once again

Well, all my stuff is ready and compiled, except for my writing samples that I will print out at the Odegaard Library. At approximately 2:30 today I will have just turned in my application for the UW's English doctoral program. Here's hoping the English classes I took this summer and fall earn me some brownie points. They were quite fun/stimulating/freakin hard/yet interesting at the very least.

"blogging and blugging"

Interesting article.

Religion and Tech?

In Jerry Seinfeld's latest interview, he discloses how he used tenets of Scientology to improve his interpersonal communication and performance skills, going so far to say as "It's all technology."

In another article also posted today on msnbc, tech is used to create Jesus 2.0. The proliferation of Christian based, or faith based websites is being touted as shifting the way we worship.

Now I use a few websites myself for theological questions - enduringword.com being one. But does this really change the way I worship? I'm definitely getting more information, perhaps more quickly than in the past when I would have waited for an opportunity to talk to someone with expertise in the area I had questions about.

In the Jesus 2.0 article, this quote disturbed me, and really gets to the point of this post.

"Spark Networks spokeswoman Gail Laguna argues that religion has a real power to pull together a niche market online" (my emphasis).

Not addressed in this article is how these online sites are being funded. Pop up ads? Donations? Specific churches funding them? When Seinfeld took Scientology classes, how much did he have to pay for them.

I'm finding this recent conflation of technology and religion, all the while ignoring the undergirding economic forces, highly disturbing.

Slate.com has quite a few instances of this, albeit a bit more implicit. "Blogging the Bible" was quite popular on the front page for a few months. There was recently a bit of buzz concerning the man who lived every rule (really?) of the Bible for an entire year. Now, journalism, especially online journalism, is a bit trickier to unpack in terms of economics, besides the fact that journalists want to get paid. But in the case of the Biblical guinea pig, he had a book coming out describing his experiences.

letters

In the past year and a half, three close friends moved to San Francisco, Kansas, and Singapore. Add to that my graduating around the same time and no longer having an excuse to foray from the Eastside over to Seattle = stalking friends on Facebook for information on their quotidian pastimes.

I love writing letters. I've asked various friends for their home addresses in the hopes of maintaining pen pal relationships with at least a few that have minutes to spend jotting down their life on paper. And I received my first return from that small effort yesterday. My one friend from Kansas wrote me a beautiful note (her handwriting is sooo much better than mine) and expressed her hopes that we could become even better friends through writing. I definitely think we can, but I asked myself why is it easier to maintain a friendship for some with letters, some with emails? Being in the letter department, which seems to be fast dying, I'm especially curious.

Now, my friend and I are both writers/Engl majors, and we both tend to like the idea of writing in general. The connotations of some old (now dead) British dude writing a classic fable by the hearth side with quill pen and ink on parchment hold infinitely more novel appeal for us than email.

How about Facebook? Well, the layout doesn't seem especially conducive to long letters about personal feelings, aspirations, hopes and dreams. One would have to use up half the page to equal the size of a normal hand written letter. Plus, the Wall is public, and messages are (possibly) checked by moderators.

Yet this whole tech thing isn't going away. What space do letters occupy in the era where we have both Facebook and pen and paper? (It was via Facebook that I got my friend's address) Hopefully the novelty of the letter will keep a few devoted people pushing through hand cramps in honor of this form of communication.

Bald heads forgetful of their sins,
Old, learned, respectable bald heads
Edit and annotate the lines
That young men, tossing on their beds,
Rhymed out in love's despair
To flatter beauty's innocent ear.
All shuffle there; all cough in ink;
All wear the carpet with their shoes;
All think what other people think;
All know the man their neighbour knows.
Lord, what would they say
Did their Catullus walk that way?
In contrast is Barry Spacks' "Freshmen":
Full of certainties and reasons,
or uncertainties and reason,
full of reasons as a conch contains the sea,
they wait; for the term's first bell;
for another mismatched wrestle through the year;
for a teacher who's religious in his art,
a wizard of a sort, to call the role
and from mere names
cause people
to appear.
The best look like the swinging door
to the Opera just before
the Marx Brothers break through.
The worst -- debased,
on the back row,
as far as one can go
from speech --
are walls where childish scribbling's been erased;
are stones
to teach.
And I am paid to ask them questions:
Dare man proceed by need alone?
Did Esau like
his pottage?
Is any heart in order after Belsen?
And when one stops to think, I'll catch his heel,
put scissors to him, excavate his chest!
Watch, freshmen, for my words about the past
can make you turn your back. I wait to throw,
most foul, most foul, the future in your face.
~ William Butler Yeats

children's authors

So, I've been on a kick of rereading my old books from childhood, partially inspired by my sister hauling them all up from the basement. I realized that I threw some of them out in the folly of youth, writing them off as too boring or "little kid" for me. Imagine my shock to find that some of them have been out of print for years, and that the classics of my youth are being replaced by Harry Potter wannabes.

When I was younger, Pippi Longstocking, The Rescuers, and The Cricket in Times Square taught me that imagination is wonderful, mice are resourceful, and cats like singing along with Slim Whitman. Good, silly, fun. Now the kids section of Barnes and Noble is filled with book after book about vampires, werewolves, magicians, and sorcerers. Is this necessarily a bad thing? No, I loved the Dealing with Dragons series when I was younger. But seriously, does a twelve year old girl need to be fantasizing about falling in love with a vampire, or a vampire/werewolf? Or whatever combo the authors of today will come up with next to sell paper?

There was only one copy of The Cricket, squelched in between multiple copies of the latest fad series.

If the writing was actually palatable, I might be able to look at this differently. But flipping through a few of these 'novels' reveals a liberal dose of melodrama and sensuality/violence in place of good writing.

There is another disturbing trend of the grade school author, most likely jumpstarted by the success of Eragon. Do I think young people should be encouraged to explore, create, and write? Yes. Do I think it should be published and held up as a standard of writing? No. Part of the reason we are so encouraged to read as kids is because reading helps us with our own writing and overall comprehension of the world. Twelve year olds should not be looking to twelve year old writing, but beyond.

Keep your heart healthy.

I'm missing something. I've taken dance for most of my life. And I don't know what I'm supposed to do with it now. Am I just supposed to teach, treat it as a great job during grad school? I want to choreograph more, and now that I'm getting older I want to perform. I was blessed with getting to perform at such amazing venues as The Paramount/Moore Theatres when I was younger. Standing ovations at age fourteen are pretty awesome things. I need to find where I am supposed to go from here in this interim year, but I'm not sure where to start.

I have problems with anger. Not acting on it, no violence, but it's still there, simmering away in a stew of ressentiment. Now, another qualification, I've come a long ways in the last year. But it still comes out when I hear another student griping about how tough their life is, sometimes with good reason and sometimes not, and I realize that I'm thinking "But I've got it worse" or something similar. Which if you think about it, is really holding a grudge that I don't hold a grudge, which is kind of sick.

There were hints of this in childhood. Mom loves telling stories of how I'd push boys off the play sets if they gave me crap. I was a kid feminists would point to and label the future. I was a 2 yr old in bows and lace that could kick 4 yr old boys on their asses. I didn't need a man, or anyone else for that matter.

So, there were signs that I wasn't your average wilting flower, and I'm glad I still have some of that inner strength today. But I'm afraid that interior steel has been warped and twisted into one of those metal sculptures in front of an art museum that scare young children. I recognize that, and I am very glad that I recognize that, but it's still there. That thorn in my flesh is something that I will probably have to struggle with for years to come. Life has shaped me a certain way, and there's no point in bearing a chip on my shoulder because of it.

- turned 22 on Monday. I liked being 21, honestly. If I could have stopped there for a little longer I would have. Hopefully this year will bring twice the growth and depth that last year did.

Last night the moon was simply gorgeous

~

The moon is golden and full
Fringed with tufts of iron wool
Sliding down the muted cobalt sky

~

I find myself wondering if my Modernism professor would consider this to be presentational enough language to be considered modern. I might have to flesh it out to see if I can keep the imagery within the context of rhythm and rhyme.

Do I dare
Disturb the universe?

~ T. S. Eliot
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Don McLean's American Pie came on the radio as I was driving home tonight - haven't heard it in years.

I had goosebumps all the rest of the ride home.

memory

I remember the antique store where I found my copy of Franny and Zooey. There were three copies of the book scattered throughout the store. One was on a bookshelf downstairs, one in a pile of books upstairs, and one was tucked behind a teacup. A Surplus of Salinger.

~

I should make a list of books that I should read but I haven't because I've been scared away by various people's descriptions or horror stories of forced 10th grade reading.
The Grapes of Wrath
Finnegan's Wake
Moby Dick (read it when I was 8, but had absolutely no idea what the big deal was, except the whale seemed kind of scary and the captain seemed kind of nuts)
War and Peace

random pics

Nathan's sis Stephanie and I at her graduation! Pretty kitty.

Lovely man.

That was a fun tree.

For the week of July 2-8, I am an official poet.

musings

Marissa Nadler - Mildly pretentious yet dreamy vocals that trill out of the back of her throat like silver-yellow smoke.

Also. Crinoline and tapioca are very good words.

This man is right on. I might have to go back and delete certain posts, squashing past chest thumps, although they do serve as good reminders of my waxing and waning stupidity.

school days

It feels weird being back at school. Don't get me wrong, the University of WA is gorgeous, especially in the summertime, but I'm still negotiating through the whole undergrad part of my life being closed, but not really (go post-bacs!) while waiting for the graduate school part to open.

Still, my Contemporary Novel class this term is quite fun, and hopefully Literary Modernism will be equally so.

I'm also hoping to get a project near and dear to my heart off the ground. I had to put off choreographing a dance last summer b/c of a surfeit of possible projects. In the end I chose to work with The Senate, which was an amazing experience, but I need to explore this now.
Pictures once it's completed, I promise.

eye contact

I need to work on my avoidance, stretch my comfort zone. I've never been an especially gregarious person. I can fake it, and fake it well. And once I'm past an initial meeting and know more than the barest superficiality about a person, I'm fine.

But I'm not good if I'm thrown into a new situation with new people without any warning or preparation. That's when I say stupid things, come off as tired or a bit closed off. I just don't know what to say.

I need to work on this. Even though this is my fallback modus operandi, I don't think that is a legitimate excuse for not putting my best foot forward when interacting with my fellow human beings.

I really noticed this the other day when I was walking through a mall. I realized I've become quite talented at skimming over people's faces and focusing on store windows, floor tiles, ceiling fans. I don't mind eye contact in and of itself - I've been taught how to make respectful eye contact in various acting venues for the past decade. In a situation like this though, I need to stop being afraid of it. The world will not end if my eyes happen to meet someone's. Some people are even nice and smile. I need to be one of those types of people.

Folklife

A couple of thoughts inspired by the mayhem that is Seattle Folklife.

1. Large, open spaces in the middle of large, crowded cities always have birds. Pigeons, sparrows, seagulls - there is always some sort of winged beastie ready for a handout. With the thousands of people crowded around Seattle Center, our feathered friends vacated the premises, leaving an avian-shaped void. I didn't realize how big of a void until I found myself throwing curly fries at the numerous dogs straining against their leashes. The dogs looked happy, the owners did not.

2. There are too many buskers. This year, there were rules in place about the various acts rotating spots to ensure everyone could perform. Even so, the surfeit of so-so elementary school violinists, giggling teenagers charging for or giving away hugs, and the musicians of varying talent and personal hygiene left me rolling my eyes more often than applauding. The yo-yo champion was cool though.

creation

I wish there was a blogger for choreography. Given that dance is an art form so reliant on human bodies, it has thus been the most ineffable as far as trying to transfer it into computer code. Musicians have programs like Sonar. Painters have, well, Paint. But what do dancers have? (feel free to let me know if there's a program out there I'm missing).

I don't see solo dances in my head. And when I do, they are 99.8% of the time inextricably linked to a certain dancer, a certain body with all of its strengths and limitations. And I don't see choreography I can/would do on myself, either b/c 1. it's too far out of my capabilities, or 2. b/c I was inspired by someone who for whatever reason, is inaccessible.

I've tried writing it down. There have been several nights where I have forced myself out of that creative goldmine, the soft spot in between awake and sleep, and frantically tried to come up with ways to write down the freakishness in my head. Grande jetes from one side of a room to another? No problem to write down, which means of course that I never think of such simplistic movements.

Actual transcription from such a night three years ago:
R flick turn over, butterfly to over, Tenant of street movement up - another flick turn, right leg passe over, sissone in place.

This made sense at one point, but years and choreographic pieces have come and gone. Now I'm wondering "Flick turn where, to what direction? Upstage, downstage? is that a flick in, or a flick out? what leg was the sissone landing on?" Perhaps more importantly, who was I picturing when I thought of these steps? Did I have an emotional component in mind, under girding the movements?

It's interesting to come back and see how differently I can interpret something I created, but a bit dismaying at the same time.

What do you call it when one piece of art inspires another? Say, a choreographer is struck by the way sunlight bounces off the curve of a sculpture, and then sets out to create the same sense of incandescent motion in a dance? Or a painter sees the same sculpture and abstracts the lines even further?

Who does the art then belong to? Who created it? The dance would not exist without the sculpture, and by that same token, the sculptor. It could be argued that this is hardly different than being inspired by life, but when one piece of art influences another, there is a more definite point of origin for the work/s.

Is this why the audience pays to see works of art? Not just because the starving artist deserves remuneration for their effort, but because the audience recognizes that they are taking away a piece of the artist himself?

My cat can purr, meow, and yawn all at the same time - kind of like a happy gargle.

It would be quite an effective alarm if I could train her to come wake me up in the morning.

Has the rain a father?
Or who has begotten the drops of dew?
From whose womb has come the ice?
And the frost of heaven, who has given it birth?
Water becomes hard like stone,
And the surface of the deep is imprisoned.

~Job 38:28-30

I raise this green to my lips,
this muddy promise of leaves,
this forsworn earth,
mother of snowdrops and of every tree.
See how I'm blinded but strengthened,
surrendering to the least of the roots?
Are my eyes not blown out
by the exploding trees?
The little frogs are rolled up in their voices,
drops of mercury, huddled in a ball.
The twigs are turning into branches, and the fallow ground
is a mirage of milk.

Osip Mandelstam's "I raise this green to my lips ..." from "The Selected Poems of Osip Mandelstam," translated by Clarence Brown and W.S. Merwin. New York Review of Books. Translation copyright 1973 by Clarence Brown and W.S. Merwin

I love the show So you Think you can Dance. I was and am an ardent fan. I applaud the show's creators for introducing the 18-35 demographic to ballroom and other forms of dance in a more credible fashion than Dancing with the Stars.

However, since the show's blast to popularity, the already crumbling study of dance history has been even further eroded.

One of the most popular categories on the show was Contemporary. It was apparent that Contemporary was a substitute lable for Modern; a label that connoted gay males in shiny unitards, or people wailing about social injustice while covered in glitter. Whatever the stereotype, Modern was clearly weird. Too weird for a mainstream station like Fox. So the label Contemporary was coined, and Modern dance was covertly introduced to millions of viewers.

So what's the problem? After all, Modern dance is an often disputed term in itself, with boundaries in constant flux. It is often explained as "everything that isn't ballet and jazz." Even within this category - Are you a Modern dancer? Postmodern? A ballet dancer that does Modernist choreography?

The catchall medium.

But this is wrong. Modern dance is fully of creative entrepreneurs and imaginaries that still influence Modern dance technique.
One of the most famous names in Modern is Martha Graham. Known for deep abdominal contractions and darkly emotional works, almost all, if not all Modern dancers are influenced by her, whether by using her technique or by refusing to.

Google Jose Limon, Alvin Ailey, Merce Cunningham. These are just a few more names in the Modern dance spectrum.

Can I blame the show SYTYCD for causing the lack of knowledge of dance history, especially among young dancers? No, not entirely.

But ever since the show took off, there has been an highly unusual upsurge of interest in Modern dance at dance competitions and studios. At recent competitions, there have been three times as many Modern entries as in the past two years.

So what's the problem? The problem is that these dances did not show any signs of any Modern technique. Cunningham austerity of line and Balletic vocabulary? No. Graham contractions and extensions of the legs? No. Stylized arms of Ailey? No. Use of extensive floor rolls, handstands, and releases as in release work? No.

The real problem is that dance competitions are inherently segregated. The Jazz dances with ten billion turns and kicks to the ear are over here, while the histrionic flailing of Lyrical belongs over here. Anything that falls outside of these lines is penalized with not as high of a score. And no matter how many times we say otherwise, competitions are about winning.
So, now that Contemporary is acceptable as something just a smidge different than Jazz/Lyrical - maybe arms will be bent instead of straight, a foot will be flexed instead of pointed - the Modern dance category has become the catchall for these slightly quirky but not Modern dances.

How then are dance competitions actually encouraging creativity, teamwork, maturity? If they are all about the tricks, so much so that creativity is either penalized or shuffled into the Modern category as something deviant, what are we teaching this upcoming generation of dancers?

It doesn't help that most of the dancers on SYTYCD were all former competition kids themselves. I don't think the young dancer audience will realize how hard the show's choreographers worked to get competition habits out of all of the contestants. I am afraid that this generation has no idea why they do what they do.

Without history, what does an artform become?

The opposite of hate is often called love, but love can be selfish and one-sided. In situations like this horrendous massacre at Virginia Tech, it seems like a truer antithesis to hate would be caring.

Caring involves giving something of yourself, which is supposed to be true of love as well. However the entity that is love has gotten melted down and pureed in the media machine, resulting in shows that poke fun at the institution of marriage with the bitchy wife and stupid husband, or the over-caffienated, over-sponsored romance machines like the Bachelor.

So I guess the true opposite of hate is love that involves caring, giving, sacrificing - putting someone's needs above your own rather than seeing what you can get out of the relationship.

Care for someone today.

For man is born for trouble,
As surely as sparks fly upward

~Job 5:7

Sick

My cat was no longer a comfort to my weary body as she lay at the foot of my bed, her bulbous bulk pressing against my sweating ankles. Her 16 pounds are formidable on a good night, but the oozing pressure of lard, flesh, and fur was surely going to quicken my impending death by fever and stuffy nose.

I moved my legs away from the unrelenting pressure. An irritated yowl, followed by a noise from my cat's throat that could only be interpreted by a sane person as a death threat, reminded me of my precarious position as 'owner.' I tried not to move for the rest of the night.
~
Morning came. My cramped legs stretched tentatively. Blush was no longer there, lured away by the promise of food and a sunny back porch for bird watching.

My feet somehow found the floor. The Pergo was cold and a bit sticky from the morning humidity. It felt good, as long as I didn't try to walk. Then my inner ear showed its anger, its vengeance on me for catching such a vile virus, as fluid shifted and I found myself swaying towards my mattress and all the comfort that it entailed. Just a few more hours of sleep.

But no, there were things to do this morning. I pressed on, bending over and touching the pale floor with slightly bent knees. I straightened them to a symphony of popping.

A wriggle of my hips. Pop.

A few more plies and straightenings. Pop, snap... crackle.

Roll up through the back and the resistant neck. Big pop.

Now prepared, I slowly journeyed towards the oncoming day, the flesh of my thighs feeling like loosely attached jello swinging about my femurs.

The couch. Under normal circumstances, an ordinary piece of furniture. A lovely if unassuming forest green, as usual as a chenille couch could be.
Ah, but today, this couch was more that an upgrade from Ikea. Today, this couch would be my helpmate, my strength. I would find the inner resistance to the loathsome bacteria consuming my body and defeat it soundly. I would get all of my reading done, two books before lunchtime. There would be time and energy to do stomach exercises and further stretch my aching body. Fever be damned! The couch and I would defeat any obstacle!

Meooooooow.

I looked down. Blush lay there beside the couch, her tail flicking towards me then away, petulance in every movement.

"Oh Blush." My words came out somewhat slurred.

With a launch of her swaying haunches, she settled none too gracefully on my chest and settled in for a nap.

Birthday

My sister Angela turns 16 tomorrow.

My goodness, she's been tormenting and delighting me for the past 16 years!!!!!!

Anyways, I managed to surprise her this morning with a limo ride and lunch/dessert with a few friends. (Our very friendly limo drive is standing in the back). I don't think I've seen Angela that blissed out in a looooong time.

Lunch at Arnie's in Edmonds was spectacular! They gave us complementary sticky buns before serving our decadent desserts.
I am very glad I was able to make Angela this happy.

Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him, and will dine with him, and he with me.
~ Revelations 4:20

THE STARE'S NEST BY MY WINDOW
The bees build in the crevices
Of loosening masonry, and there
The mother birds bring grubs and flies.
My wall is loosening; honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
We are closed in, and the key is turned
On our uncertainty; somewhere
A man is killed, or a house burned,
Yet no clear fact to be discerned:
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
A barricade of stone or of wood;
Some fourteen days of civil war;
Last night they trundled down the road
That dead young soldier in his blood:
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
We had fed the heart on fantasies,
The heart's grown brutal from the fare;
More substance in our enmities
Than in our love; O honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare.

~William Butler Yeats

Could this be me in a few years?

Hence, the academic grappling with his computer, ceaselessly correcting, reworking, and complexifying, turning the exercise into a kind of interminable psychoanalysis, memorizing everything in an effort to escape the final outcome, to delay the day of reckoning with death, and that other—fatal—moment of reckoning that is writing, by forming an endless feed-back loop with machine. ~ Jean Baudrillard

possibly...

waiting...

After a slightly impatient but cordially worded email to the UW's English graduate office regarding my application, I received a return missive that read
"You should hear from us within 2-3 weeks."

Urgh.

No one pretends that the works of Dumas are high literature, or that he stands up to comparison with Balzac, Hugo, Stendhal, or Flaubert. Nothing in his books encourages reflection, or forces recognition, or sounds significant depths. On the other hand, he had a genius for giving pleasure, and for ensnaring the attention of the reader. Once past the initial rumblings of his machinery, his books move into high gear and do not quit; to adapt a phrase applied to another writer, it is harder to stop reading his books than it is to start them.

~ Luc Sante, foreward to The Count of Monte Cristo

W.H. Auden

The piers are pummelled by the waves;
In a lonely field the rain
Lashes an abandoned train;
Outlaws fill the mountain caves.
Fantastic grow the evening gowns;
Agents of the Fisc pursue
Absconding tax-defaulters through
The sewers of provincial towns.
Private rites of magic send
The temple prostitutes to sleep;
All the literati keep
An imaginary friend.
Cerebrotonic Cato may
Extol the Ancient Disciplines,
But the muscle-bound Marines
Mutiny for food and pay.
Caesar's double-bed is warm
As an unimportant clerk
Writes I DO NOT LIKE MY WORK
On a pink official form.
Unendowed with wealth or pity,
Little birds with scarlet legs,
Sitting on their speckled eggs,
Eye each flu-infected city.
Altogether elsewhere, vast
Herds of reindeer move across
Miles and miles of golden moss,
Silently and very fast

"The Fall of Rome" appears in "W.H. Auden: Collected Poems," edited by Edward Mendelson. Modern Library. Copyright 2007 (and also 1976, 1991, 2007 by the Estate of W.H. Auden).

Facebook

Despite seeing numerous peers and profs laud Facebook, I did not hitch my online trailer to this communications phenomenon until months after I graduated from college. I like to think my subconcious was exercising wisdom far beyond my normal means, recognizing the timewasting possibilities of hyperlinking through the entire student body at the University of Washington. After I graduated, losing a part of my identity and social network (@ least until grad school), the voyeuristic pleasures of Facebook began to be revealed.

In all seriousness, I have finally edited my profile a bit, added a pic, added a few friends. But what interests me more than the networking aspect is how this online presence relies on a 'physical' vocabulary.

• poking - even the Facebook creators don't really seem to know what this function is for besides alerting someone else of your existence. Sort of like IMing someone with just a smiley - no explicit message except "I still exist, and I want you to know it." Still, it's interesting that a term so laden with the muscle memory of 'poking' people, a very physical intention, is used
• the Wall - immovable, impenetrable, a barrier, blocking the sightline - words that might be associated with this word so rich in metaphor. It's interesting that users essentially 'tag' each others wall with short, sometimes goofy/crude messages - graffiti for the artistically challenged - thus altering the word's meaning from that of an obstacle to a mutable, responsive pattern of question/response.

Another aspect I find interesting is how the photos are used. I understand having a photo on the profile page, but having one next to every single message can be a bit excessive sometimes. I wonder if the pictures next to the textual message are supposed to help create a sense of physical presence, to make the message resonate more like a spoken conversation. Words leaving my mind, flying through my frenetic fingers, disassembling and reassembling through wires, circuits, and sparks, before finally splatting against the intended Wall.

grace

Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English, from Anglo-French, from Latin gratia favor, charm, thanks, from gratus pleasing, grateful; akin to Sanskrit grnAti he praises

1 a : unmerited divine assistance given humans for their regeneration or sanctification b : a virtue coming from God c : a state of sanctification enjoyed through divine grace

2 a : APPROVAL, FAVOR b archaic : MERCY, PARDON c : a special favor : PRIVILEGE d : disposition to or an act or instance of kindness, courtesy, or clemency e : a temporary exemption : REPRIEVE

3 a : a charming or attractive trait or characteristic b : a pleasing appearance or effect : CHARM c : ease and suppleness of movement or bearing

4 -- used as a title of address or reference for a duke, a duchess, or an archbishop

5 : a short prayer at a meal asking a blessing or giving thanks

6 plural, capitalized : three sister goddesses in Greek mythology who are the givers of charm and beauty

7 : a musical trill, turn, or appoggiatura

8 a : sense of propriety or right b : the quality or state of being considerate or thoughtful

Synonym - Mercy

a grace note
a state of grace
saying grace
being gracious

"In life as in dance: Grace glides on blistered feet" - Alice Abrams

Golden Gardens 2007

Nathan Cute Duck
Nathan
Me

Old pictures

I just dug these pictures out of my hard drive a few days ago. This last summer, I had the very good fortune of snagging the amazing band The Senate as well as six amazing dancers for a collaborative dance/performance piece. We're submitting to Bumbershoot next week, which hopefully means we'll be coming to a Seattle stage come Labor day weekend.

Another great cartoon.

You're cinematic razor sharp
A welcome arrow through the heart
Under your skin feels like home
Electric shocks on aching bones

Snow Patrol, "You're all I Have"

Still not quite sure why these four lines get to me, but they do.

Last night at work,

I sat across the table from an impossibly smart six yr old, one whose loquacity and wit made me question the importance of my intellect.

"How old are you?" I asked with a grin.
She was terribly cute, with big, brown mouse eyes.

"I'm six!" She responded.
"And I'm in first grade, and my sister, who's just four, is in Pre-K! And my birthday is March 25th!"
The sentence was ended with a gap-toothed grin.

Earlier, I was momentarily thrown by a seven yr old asking me for the proper spelling of homophones. Finding opposites was an all right pastime, but the appeal of finding such matches as "scene" and "seen" transported young Jacklyn into a unmatchable euphoria.

It's somewhat humbling to realize that I am tutoring children with IQ's that could potentially far surpass mine, given enough room, support, and inspiration to bloom.

Belief

Belief is a beautiful armor
But makes for the heaviest sword
Like punching under water
You can never hit who you're trying for

John Mayer, "Belief"

Salinger

An artist's only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection, and on his own terms, not anyone else's.
Franny and Zooey, J.D. Salinger

It's cold outside

24 degrees F in fact. The fact that I live on a very steep hill, thus making it impossible for me to go anywhere, is greatly lessening my love affair with snow and ice.

A blessing in disguise I suppose. I have a chest-high stack of books I've been making progress through. The last books I read were Camera Lucida by Barthes, Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K. Jerome, and Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card. Mid-century semiotics to post WWII sci-fi.

I'm hoping to continue the eclecticness this weekend with The Book of Imaginary Beings by Borges and Franny and Zooey by Salinger.

engagement part 2

Here's a picture from this summer when we were at his sister's wedding.

I think perhaps God was trying to tell us something, as we ended up at three weddings within four months of meeting each other!

engagement part 1

I am now very happily engaged to a very wonderful man.

Exclamation points just don't seem very adequate to express the mix of emotions I am feeling right now.

But I am very, very, very, extremely, incredibly, superbly happy.

Pictures in next post.

cartoons

I find it sad that cartoonists, masters of mockery with a side of keen social commentary, are so spot on with their images of Darfur.