update: as I was lying on my bed, writing this, she hopped up on my bed, curled up by my feet, and fell asleep instantaneously. Yes!
Her name is Frankie. She is less than a year old and a lot smaller than our other cat. What she lacks in size she makes up for in love.
Update: as I was lying on my bed, writing this, she hopped up on my bed, curled up by my feet, and fell asleep instantaneously. Yes!
Her name is Frankie. She is less than a year old and a lot smaller than our other cat. What she lacks in size she makes up for in love.
17 February 2008
Shakespeare to the rescue!
Lately I’ve been reading a lot about William Shakespeare. I recently finished Anthony Burgess’ imaginative biography and I’m now well into Stephen Greenblatt's own award-nominated study on the life of The Bard. It’s been fascinating. Throughout my formal education, I’ve had a guiltily unoriginal obsession (when people find out I’m a Literature major, I always feel like they want me to have a more unique response to the inevitable conversation provoker: “Who’s your favorite author?”) with Shakespeare. So I felt that now—over a year out of college and currently without full-time employment—was as good a time as any to make an invested effort in learning more about him as a person.
Despite being widely accepted as the greatest playwright of all time, Shakespeare “the man” remains largely an impenetrably equivocal figure. There just isn’t a lot of hard historical evidence about his personal life. As Burgess put it, “Infuriatingly, whenever Shakespeare does something other than buy a lease or write a play, history shuts her jaws with a snap.” As my recent readings have led me to discover, any detailed biography of the glover’s son from Stratford must rely heavily on speculation.
For instance, there is a period of Shakespeare’s life, between his leaving Latin Grammar School in the 1670s to his appearance in the London theatre scene in the early 1690s, about which we know close to nothing. Plenty of scholars like to speculate that he worked as a schoolteacher or a lawyer’s clerk (which would account for the professional familiarity with legal vernacular that he demonstrates in several of his plays), but we do know this much: he didn’t attend university, produce plays, or do anything of historical notability for over a decade.
Suddenly I feel an intimate connection with this mysterious genius from the past. It’s possible that, if anyone would forgive my lack of tangible productivity at this point in my life, Shakespeare would. I like to imagine him at my age: working odd jobs; studying up on classic literature, recent history, or whatever seemed to tickle his fancy; living with his parents (yes, Shakespeare likely lived with his parents following his shotgun marriage to Anne Hathaway and before moving to London); listening to a lot of Mirah and Damien Rice on his iPod; looking forward to something greater.
I guess if Shakespeare had an awkward transitional phase in life, then I can have one, too. It has been all too easy to become frustrated by the books that warn me that no respectable graduate program will want to take me if I’ve spent more than a year or two out of college, or to see my peers already locked into life paths that I’ve yet to find the trailhead for; but at least I’m in good company.
Despite being widely accepted as the greatest playwright of all time, Shakespeare “the man” remains largely an impenetrably equivocal figure. There just isn’t a lot of hard historical evidence about his personal life. As Burgess put it, “Infuriatingly, whenever Shakespeare does something other than buy a lease or write a play, history shuts her jaws with a snap.” As my recent readings have led me to discover, any detailed biography of the glover’s son from Stratford must rely heavily on speculation.
For instance, there is a period of Shakespeare’s life, between his leaving Latin Grammar School in the 1670s to his appearance in the London theatre scene in the early 1690s, about which we know close to nothing. Plenty of scholars like to speculate that he worked as a schoolteacher or a lawyer’s clerk (which would account for the professional familiarity with legal vernacular that he demonstrates in several of his plays), but we do know this much: he didn’t attend university, produce plays, or do anything of historical notability for over a decade.
Suddenly I feel an intimate connection with this mysterious genius from the past. It’s possible that, if anyone would forgive my lack of tangible productivity at this point in my life, Shakespeare would. I like to imagine him at my age: working odd jobs; studying up on classic literature, recent history, or whatever seemed to tickle his fancy; living with his parents (yes, Shakespeare likely lived with his parents following his shotgun marriage to Anne Hathaway and before moving to London); listening to a lot of Mirah and Damien Rice on his iPod; looking forward to something greater.
I guess if Shakespeare had an awkward transitional phase in life, then I can have one, too. It has been all too easy to become frustrated by the books that warn me that no respectable graduate program will want to take me if I’ve spent more than a year or two out of college, or to see my peers already locked into life paths that I’ve yet to find the trailhead for; but at least I’m in good company.
13 February 2008
happy new year...seriously
One week ago I sat in an Ash Wednesday service at my church, Mountainside Communion in Monrovia, and I felt sad. Yes, the somber nature of the event was undoubtedly influential in my realization of this emotion, and the solemnity of Jesus’ incomparable sacrifice might have had something to do with it too, but, moreover, I was sad because, for the first time, surrounded by fellow church members, it fully occurred to me just how much I was going to miss being a part of that community.
You see, I’ve moved. For two whole days now I’ve named the residence of my dear parents, Wes and Nancy Janssen, my own. And this would be a largely positive thing were it not for the miserably unconquerable detail that they, indeed, live neither in Azusa nor in any of the neighboring cities in the San Gabriel Valley nor even in Los Angeles County, for that matter. They live (and I, too, now) in San Diego. Which is too far from my former and beloved roommate, too far from the overwhelming majority of those I call my friends, and generally outside the feasible realm of consistent Sunday commuting to my (former…sigh) church.
The move wasn’t heavily premeditated. And the actual date and time of the moving quite spontaneously selected, the hastiness of it all merely a reflection of my pesky bank account’s ever-increasing pressure on me to find a job. The move came, strangely enough, almost exactly one year to date from my decision, as a recently college-graduated young adult, to leave the nest for what I then assumed would be once-and-for-all and pursue the lifestyle of a fully independent young professional.
As the story goes, I was sometimes miserable in this situation, but mostly incredibly happy. I hated the job that I got. It was demanding and stressful and in no way remotely related to anything I wanted to be doing with my life. But I had a lot of freedom. And I had a conglomeration of my peers close by, however much my recent emancipation from the local educational community acted as a barrier to my feeling completely at home there. Thanks to my unsatisfying job, I was able to save up enough money to spend the whole summer relaxing and accomplished a notable feat in the completion of my first novel. No matter how depressed I might work myself up to feel about the fact that I’m still not in graduate school or at least somewhere abroad, comically struggling to adjust to the affectations of a foreign culture, I cannot deny this: 2007 was significant.
It has taken me a while to come around to this optimistic conclusion, and so I think it might be an appropriate time to start pinning a similarly positive expectation on 2008. Altogether, I find it hard to believe that I will finish up the year still living with my parents. I still have that jocularly cavalier New Year’s resolution that I now suppose I ought to make an effort to live up to: to live in Japan. And there was that sad but knowing look my former boss gave me when I told her I was quitting and she responded affectionately that she always knew I wouldn’t be a long-term employee.
I’m going to do exciting things this year. The world is my goddamn oyster and—sitting on a guestroom bed surrounded by the redecorated remnants of a room I used to call my own—I can’t say that I’ve ever believed it more. It’s not as though God gave me a mind and body that could be content working ad infinitum in a job that requires no more than a bachelor’s degree and my drudgingly apathetic loyalty. I think I genuinely like life; the logical response would be for me to live it.
You see, I’ve moved. For two whole days now I’ve named the residence of my dear parents, Wes and Nancy Janssen, my own. And this would be a largely positive thing were it not for the miserably unconquerable detail that they, indeed, live neither in Azusa nor in any of the neighboring cities in the San Gabriel Valley nor even in Los Angeles County, for that matter. They live (and I, too, now) in San Diego. Which is too far from my former and beloved roommate, too far from the overwhelming majority of those I call my friends, and generally outside the feasible realm of consistent Sunday commuting to my (former…sigh) church.
The move wasn’t heavily premeditated. And the actual date and time of the moving quite spontaneously selected, the hastiness of it all merely a reflection of my pesky bank account’s ever-increasing pressure on me to find a job. The move came, strangely enough, almost exactly one year to date from my decision, as a recently college-graduated young adult, to leave the nest for what I then assumed would be once-and-for-all and pursue the lifestyle of a fully independent young professional.
As the story goes, I was sometimes miserable in this situation, but mostly incredibly happy. I hated the job that I got. It was demanding and stressful and in no way remotely related to anything I wanted to be doing with my life. But I had a lot of freedom. And I had a conglomeration of my peers close by, however much my recent emancipation from the local educational community acted as a barrier to my feeling completely at home there. Thanks to my unsatisfying job, I was able to save up enough money to spend the whole summer relaxing and accomplished a notable feat in the completion of my first novel. No matter how depressed I might work myself up to feel about the fact that I’m still not in graduate school or at least somewhere abroad, comically struggling to adjust to the affectations of a foreign culture, I cannot deny this: 2007 was significant.
It has taken me a while to come around to this optimistic conclusion, and so I think it might be an appropriate time to start pinning a similarly positive expectation on 2008. Altogether, I find it hard to believe that I will finish up the year still living with my parents. I still have that jocularly cavalier New Year’s resolution that I now suppose I ought to make an effort to live up to: to live in Japan. And there was that sad but knowing look my former boss gave me when I told her I was quitting and she responded affectionately that she always knew I wouldn’t be a long-term employee.
I’m going to do exciting things this year. The world is my goddamn oyster and—sitting on a guestroom bed surrounded by the redecorated remnants of a room I used to call my own—I can’t say that I’ve ever believed it more. It’s not as though God gave me a mind and body that could be content working ad infinitum in a job that requires no more than a bachelor’s degree and my drudgingly apathetic loyalty. I think I genuinely like life; the logical response would be for me to live it.
30 January 2008
My first real exploit into Indian cuisine, by way of the blessed vessle that is vegan cookery
Never really made my own Indian food before tonight. Sure, I like to pick up a packet of Indian Fare from Trader Joe's, heat it over the stove and put it on some basmati rice from time to time, but as far as making it myself from scratch is concerned, I never before considered I had it in me.
The cookbook I worked from was Madhur Jaffrey's Quick & Easy Indian Cooking, which was just reprinted last year with some dazzlingly gorgeous new photos of featured dishes. Now, as far as the eponymous claim that the recipes are "quick" and "easy," I don't have the personal experience to verify whether these dishes are either relatively fast or untroublesome to prepare. What I can say is that the two recipes that I used — "Whole Green Lentils with Cilantro and Mint" and "Rice with Peas and Dill" — took a combined total of about an hour and twenty minutes to complete. And they were quite involved, requiring a large number of different ingredients and, in the case of the lentil dish, such fancy kitchen appliances as a pressure cooker (I, personally, do not own a pressure cooker. Instead, I just used extra water and cooked the lentils over the stove in a covered skillet. The results were not bad). All this being said, I have often heard that Indian food is difficult and demanding to prepare, and my first experience with it proved no less. As far as the helpfulness of my cookbook in alleviating the general challenge of this particular cuisine is concerned: I will post a more educated review once I have had adequate time to better familiarize myself with the various recipes (or at the vegan [or vegan-ize-able] ones!).
The best part of the meal, however, in my own opinion, was a yogurt cucumber sauce that I constructed from my own personal recipe, which I am now at liberty to share:
Vegan Tzatziki (Serves 2 - 4)
This is a great sauce for pretty much any kind of Middle Eastern food, or it can be enjoyed on its own as a light, refreshing snack. To make it you will need:
6 oz. of plain soy yogurt
juice from 1/2 a lemon
1/2 large or one whole small cucumber, peeled and diced into tiny pieces
about 2 tbsp fresh mint, finely chopped
1/2 tsp garlic powder
1/2 tsp ground black pepper
1/4 tsp salt
Whisk soy yogurt in a bowl so that it has an even texture throughout. Add lemon juice and mix well. Mix in remaining ingredients. Serve cold.
My roommate wasn't super keen on it but I love this stuff! I could eat it every day.
The cookbook I worked from was Madhur Jaffrey's Quick & Easy Indian Cooking, which was just reprinted last year with some dazzlingly gorgeous new photos of featured dishes. Now, as far as the eponymous claim that the recipes are "quick" and "easy," I don't have the personal experience to verify whether these dishes are either relatively fast or untroublesome to prepare. What I can say is that the two recipes that I used — "Whole Green Lentils with Cilantro and Mint" and "Rice with Peas and Dill" — took a combined total of about an hour and twenty minutes to complete. And they were quite involved, requiring a large number of different ingredients and, in the case of the lentil dish, such fancy kitchen appliances as a pressure cooker (I, personally, do not own a pressure cooker. Instead, I just used extra water and cooked the lentils over the stove in a covered skillet. The results were not bad). All this being said, I have often heard that Indian food is difficult and demanding to prepare, and my first experience with it proved no less. As far as the helpfulness of my cookbook in alleviating the general challenge of this particular cuisine is concerned: I will post a more educated review once I have had adequate time to better familiarize myself with the various recipes (or at the vegan [or vegan-ize-able] ones!).
The best part of the meal, however, in my own opinion, was a yogurt cucumber sauce that I constructed from my own personal recipe, which I am now at liberty to share:
Vegan Tzatziki (Serves 2 - 4)
This is a great sauce for pretty much any kind of Middle Eastern food, or it can be enjoyed on its own as a light, refreshing snack. To make it you will need:
6 oz. of plain soy yogurt
juice from 1/2 a lemon
1/2 large or one whole small cucumber, peeled and diced into tiny pieces
about 2 tbsp fresh mint, finely chopped
1/2 tsp garlic powder
1/2 tsp ground black pepper
1/4 tsp salt
Whisk soy yogurt in a bowl so that it has an even texture throughout. Add lemon juice and mix well. Mix in remaining ingredients. Serve cold.
My roommate wasn't super keen on it but I love this stuff! I could eat it every day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
