Because it's been too long...

J.G.L.

For the graduates

It’s April 1^st, better known as April Fool’s Day, a holiday that has never been a particular favorite of mine. I can pull a prank, sure- and even take one with relative grace- but somehow covering a floor with small cups of water, fitting tape over a toothbrush, or calling random numbers to ask if the recipient’s refrigerator is running has never seemed to be the height of comedy to me. Then again, with pop culture producing such gems this year as the movie Jack and Jill and a resuscitated version of the television show Punk’d, maybe I should just be thankful that things aren’t worse. (By the way, since Ashton Kutcher has officially fallen out of public favor—as a side note, I’m not superstitious, but if I worked on 3 ½ Men I would seriously be thinking of getting out of there—MTV has hired a new host for Punk’d. Here’s a hint: it’s Justin Beiber. Ok, so that’s less of a hint and more of me just telling you, but you know. The Beibs has made an interesting career move (i.e. down). Can I tell you my lifelong dream that just occurred to me in this moment? It’s that Justin Beiber would be on a season of The Bachelor. Which would mostly just consist of the women swooning audibly whenever he came into the room, and him wooing them via song and hair flips.)

Anyway, the whole point about opening with the time of year is to mark it as a moment for reflection. The end of the school year is coming up in May… a year since I graduated from college. And while I’m too aware of our page view count to think of this post as any sort of primer for this year’s graduates, it could, possibly, unexpectedly be viewed by someone completely unintentionally (much like the audiences of Jack and Jill). And I sort of hope that by working through everything I’ve experienced in the last year, maybe a coherence will begin to arise. That, or someone else will feel better that they’re not the only one who doesn’t have it all together yet.

Graduation day was pretty much perfect, really, everything it should’ve been: sunny and floaty and filled to the brim with short goodbyes and pictures and hugs that held the affection of years in fingertips. I hope this year’s graduates feel that immense pride that comes only occasionally and with public acknowledgment, and that they enjoy every single second of it. I also hope they don’t wear red T-strap heels like I did, because those babies will sink right down into the reception field. Take my word for it, your feet will not end up in any pictures; and if they did, people will not be thinking, What cute shoes, they will be thinking, She should have worn cleats.

So the graduation is perfect, as is, hopefully, the party afterward—whether you end up drinking wine in a hotel room late at night with your roommates, going to a friend’s wedding, or climbing the student union with your dormmates in fulfillment of some freshmen-year promise to yourself. And finally you finish saying goodbye… and you climb into your car to drive home, and your stuff is piled so high you can’t see out the back window, which doesn’t matter because you’re crying too hard to be checking traffic, anyway. I mean, it could happen this way, is what I’m saying.

It was a short drive for me, only a couple hours to get home to Kentucky, and by the time I pulled into that driveway back home, my life had changed. It’s widely acknowledged that graduating is a big deal in someone’s life; the accomplishment of four years’ work, the satisfaction (or adequacy) of your GPA or your honors; but I have come to think it is such a huge moment less because of the degree you have earned that day, and more because of what you have to do in the days after.

When I graduated from Taylor University, I left a community in which I was completely immersed and from which I derived a significant- and the most cherished- part of my dignity and identity. Maybe that wasn’t as healthy as I thought it was at the time. I knew who I was and how I fit; and then I left that place entirely and abruptly. I wasn’t prepared to rebase my self-image, self-confidence and self-worth in the context of completely different accomplishments and relationships. And not only was I not expecting that curveball; I had to hit that pitch on top of starting a new job- my first real job ever- and starting from Square 1 with $75,000 worth of student debt. In short, it was like I was being Punk’d by the Biebs.

I entered a workplace and established a daily routine entirely unlike any I’ve ever had, in terms of work and time commitment. For the first time, I’ve begun professional relationships, had clients, and interacted regularly with management. I restarted friendships from long ago and I began to navigate the way to stay connected with my friends from school.

The relationship I cared most deeply about ended in a heartbreaking and deeply dissatisfying way, and I had to figure out how to move on without resentment or bitterness clouding years of beautiful and edifying and sweet memories.

I have struggled to maintain my weight in the light of an entirely different, and much less active, lifestyle. I have changed my eating habits in a somewhat drastic direction (I am now a semi-committed vegetarian; an obvious choice for someone in a landlocked state, I’m sure you’ll agree). I have not been entirely successful; nor have I completely failed.

I moved back into my parent’s house and have been trying to balance pride and financial independence with the realities of loan payments and gas prices and (broken record) taxes. And underneath it all is this feeling that I am still waiting for life to really start.

I have never been perfect, or really beautiful, except in moments; and now those moments are fewer and further between. Life has been hard this year, really hard, and I didn’t come out on top in all categories. It’s hard to feel like I am failing in some way with the questions people ask (Are you working? Do you have your own place? What did you go to school for? Where is your boyfriend? Are you working in your field yet?); but there has to be a point at which what I’m doing is ok. Maybe this is pride pushing against the structures of real life, or maybe I’m more ambitious than I thought I was, or maybe I am missing a grand calling somehow. But how do you know what you ought to do? Providence must use the constructs of timing and opportunity. So, maybe the question is not why am I waiting, but how.

rkb

A thought on the departed

My paternal grandfather, Arthur Briner, died in a hospital in Tennessee. It was sort of unexpected- he was in poor health, but quickly took a turn for the worse with a series of heart attacks. It was uglier than it should have been, and untoward, like death almost always is. Toward the end, he became paranoid, convinced that the doctors were trying to kill him; they put him in restraints and he made calls saying his final goodbyes, sure of the end, a misguided prophet.

It’s been a couple of weeks now since he passed.

I feel suspended.

For a while, I withheld the news from people who didn’t really need to know; co-workers, friends. Not because it would make it seem like it didn’t happen- because it was already an all-encompassing reality. It was management. Like a sociopath who lies compulsively, not to achieve an outcome but to control his environment.

Part of me feels like I’m supposed to wait for a while before returning back to life as normal. And the sadness is pervasive: more than I expected, and more than I feel entitled to. I didn’t… love him enough, and I didn’t respect him enough, and isn’t mourning a privilege reserved for the genuine? It’s hard thinking about him, placing the transparency of my value system over the outworkings of his life. I think a lot about what I don’t know about him, and hope that that part of him contains more love and gentleness and peace than the parts I knew. The way my dad and uncle grieved him- he must have been more to them, once, then.

The sum of a life is more than its end, just like the impact of a book is built by more than the last sentence.

It’s better not knowing, really. I wish the constraints of what I believe about the afterlife were looser. I’m not at all certain that he’s in heaven now, or if he ever believed in God and truth, or if there could be a special dispensation of grace for him. I don’t know what he loved deepest and most, and I don’t know that it was Christ. I do know he would tell me it was his own damn business.

It’s not right, the imperfect, inarticulate way I’m writing about it, and I wonder if words can profane memory. An epitaph online, something I wanted to say at the funeral we never gave for him. The sadness won’t vanish; it’s like darkness, that corners in relentless shadows even when a light clicks on. A new way of looking at the world, a world less one, is in order. A world in which I realize that a person is not defined by what I know about him.

He was solipsistic man. He was a husband and a father, and maybe a better one than I understand, because at the end of the day his wife and sons loved and served him with a loyalty that is as heartbreaking as it is rare. He was selfish, but worried for others; he had his vices, but did not perhaps love them as some do. He ventured to learn. And for all his faults and my faults and the distance placed between us by disrespect, I never for a moment felt judged by him; nor did I feel that he ever wanted anything less than his idea of the best for me. He thought I deserved it, that it was mine for the taking.

Stubbornness and assertiveness are his legacy to me as solidly as the silver airplane bookends and the rosary beads. Knowing what you want and how to ask for it is no small gift, especially for a woman.

I am puzzled by my total disinclination to pray about Grandpa Art and his passing; it's like I feel like there's no comfort there for me, only more confusion and pain. Instead I want to lean on my friends, talk talk talk about it, but when they're there I know I can't say everything, we'll run out of time and space and love for it. So there's just God. But-- I don't think that He knew my grandpa, or possibly that he cared about him. Because nothing characterized Grandpa's attitude so much as one abandoned, fending for himself. A life without refuge.

There’s the connection, though, between God and I, because we both loved him despite himself and despite the inclination and abrasion of circumstance. With personhood there is always something to love. And damn it if we didn't love the man.

rkb 

First drafts from a new year

Poetry as Science

Poetry is aggregation

images and sounds and words

that pulse and settle through the day.

 

Air takes up

light and noise and scent

thinning it all into a pale blue

the spectrum's path of least resistance.

 

The poet gathers the overfull clarity of sky

and with fumbling hands

divides the colors again.

--or--

The Bleak Ordinary

The safety lights from the bridge reflected sharply up from the water in the early morning darkness,

as if determined that today was the day

the languid sun would not overcome their colors

with the bleak ordinary of daylight.

 

That mercenary, tired from wrestling the lower hemisphere,

would turn its back to the earth and burn out another day.

The air was so cold that I couldn't catch my breath

and walked gasping

 

like a landlocked tourist toeing vacation waves

or an overwrought teenager.

Push and click the door open into the office swipe the clock marks I'm here--

 

and the rush of the alarm shower hair ugh drink breakfast bringing lunch? car drive- speed- cop?- speed- garage walk cold air punch in slows

to the measured and exact hours of a day at work on a Friday. 

Happy New Year, from us :)

rkb

Little feminist

Just a quick link for you today: this video warmed my heart. I hope my (future) (possible) kid is exactly like this.

rkb

I'm running- or, at least, jogging- for President

Or at the very least, a candidate nomination. That's right, people, this person: 

                   Look real close, and you can see who I voted for in the last national election! 

could be the next leader of the free world. (Note that this photograph can also be used as a visual aid for how to vote, in the event that you are unsure of how to vote and/or live in the state of Florida.) Goal: achieve the Independent (or Libertarian, or Scientologist, whomever will have me really) party nomination for 2012 presidential candidacy. Of course, I have created a summary of my platforms for interested and civically engaged persons (i.e. anyone who is still reading). 

Platforms:

1. I will be the best-dressed President in history, not only because of the extended options culturally available in terms of wardrobe to a female president (see skirts, dresses, the occasional skort to keep it interesting) but also because I plan on dressing exclusively in "PowerWear", the high fashion clothing line based on the former Libyan leader (let's all agree that's a very generous noun) Gaddafi's histrionic style. 

                         The devil wears... well... that has got to be his own brand, right?

2. I will mandate a reworking of the national anthem to a simpler, more catchy version, preferably with lyrics that Christina Aguilera can remember. Rebecca Black will be hired to produce the song and accompanying video. 

3. I will forgive all student debt, regardless of whether or not it apologizes, or means that apology from the heart. 

4. I am the only openly declared pro-hat candidate, and I will continue to support the free wearing of hats by men, women, members of the LGBT community, and children alike. Here I am pictured with some of my hat-enthusiast constituents-- YOU CAN JOIN THIS MOVEMENT:

                                  Cover your heads. Cover America. 

5. I will make a mix cd for every voter (pending changes in DRM once I assume office) that is guaranteed to include at least one Black Keys track and no Nickelback songs whatsoever.

6. I will overcome the hostility and division within our current administration, beginning with mandatory field trips for all members of Congress. This is including but not limited to a trip to Goodwill in which they will all have to choose outfits for each other and then wear those outfits until a bill is successfully signed into law.

7. I will address the national fiscal crisis by implementing cost-saving and revenue-generating ideas, such as leasing out Camp David on weekends for hosting parties. Discounts will be available for any parties with open bars; no parties that require guests to wear costumes will be accommodated. 

Look for my campaign launch coming soon with chalk on a sidewalk near you. 

rkb

Lighting Up

You crouched close to show me your technique

and I was thrilling at our night of debauchery

and your pursed lips.

We laughed around mouthfuls of smoke.

Frustrated matches flamed out from between my cold novice fingers,

scattering onto the concrete like wasted snowflakes

that no child tried to catch on his tongue.

Finally, you pulled me over to crouch behind a truck,

my hands triangling and yours

lifted close to help. We lit up.

You suggested we walk because I was cold,

the suggestion helping more than the action.

Words dripped like ashes and left meaning glowing and protected like the cherry.

I didn’t like you much at the beginning of the night,

but once the cigar freed your tongue

you dropped bits of truth into the air

and that I liked.

Our group wandered the parking lot like vagrants,

worrying the ladies closing up shop

with little more than our presence

and slanted laughter.

The nicotine stung my lips for hours later

reminding them of the touch

of the cigar

and the smoke settled into my clothes to mark

the night on me. 

rkb

Henry Ian Cusick

You know what, everyone? This is just because I like you:

 rkb

This has nothing to do with the post- but I voted today :)

The line between prayer and poetry is blurring for me recently. The block poem that is today's entry is a scrap of an ongoing internal discourse re: faith and sanctification in the real world. ("Real world" meaning, for me, mundane, prosaic, longing, fear, and beauty. If that definition makes sense to you, or if it doesn't but you're at least interested, then I think we're on the same page.)

Anyway, it was born out of my prayer this morning and I think still holds remnants of the questions I have about how my faith fits into the metrics of my daily life. Ontology and eschatology are easy for me (well- as easy as they can be), in the sense that I get how my faith demands certain assumptions, creates a specific worldview that dictates the beginning and end of this whole thing. What's curiously obscure is how faith winds into life through the redundant and the required, the workday and the laundry and reorganizing the pantry and taking out the dogs. Because I think it does; or rather, I think it must in order to be relevant and meaningful.

There must be true worth and value and love and gritty spirituality mixed in with life here. Because this is life. This is how it works, for most people, most of the time. Where is sanctification? Is it in the pride of being, doing something important or interesting? Like I know my life is holy because, here, here is the cause, and I can point to it with a commanding righteous hand, and it's erect in front of your face like a pylon or Lot's wife turned to salt. Or is it that grinding of humility that works itself into your skin and through your bones and inches toward your heart when you set your shoulder against life and push. When relationships are not what they used to be on paper, in an email update- roommate, boyfriend, classmate- but the places where we commingle our lives, and fill in the dark spaces between the globes of light cast on the concrete by the streetlights.

So come beside me, or don't, because where you stand is less important because it doesn't matter where I am, either. Write notes while I speak on a pad with preset lines- lines if you're an American, grids if you're European- and arch a brow to make light of the whole proceeding and when I'm done, call me back as soon as you get my message because you thought I might not be ok and you care enough to be wrong about that and know you've written enough notes if you're right. Make plans to mix drinks with me and mouth cigars in a smoky city room where we've never been before or tear walls and floors out of your new house, and it's good because we're filling in the dark spaces with life. And sanctification costs this much: as much as a pad of paper, a mixed drink, and a hammer broken on your old house. 

rkb

Jokes and candy

Knock, knock. 

Who's there?

For who?


No, no- for whom. 


That's my most favorite joke ever, people. Just in case there was any question about how much of a nerd I am. Also: http://xkcd.com/971/

Happy Halloween, everybody! I hope nobody's car/house/anything got egged or otherwise ruffianized. It's kind of sweet, actually, being on this (adult) side of Halloween, with the giving out of candy and whatnot. Like, these kids come to the door, and making their day is literally as easy as handing them a piece of candy. Handfuls of delight.

I think tomorrow I'm going to try and figure out a way to make someone's day. I think it's a fascinating idea. Is it a compliment? A gift? A favor? A well-timed joke? (See example above.) I'll let you know how it works. Tomorrow I plan on being the human equivalent to an ice cream truck. Get excited, world.

rkb

Beatles at Shea Stadium

Well, it's Tuesday, everybody.

This week's started off a bit glum for me, and unfortunately the rain predicted for tomorrow and Thursday promise to keep it low. Or at least, to pump enough humidity in the air to make me feel insecure about my hair. I do actually sort of perversely like rainy days when I'm at work, though, because it makes me feel like I've won somehow against all the people who don't have to be at work. Like, the day's already gloomy; I might as well be working inside instead of wandering around outside, wishing my cute jacket was actually waterproof or that I had remembered not to wear my so-comfortable-I-can't-bring-myself-to-throw-them-out flats that have holes in the soles.

I went up to my alma mater, Taylor University, over the weekend for Homecoming, and it was a bittersweet experience. I did enjoy seeing some truly lovely people again, and everyone was so kind and sweet about seeing me. Plus, I didn't have to open a door for myself the entire weekend- something I had forgotten to miss about good ol' TU boys. But being up there made me realize that...that part of my life is truly over. I mean, it's been almost half a year since I graduated, but in my mind I suppose I could've pictured myself quite easily assimilating back into college. Now, not so much.

I think it's this: I knew my life had changed; I didn't know I had changed, too.

It feels kind of major, but to avoid getting all hyperbolic, let me use a homespun analogy that came to me during the second hour of a particularly long staff meeting today: Imagine waking up in the middle of the night. You've been sleeping, which of course has been lovely, and all of a sudden you're not only awake, but rather discomfited by the state in which you find yourself: a bit sweaty, one foot hanging off the end of the bed, sheets tangled around one calf and a feeling of general disorientation in the darkness. Frankly, it's annoying.

But now that you've woken up, it can actually be a bit nice, rearranging yourself, righting the sheets, etc. Especially when you flip your pillow and press your cheek against the cool side. You know that sensation, right? Well, that's what this weekend showed me. Graduating has been like waking up, and realizing that I have all of these "problems" that I was blissfully unaware of just moments before. But getting my life rearranged can be satisfying in its own way. And realizing that part of this change can actually be enjoyable- like flipping a pillow- is a new and welcome sensation.

rkb

Feminist Friday, Edition #1

Short, and sweet: check out this story. You know what's encouraging? Smart, engaged, American girls who sweep Google's annual science competition, that's what.


rkb

Nothing you can't walk away from in 30 seconds, baby

I've started thinking about moving out of my parent's house. It's going on 5 months now since I graduated and moved back in with them. As you can imagine, there have been some times when we haven't seen eye-to-eye in our expectations of this old/new living arrangement. But, with the idea of moving comes the issue: cleaning everything out.

We've been in this house since I was in high school, and while I wouldn't call myself a hoarder by any means, quite a bit of stuff has managed to claim a place in my little corner of the downstairs. Most of it has some sort of sentimental hold on me, making an essentially worthless item one that I can't seem to get rid of. Like the plastic spurs that I won for placing first in a horsebackriding competition. Or the Cinderella figurine that a friend gave me in junior high (since Cinderella is, of course, my Disney princess counterpart). Or any and all of my cd's, since let's face it, their value really is ephemeral at this point.

Worst of all, though, is the books. I've been an avid- indeed, almost atavistic- book collector as long as I can remember. I never spent too much money as a kid, except on books. Such a weakness. If we're ever near a Barnes & Noble, just watch me for the signs of an addict. Hands will shake. Eyes will roll. Ok, maybe not really, but books will be purchased.

And of course, these bulky, heavy, (dare I say outdated?!) tomes of delight really must be the first to go, for two reasons: one, I have far too many. They more than fill the four and a half bookshelves I have in my room, spilling over in rows along the walls and stacks between furniture. Second, they are unwieldy and impractical. I know I cannot take them with me when I go, and I know I cannot expect my parents to lug them around after I'm gone. Hence begins the Great Book Purge of 2011.

I joke, but I am finding it actually pretty difficult to convince myself to get rid of this stuff that I've just had around for so long. But I do think there's something to be said for simplicity, restraint, and even minimalism. My friend Richard says that you should never love any thing so much that it hurts you to lose it. So I'm going to start cleaning out this stuff; here's hoping it has a good effect on me mentally, too.

rkb

In which courage is mentioned, part 2

You know what's difficult for me? Indecision. Mandy and I chose to name this blog "the art of wavering" because we felt it described how we're living our lives right now... in the margins, wavering between options, basically directionless.

Well, right now I'm on the verge of making a pretty huge decision. And I am going crazy, because I have no way to really anchor my choice. I spoke with my friend Nate about his job search earlier this month, and he brought up a good point that, now that we're out of college, even the criteria for decision making has changed. How we decide has altered just as much as our actual options.

You know, in some ways, I am more free right now than I ever will be again. I am single, (relatively) without financial obligations, and young. What can't I do? And yet, as much as this freedom opens me up, it also paralyzes me. How do you make a choice when there's no one to consider but yourself? I don't owe anyone anything, and it's actually quite frightening.

I mentioned courage in my last post. I think maybe I'm lacking that, a bit. But I also don't know how to make a decision...all by myself. How do I handle not answering to anyone? All of a sudden, this whole thing is on my shoulders. And I don't know if what I'm doing is right.

Sorry if I'm obfuscating this whole thing by being vague; it's just that some discretion is necessary for me right now in terms of how much I can really say. I guess my point is... this whole "freedom" thing can be as terrifying as it is exhilarating. And the toughest moment, I think, is not when you're out there on your own; it's when you take the first step away from home.

rkb

In which courage is mentioned

It's already late, and I've just got home, so this'll be a short one. I've been thinking on something for a few days now. On Saturday morning, I woke up an hour before my alarm, and settled myself in for a little luxuriating. (This is one of my favorite things in life: being awake, but not up, and knowing you have plenty of time to snuggle, stretch, and laze of a morning.)

Anyway, so I had this time on Saturday morning, and I decided to finish a book my friend had recommended to me. The book posed this question on one of its pages:

What would you do if you weren't afraid?

Well?

rkb

Readers beware

I stumbled upon this article on Flavorwire while exploring all of Tom Hawking's articles (writer's envy... he's great) and found it amusing. I have to confess, I've only touched one of the books he talks about- Tristram Shandy- and gave up after a couple hundred pages. But Mandy, I know you'll be pleased to see The Sound and the Fury up there. Well done, my friend.

I'll take Brody or this catnip, please

How is everybody? I don’t know why I feel compelled to start this thing like I’m a stand-up comedian, but I feel sort of weird just jumping in without acknowledging y’all. Our readership. And by readership, I mean Hannah Chupp, and my mother (hi Mom). Hello to both of you- and anyone else who accidentally stumbled upon this blog and managed to read this far. Welcome. It’s about to get real.

          Weirdest dating add ever...the couch makes it even more creepy, right?

I want to write about something that’s been bothering me this week: a question that was posed to me by two separate friends and a family member (hi again, Mom) over a space of three days (and in two different languages). That question was this: “Do you have a boyfriend?” (with accompanying iterations of “Don’t you want one?” and “But you forgot to tell me about your boyfriend!”)

Indulge in my self-diagnosis for a while. Because while being asked this question really quite bothers me, I’m not sure exactly why. First of all, to be clear, I am single. Secondly, I’m feeling pretty happy about that (there’s no object of affection that I am pining after…Adam Brody aside). What I mean by “feeling pretty happy” is that I enjoy my friends, my job, my life, and in general don’t find myself missing the guy who isn’t there.

                                                  ...you're welcome

So why does the question bother me so much? Whenever I am asked about this, I feel immediately defensive. Like I should be able to account for the fact that I don’t have a boyfriend. Or should be prepared to offer reasons for my general disinterest in most of the men I have met thus far. I think it also strikes me as (somewhat- only somewhat, but still) sexist. Like the other major events in my life (graduating from college, getting a job, etc.) are interesting in their place but surely can’t be fulfilling. Right?

So what’s my problem? I want a boyfriend… I guess. I feel like it’s hard to say that with any level of certainty until I actually meet someone with whom I really connect. I find myself not making too much of an effort to “meet new people”, and I wonder if I should feel guilty for that. And to be honest, the one guy who asked me out last month, I basically flaked on (which I do feel bad about… but not enough to call him). Canceled on him, told him I would call him, and didn’t. I just wasn’t that into it, I suppose.

So should I feel bad about this? I feel like so many people- and significantly, the people in my life who really matter to and care about me- seem to feel that I am missing something major here. I just don’t (internally) feel all that rushed to find someone now. Or, at all. I mean, I think marriage is wonderful, and I am certainly open to it… but I can also see myself living quite happily on my own. So should I buy the litterbox now, or later?

rkb

Postscript: Mami wrote to me this message after I emailed her back yesterday, telling her I am still without a boyfriend: “Claro que si voy a orar por el gran hombre y varon que Dios te de por esposo mija, ya sabes te queremos muchismo y estamos contentos por ti.” And I am humbled by this. Maybe the questions are less laden with pressure and implied failure than I think. Maybe I’m internalizing a lot more subtext than I ought to be. Maybe this is just people, wanting to keep with with what (and who) is important in my life. 

(Oddball) Homeowner's Association

Here's an interesting Saturday site for you... some of the weirdest houses ever created. Like where an "architect" (and I am using the term very, very loosely) poured concrete over bales of hay and had a cow (named Paulina) eat out the center. Or where a man crafted steel into the shape of a gargantuan pig. To live in. Or a piano-shaped monolith with supplementary transparent violin that someone built in a rural province in China. I can't even choose a favorite. Can you?

rkb