Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Friday, September 10, 2010
Viney Revelation
I do believe that I just had a, how you say, epiphany of sorts.
As I was cleaning my room I was listening to a sermon by Efrem Smith, which he evidently gave way back in 2004. Mostly it was about people saying "no" when God asks them to do something, and how that is completely counterproductive to what His hope for the Kingdom (why does it seem like so many words should be capitalized when one writes about Christianity?) is, because every day one of us wakes up it is because God has said "yes" to us and we should return the favor. As long as He's letting us plod along on His green Earth (non-religious capitalization) we may as well do something about it.
Then, in what was just a tiny supporting argument Efrem brought up John 15 (the "I am the vine" passage) and, somehow, the way he read it made me get something out of it that I never had before. It also had nothing to do with what he was talking about or his overarching point, but I'll take what I can get, yo.
Lemme quote for you:
"I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinedresser (I'm sorry...this is a weird translation. English Standard Version..published in Chi-town). Every branch of mine that does not bear fruit he prunes, that it might bear more fruit."
The bolded line, obviously, is the one to which I would like to call your attention. To me that line has always meant that if you're not working for God he snips you out of the way and then throws you and all other inadequate persons into a bonfire, after which he and all his angels roast cloud marshmallows over your twiggy, burning body. (I'm being macabre and poetic, and not entirely serious. Calm down. This ain't no "sinners in the hands of an angry God" talk here.)
Now, I'm getting something new. Pruning, although sometimes awful (in more ways than one), does not always mean maiming or bastardization. Maybe sometimes when we feel a little snip snip in our lives (and yes, it fucking hurts) it is God, knowing best, and making a few cuts to help us grow in a way that we otherwise may not have been able. What he takes away can seem vital. It might seem impossible to continue without whatever it is that he so painfully wrenched away from our side.
Anyone who knows me knows already what loss I am referring to in my life, and I'm not going to come out and say it because it is exactly what I never wanted anyone to say to me. It still doesn't make any sense to me, and if it was purposeful it was seemingly mean and premature. But it gave me comfort for a couple seconds. Maybe the comfort will return, maybe not.
Weeee shallll seeeeee.
As I was cleaning my room I was listening to a sermon by Efrem Smith, which he evidently gave way back in 2004. Mostly it was about people saying "no" when God asks them to do something, and how that is completely counterproductive to what His hope for the Kingdom (why does it seem like so many words should be capitalized when one writes about Christianity?) is, because every day one of us wakes up it is because God has said "yes" to us and we should return the favor. As long as He's letting us plod along on His green Earth (non-religious capitalization) we may as well do something about it.
Then, in what was just a tiny supporting argument Efrem brought up John 15 (the "I am the vine" passage) and, somehow, the way he read it made me get something out of it that I never had before. It also had nothing to do with what he was talking about or his overarching point, but I'll take what I can get, yo.
Lemme quote for you:
"I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinedresser (I'm sorry...this is a weird translation. English Standard Version..published in Chi-town). Every branch of mine that does not bear fruit he prunes, that it might bear more fruit."
The bolded line, obviously, is the one to which I would like to call your attention. To me that line has always meant that if you're not working for God he snips you out of the way and then throws you and all other inadequate persons into a bonfire, after which he and all his angels roast cloud marshmallows over your twiggy, burning body. (I'm being macabre and poetic, and not entirely serious. Calm down. This ain't no "sinners in the hands of an angry God" talk here.)
Now, I'm getting something new. Pruning, although sometimes awful (in more ways than one), does not always mean maiming or bastardization. Maybe sometimes when we feel a little snip snip in our lives (and yes, it fucking hurts) it is God, knowing best, and making a few cuts to help us grow in a way that we otherwise may not have been able. What he takes away can seem vital. It might seem impossible to continue without whatever it is that he so painfully wrenched away from our side.
Anyone who knows me knows already what loss I am referring to in my life, and I'm not going to come out and say it because it is exactly what I never wanted anyone to say to me. It still doesn't make any sense to me, and if it was purposeful it was seemingly mean and premature. But it gave me comfort for a couple seconds. Maybe the comfort will return, maybe not.
Weeee shallll seeeeee.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
The Social Network
Tonight Heather and I went to a preview showing of The Social Network in Saint Louis Park. Movie theaters these days are doing this newfangled (old fashioned?) thing where viewers get assigned seats, so upon arrival they flipped around their computer screen and let us pick which two gray, digital seats we wanted to turn green. I felt like I was booking tickets for a flight. It was all very new and exciting.
Getting into the preview was a bit of an ordeal. The movie theater seemed extraordinarily worried about people pirating the movie, so we had to surrender our cellphones to brown paper lunch bags and concede to metal detecting wand searches before we were allowed into the theater. As we only arrived 15 minutes early we had the immense treat of sitting in the second row, which made it very hard to read any text on the screen without supreme effort AND made me, personally, hyper-aware of how much makeup characters were wearing for the first scene (until the storyline of the movie caught up to me and made me focus more on the action and less on how cakey people's faces looked.)
The Social Network is not a happy-go lucky adventure story of a college student who starts up a billion-dollar company and has a great time doing it. It is not an exciting comedy-romp based in nerd-dom that is dumbed down just enough for us poor, unassuming commonfolk, who are mastered by instead of being masters of technology, to understand and enjoy.
It's actually kind of depressing.
Zuckerberg, although undeniably funny, is so consistently a jerk that it is really hard to like him (and this is coming from a girl whose taste in males tends towards witty, intelligent assholes.) His best friend, Saverin seemed to be portrayed as the quasi-hero of the movie, which was odd, because he was clearly a secondary character and most of his screen time was spent with him blinking back betrayed tears. The most likeable character in the movie was one who we we weren't supposed to like: Sean Parker. The thing about Sean Parker, though, was that he offered an energy, a love for life, that no other character had. While Parker was enjoying life to its maximum (albeit while being a skank, yes I will call a dude a skank), Saverin and Zuckerberg were so lost in their personal life-drama that it was hard to ever see them as what they probably were most of the time: college students who, although angsty, enjoyed their lives and friendship. One of my favorite scenes was when the two of them realized they had groupies, because, for a moment, they looked like exactly what they were: a couple of kids who were overwhelmed by, but excited about, what they were in the middle of.
This is not to say the movie is bad, because it's not. In fact, it is very, very good. The script is tight, witty, and interesting (I just looked up the screenwriter, because I was so impressed with his work. Turns out he's pretty much just worked on the West Wing. Also Charlie Wilson's War.) The actors are believable and talented. (I cannot tell you how many times my heart broke for Saverin and how many times I snorted into my ICEE when Zuckerberg drolly let fly another rude, defensive, but oh so comical aside. Even relatively unimportant characters, like Amy, the Stanford panties girl, were natural and added significantly to the development of other characters.) The cinematography is solid (there were a few shots that stuck out in a bad way, but usually shots ranged somewhere between functional and slightly artsy, which was exactly where they should be for a movie like this one.)
I definitely suggest seeing the movie. If nothing else it explains where our number one addiction these days comes from and even for those who have no interest in facebook or the lawsuits brought against Zuckerberg, there is the story of a lovelorn boy wedged delicately somewhere in the middle, who never quite learns how to say what he wants to say.
Getting into the preview was a bit of an ordeal. The movie theater seemed extraordinarily worried about people pirating the movie, so we had to surrender our cellphones to brown paper lunch bags and concede to metal detecting wand searches before we were allowed into the theater. As we only arrived 15 minutes early we had the immense treat of sitting in the second row, which made it very hard to read any text on the screen without supreme effort AND made me, personally, hyper-aware of how much makeup characters were wearing for the first scene (until the storyline of the movie caught up to me and made me focus more on the action and less on how cakey people's faces looked.)
The Social Network is not a happy-go lucky adventure story of a college student who starts up a billion-dollar company and has a great time doing it. It is not an exciting comedy-romp based in nerd-dom that is dumbed down just enough for us poor, unassuming commonfolk, who are mastered by instead of being masters of technology, to understand and enjoy.
It's actually kind of depressing.
Zuckerberg, although undeniably funny, is so consistently a jerk that it is really hard to like him (and this is coming from a girl whose taste in males tends towards witty, intelligent assholes.) His best friend, Saverin seemed to be portrayed as the quasi-hero of the movie, which was odd, because he was clearly a secondary character and most of his screen time was spent with him blinking back betrayed tears. The most likeable character in the movie was one who we we weren't supposed to like: Sean Parker. The thing about Sean Parker, though, was that he offered an energy, a love for life, that no other character had. While Parker was enjoying life to its maximum (albeit while being a skank, yes I will call a dude a skank), Saverin and Zuckerberg were so lost in their personal life-drama that it was hard to ever see them as what they probably were most of the time: college students who, although angsty, enjoyed their lives and friendship. One of my favorite scenes was when the two of them realized they had groupies, because, for a moment, they looked like exactly what they were: a couple of kids who were overwhelmed by, but excited about, what they were in the middle of.
This is not to say the movie is bad, because it's not. In fact, it is very, very good. The script is tight, witty, and interesting (I just looked up the screenwriter, because I was so impressed with his work. Turns out he's pretty much just worked on the West Wing. Also Charlie Wilson's War.) The actors are believable and talented. (I cannot tell you how many times my heart broke for Saverin and how many times I snorted into my ICEE when Zuckerberg drolly let fly another rude, defensive, but oh so comical aside. Even relatively unimportant characters, like Amy, the Stanford panties girl, were natural and added significantly to the development of other characters.) The cinematography is solid (there were a few shots that stuck out in a bad way, but usually shots ranged somewhere between functional and slightly artsy, which was exactly where they should be for a movie like this one.)
I definitely suggest seeing the movie. If nothing else it explains where our number one addiction these days comes from and even for those who have no interest in facebook or the lawsuits brought against Zuckerberg, there is the story of a lovelorn boy wedged delicately somewhere in the middle, who never quite learns how to say what he wants to say.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Hey Pop.
How you doing?
Today is a day dedicated to men like you. Today is the day that we remember men who have children. For some, today sucks because they're reminded of how shoddy their father is. For others, today is lovely because it's a time to celebrate a great man. And for some it sucks because the great man they want to celebrate doesn't exactly exist in the conventional sense any more.
I wish our family was getting together today. It would be great for all of us to sit around a table, with you at its head. We would begin with a prayer that lingers halfway between poetry and blue-collared frankness, led by you, of course. The prayer would be capped with an amen that would ripple around the table like soft, surprised applause. Unbowing our heads, we would look around, grinning, probably in response to the babbling of nieces and nephews that struggled for attention against your supplication for good conversation and thanks for each person around the table.
Words would flit across steaming dishes. Commentary on the food, queries about recent life events, jokes, stories, expositions...
It would be natural. It would be normal. It would be full of life. It would be what we used to be before you were gone. We've changed since then. Not severely, by any means, but we're different. We seem a little quieter, maybe.
Your absence is like a scar. It's becoming less and less obvious that we're missing something, because we've grown used to it, but you're still gone and when we take the time to look for you it's hard to remember what you're supposed to be like. All that is clear is that there's a slight discoloration where you used to be, hinting at what once was.
I miss you. A lot. And at the same time not at all. You seem so far away. Two years is a long time. I remember stories and sometimes I can feel what your hug felt like, hear how your laugh sounded. More than anything I miss what could have been.
If only I could have known you as an adult. What would our relationship have been like if you were around now? What would you think of the ways in which I've changed? What would you let slide and what would gain me lectures, either stern or soft? What new kinds of conversations would we have had? You always respected my opinions and made me feel like I presented my ideas well, even when I didn't. What could I have learned when I finally realized that conversations are not competitions?
How would you have changed? What would be sparking your interest, taking up your time now?
I don't think about you enough. I realize that we're not supposed to live in the past, but we are supposed to acknowledge it. It's just getting harder to do as it gets further away. I don't even know if I remember any of it properly anymore. What if my memories are fabrications? Pathetic attempts at re-weaving a history that didn't exist the way I see it? Why can't you still be here so I could be making new memories with you at their center instead of grasping at the ones that continue to dim? Like a sunset, they're still colorful, but they keep getting darker and there's no telling how much longer the sun will stay above the horizon and keep them lit.
Here's hoping Heaven is bliss.
Your daughter,
Holly
Today is a day dedicated to men like you. Today is the day that we remember men who have children. For some, today sucks because they're reminded of how shoddy their father is. For others, today is lovely because it's a time to celebrate a great man. And for some it sucks because the great man they want to celebrate doesn't exactly exist in the conventional sense any more.
I wish our family was getting together today. It would be great for all of us to sit around a table, with you at its head. We would begin with a prayer that lingers halfway between poetry and blue-collared frankness, led by you, of course. The prayer would be capped with an amen that would ripple around the table like soft, surprised applause. Unbowing our heads, we would look around, grinning, probably in response to the babbling of nieces and nephews that struggled for attention against your supplication for good conversation and thanks for each person around the table.
Words would flit across steaming dishes. Commentary on the food, queries about recent life events, jokes, stories, expositions...
It would be natural. It would be normal. It would be full of life. It would be what we used to be before you were gone. We've changed since then. Not severely, by any means, but we're different. We seem a little quieter, maybe.
Your absence is like a scar. It's becoming less and less obvious that we're missing something, because we've grown used to it, but you're still gone and when we take the time to look for you it's hard to remember what you're supposed to be like. All that is clear is that there's a slight discoloration where you used to be, hinting at what once was.
I miss you. A lot. And at the same time not at all. You seem so far away. Two years is a long time. I remember stories and sometimes I can feel what your hug felt like, hear how your laugh sounded. More than anything I miss what could have been.
If only I could have known you as an adult. What would our relationship have been like if you were around now? What would you think of the ways in which I've changed? What would you let slide and what would gain me lectures, either stern or soft? What new kinds of conversations would we have had? You always respected my opinions and made me feel like I presented my ideas well, even when I didn't. What could I have learned when I finally realized that conversations are not competitions?
How would you have changed? What would be sparking your interest, taking up your time now?
I don't think about you enough. I realize that we're not supposed to live in the past, but we are supposed to acknowledge it. It's just getting harder to do as it gets further away. I don't even know if I remember any of it properly anymore. What if my memories are fabrications? Pathetic attempts at re-weaving a history that didn't exist the way I see it? Why can't you still be here so I could be making new memories with you at their center instead of grasping at the ones that continue to dim? Like a sunset, they're still colorful, but they keep getting darker and there's no telling how much longer the sun will stay above the horizon and keep them lit.
Here's hoping Heaven is bliss.
Your daughter,
Holly
David, the Dancing Ghetto Suburbanite
I am watching Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog as I write this, so please forgive any lack of coherency along with any random and slightly familiar lyrical additions to my story.
On Friday night my friend Anna and I were going to go to a concert in Minneapolis. We have kind of gotten stuck in an activity rut lately wherein pretty much every single Friday night we go to this club in St. Paul called Valentinos. We were planning on mixing it up a little by going to a place called Honey for some live-music dance partying. Unfortunately, we parked in the wrong place when we got to Minneapolis and, after asking a couple police officers if they knew about the place we were looking for, we found out that we'd have to walk 7 blocks (in our super cute, super painful heels) to the venue. And then, of course, we would have to walk those 7 blocks in reverse after dancing blisters into our feet. Anna decided (wisely) that that would be a bad idea and instead we tried to be spontaneous and looked for something to do nearby. We were, after all, in downtown Minneapolis, and although it is no NYC or Chi-town, we definitely have a good selection of places to do things.
We couldn't find anything. We felt overdressed for most of the venues, and the one that we did try out was dead and not playing any music that we liked or knew. We each took a shot and then left, which was kind of lame because we had just stood in line for a solid half hour. (Also at the end of that half hour about six people cut in front of us, which was extra-lame. The guy at the end of the budging group started drunkenly small talking with us and evidently I responded kind of coolly, because he commented on my nonchalance by slurring"Don't worry...I don't have a gun or drugs on me or anything. I'm not into that stuff," clearly implying that because he was black I assumed that he was a gangster or morally corrupt individual of some kind.
I got my snarky on and said, "No...you just cut in line, right...that's your thing?" at which point his companions turned around to give me angry death-glares. I added a "I'm just playing, I'm just playing," to soften what was evidently an earth-shattering blow to the group's collective ego, and then we were friends. Or something. I also obtained a new ghetto clubbing name. 'Tis G.G. Or JiJi. Or GeeGee. I don't know. JeeJee? You get the point.)
Anywho, after that clubbing failure Anna and I decided to default back to our regular Friday night excursion of Valentinos dancing, which wound up being the best choice we could have made. I danced with a few people, most notably a blond-haired blue eyed (not my usual, but nice) fellow who went by the name of David. Hands down the best dancer I've danced with (recently?) and fricking wicked attractive. He also tried to convince me that Apple Valley (a suburb of the Twin Cities) is ghetto. Something about the inherently ghetto qualities of apples? Also a former swimmer, with the remnants of a six pack he showed me as testament to that claim. And you know the best part of the story? I didn't get his phone number or give him mine because (CAN I GET A DRUMROLL PLEASE)...he told me he's studying to be an accountant.
The instant he said that he became at least 40x less attractive to my drunken self who was, at that particular moment, lusting after adventure and could not possibly abide to associate herself with anything so conventional. Sober me says who really cares if there is one not so savory piece to him (and accountants make bank, so the gold-digger that lurks deep within all women should have perked up at such a revelation, yes?) Everything else he said or did (except for his intial attempts at complimenting me) made him seem pretty stellar. I mean, we're talking sex-god level of attractiveness here...There are definitely worse unsavory characteristics than accountantism, but...
Things like that are what make me Holly.
As a sidenote, I have a new favorite song. I would like for it to be my life theme-song because it is that good and it sums up my life-philosophy pretty well. Please allow me to introduce you to Frank Turner's The Road. Love, love, love.
On Friday night my friend Anna and I were going to go to a concert in Minneapolis. We have kind of gotten stuck in an activity rut lately wherein pretty much every single Friday night we go to this club in St. Paul called Valentinos. We were planning on mixing it up a little by going to a place called Honey for some live-music dance partying. Unfortunately, we parked in the wrong place when we got to Minneapolis and, after asking a couple police officers if they knew about the place we were looking for, we found out that we'd have to walk 7 blocks (in our super cute, super painful heels) to the venue. And then, of course, we would have to walk those 7 blocks in reverse after dancing blisters into our feet. Anna decided (wisely) that that would be a bad idea and instead we tried to be spontaneous and looked for something to do nearby. We were, after all, in downtown Minneapolis, and although it is no NYC or Chi-town, we definitely have a good selection of places to do things.
We couldn't find anything. We felt overdressed for most of the venues, and the one that we did try out was dead and not playing any music that we liked or knew. We each took a shot and then left, which was kind of lame because we had just stood in line for a solid half hour. (Also at the end of that half hour about six people cut in front of us, which was extra-lame. The guy at the end of the budging group started drunkenly small talking with us and evidently I responded kind of coolly, because he commented on my nonchalance by slurring"Don't worry...I don't have a gun or drugs on me or anything. I'm not into that stuff," clearly implying that because he was black I assumed that he was a gangster or morally corrupt individual of some kind.
I got my snarky on and said, "No...you just cut in line, right...that's your thing?" at which point his companions turned around to give me angry death-glares. I added a "I'm just playing, I'm just playing," to soften what was evidently an earth-shattering blow to the group's collective ego, and then we were friends. Or something. I also obtained a new ghetto clubbing name. 'Tis G.G. Or JiJi. Or GeeGee. I don't know. JeeJee? You get the point.)
Anywho, after that clubbing failure Anna and I decided to default back to our regular Friday night excursion of Valentinos dancing, which wound up being the best choice we could have made. I danced with a few people, most notably a blond-haired blue eyed (not my usual, but nice) fellow who went by the name of David. Hands down the best dancer I've danced with (recently?) and fricking wicked attractive. He also tried to convince me that Apple Valley (a suburb of the Twin Cities) is ghetto. Something about the inherently ghetto qualities of apples? Also a former swimmer, with the remnants of a six pack he showed me as testament to that claim. And you know the best part of the story? I didn't get his phone number or give him mine because (CAN I GET A DRUMROLL PLEASE)...he told me he's studying to be an accountant.
The instant he said that he became at least 40x less attractive to my drunken self who was, at that particular moment, lusting after adventure and could not possibly abide to associate herself with anything so conventional. Sober me says who really cares if there is one not so savory piece to him (and accountants make bank, so the gold-digger that lurks deep within all women should have perked up at such a revelation, yes?) Everything else he said or did (except for his intial attempts at complimenting me) made him seem pretty stellar. I mean, we're talking sex-god level of attractiveness here...There are definitely worse unsavory characteristics than accountantism, but...
Things like that are what make me Holly.
As a sidenote, I have a new favorite song. I would like for it to be my life theme-song because it is that good and it sums up my life-philosophy pretty well. Please allow me to introduce you to Frank Turner's The Road. Love, love, love.
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