Sometimes God up and answers a prayer in a way you didn't even imagine.
I found out last week that, most likely, Community Christian College won't have a spot for me in the Spring quarter. It's a tiny school and I've been blessed to get the gigs there I have, so I don't begrudge the loss. It's possible they may ask me back in future quarters as they can--they seem to like me for some reason.
But that is the source of my funds to take Voicetrax classes, so for the past several days I've been pondering what will happen with that. I'm signed up for five classes, which I can cover with the pay from this quarter, but after that I was stumped. Some thought and prayer later, I felt pretty okay with it. After all, I felt that God had lead me to Voicetrax and provided me with the funds to pay for the courses in the first place--if He still wanted me to go, there would be another way.
Well, today I found out that there is another way.
Voicetrax Desert Cities is closing down.
Thankfully, it's not like the law finally caught up with them or bankruptcy or anything. Samantha's first business in the Bay Area is much larger than the one down here, and apparently she's really missed being up there for the past five years. They're also expanding their services quite a bit, which means she has to travel up there constantly. So as of March, Voicetrax in Rancho Mirage is no more.
Huh.
I've been kind of in a state of shock all evening. I'm all confusled. It seemed like I have some promise in this line of work, so in some ways it seems worthwhile to pursue other classes in LA. Both Bob Bergen and Pat Fraley teach in LA, as well as some of the other instructors I've had. But the guidance and general support Samantha and the whole Voicetrax operation gave were really terrific, and I'll miss that. I really feel like I'd be flailing about without experienced advisors, though I'm sure Samantha would be more than willing to give me some parting advice on that front. More than that, and cliche as it may be, Voicetrax really was like a second home. I've made several friends down there, and seeing them every month or so, getting to be strange and dramatic and doing pretty well at it was a blessing. It was a release and an ego boost and an adventure all at once.
On the other hand, this transition certainly frees us up to go elsewhere if I choose to walk away. Not that we have any prospects anywhere else at this point, but I had mentioned that my family and Voicetrax were the only real anchors to Southern California at this point. With Kathie moving and the school closed, those tethers are pretty attenuated.
Yet I do still feel that God lead me to the voice work, and I'm not sure where to go on from here.
So who knows. Your prayers are always appreciated, and any words of wisdom will be listened to with care.
Life. Weird.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Sunday, January 29, 2006
The End of the Spear
I figured I'd kick off a movie review series in the hopes that such a move will draw me blogward once more.
And, shockingly enough, I'm starting with the above-referenced film, Every Tribe Entertainment's The End of the Spear. We took Joanna's parents to see the film last night for their respective birthdays.
The basic story is as follows: In 1956, a group of five missionaries penetrated the Ecuadorian jungles to bring the gospel to the reclusive Waodoni tribe. The Waodoni were feared by the Ecuadoran government and other natives because of their reputation for fierceness and violence--and, indeed, their culture was defined by a warrior ethos and a constant cycle of revenge killings. The missionaries (Nate Saint, Jim Elliot, Roger Youderian, Pete Fleming, and Ed McCully) made contact, but were killed by the Waodoni. Through some extraodinary examples of forgiveness and surrender, several of the wives of the missionaries went to live among the Waodoni, and through their efforts much of the tribe was eventually converted to Christianity. Nate Saint's son, Steve, was eventually to return to the tribe as an adult and confront his father's killer, giving us yet another remarkable example of forgiveness.
A few words are in order before I go into the film itself. I am in a strange position regarding this film, because my sister works for the organization that the missionaries were part of: Mission Aviation Fellowship, an organization that supplies transportation, supplies, learning resources, and a host of other services, spreading the gospel and humanitarian aid throughout the world. I was familiar with the story before going in both from my sister (the plane the missionaries flew in has been rebuilt and sits in the MAF lobby) and from the documentary Beyond the Gates of Splendor, which is a much fuller treatment of the events. So I do have some attachments to the subject matter and am not fully objective. Just thought you ought to know.
So, did I like it? Yes. Is it a great film? Probably not as great as it could have been, but it is quite good.
I'll get the bad news out of the way first (and I feel bad even typing that, like I'm letting down the team or I'm going to make Kathie sad--sorry, sis). The film is worlds above most direct-to-DVD Christian releases, with good production values and better acting. My major complaint was that large swaths of the story were missing. I know that such a tale has to be edited for length, but some jump cuts were far too quick. It appeared that only a day or two after the slaughter of the men, their wives were ready to move their families into the tribe of their killers. The initial contact, tentative first communications, friendly meetings and attack based on misunderstanding all flew by incredibly quickly; had I not seen the documentary, I would have been somewhat lost. I could have done with far fewer shots of well-oiled tribesmen running endlessly through lush tropical rainforests (beautiful as the scenery was) and a bit more on the story.
The acting is universally just okay. No one really stood out, apart from Louie Leonardo as Mincayani, Nate Saint's killer, who is generally good. Chad Allen, playing both Nate and the adult Steve, tries his best, but he's just not given much script at all to work with--few characters are, and some (like the other missionaries) barely register. Most scenes are set like those in Hallmark specials, with stirring music and broad emoting meant to choke us up rather than relay depth and complexity. Kathie was worried I'd dislike the "emotional manipulation," and I did. The culmination of Steve learning the truth about Mincayani and his reaction slip by in a matter of minutes at the end of the film.
Now the good news: the movie gets better as it progresses and gives the characters some time to come into their own. Interestingly, this is definitely the Waodoni's movie--though the narrator and the missionaries are white Westerners, the conflict among the tribespeople as they are torn both by their own continued violence against one another and the utter confusion the missionaries' sacrificial deaths sows among them is the centerpiece. The tension between the traditional values the warriors (with Mincayani as their leader) hold to, and Kimo, the warrior who begins to adhere to the women's talk of the new message from Waegongi (the Waodoni word for the "Creator god") and refuses to lift a spear against his enemies, is the real conflict of this film.
And manipulative as the film may sometimes be, there's no denying the real power of the story it tells. The elements are mythic: five men laying down their lives for the gospel (one nice quote, from Nate Saint trying to tell his son why they will not defend themselves if the Waodnoi attack: "They're not ready for heaven. We are."). The wives going to live among their husbands' murderers. A people torn apart by a few men refusing to offer them violence. A son confronting his father's killer. It's heady stuff, and the sacrificial heart shown by so many, and the amazing changes their sacrifices wrought is a story you would reject as being too incredible if it were not true.
It was also interesting on at least a couple of sociological levels, neither of which I have the time to get into fully here. But the first thing I thought of was the entire fiction of anthropological relativism, the idea (decried to me by Dan, who knows of what he speaks) that native cultures are sacrosanct, never to be tampered with--unless, of course, they're doing something bad. The modern world criticizes Christianity for destroying native cultures, but saving girls from genital mutilation in Africa, or decrying the mistreatment of women in Middle Eastern cultures is okay. The Waodoni were trapped in a cycle of violence which was decimating them--they are now a thriving community thanks to the missionaries who showed them another way. Not to mention the innovations they've seen in modern medicine, education and--oh, yeah. Salvation. Yes, missionaries (past and present) have been too cavalier about their actions and have stomped over native cultural traditions that perhaps should have been afforded more respect in many cases--but the idea that ever introducing change in a culture as promoted by the modern secular mind is cruel--and hypocritical to boot.
The second thing that struck me was simply the presentation of a non-violence as such a transformative power. In this age of militant Christianity and a sense of "we have to fight to defend our own," the amazing effects produced by those who lay down their lives willingly is amazing. Not that all are called to this, or that defense is never an option, but no other action but self-sacrifice is likely to have gotten through to the Waodoni; after all, Christ's initial sacrifice without resistance changed the world...
So, should you go see The End of the Spear? Most definitely. Go find Beyond the Gates of Splendor, and you'll be further rewarded (in fact, if you can only see one, see Gates). It's just a good film, but it's an amazing story.
ps--There. Was that long enough, Slater? Not funny, but you get quality or quantity these days, not both.
And, shockingly enough, I'm starting with the above-referenced film, Every Tribe Entertainment's The End of the Spear. We took Joanna's parents to see the film last night for their respective birthdays.
The basic story is as follows: In 1956, a group of five missionaries penetrated the Ecuadorian jungles to bring the gospel to the reclusive Waodoni tribe. The Waodoni were feared by the Ecuadoran government and other natives because of their reputation for fierceness and violence--and, indeed, their culture was defined by a warrior ethos and a constant cycle of revenge killings. The missionaries (Nate Saint, Jim Elliot, Roger Youderian, Pete Fleming, and Ed McCully) made contact, but were killed by the Waodoni. Through some extraodinary examples of forgiveness and surrender, several of the wives of the missionaries went to live among the Waodoni, and through their efforts much of the tribe was eventually converted to Christianity. Nate Saint's son, Steve, was eventually to return to the tribe as an adult and confront his father's killer, giving us yet another remarkable example of forgiveness.
A few words are in order before I go into the film itself. I am in a strange position regarding this film, because my sister works for the organization that the missionaries were part of: Mission Aviation Fellowship, an organization that supplies transportation, supplies, learning resources, and a host of other services, spreading the gospel and humanitarian aid throughout the world. I was familiar with the story before going in both from my sister (the plane the missionaries flew in has been rebuilt and sits in the MAF lobby) and from the documentary Beyond the Gates of Splendor, which is a much fuller treatment of the events. So I do have some attachments to the subject matter and am not fully objective. Just thought you ought to know.
So, did I like it? Yes. Is it a great film? Probably not as great as it could have been, but it is quite good.
I'll get the bad news out of the way first (and I feel bad even typing that, like I'm letting down the team or I'm going to make Kathie sad--sorry, sis). The film is worlds above most direct-to-DVD Christian releases, with good production values and better acting. My major complaint was that large swaths of the story were missing. I know that such a tale has to be edited for length, but some jump cuts were far too quick. It appeared that only a day or two after the slaughter of the men, their wives were ready to move their families into the tribe of their killers. The initial contact, tentative first communications, friendly meetings and attack based on misunderstanding all flew by incredibly quickly; had I not seen the documentary, I would have been somewhat lost. I could have done with far fewer shots of well-oiled tribesmen running endlessly through lush tropical rainforests (beautiful as the scenery was) and a bit more on the story.
The acting is universally just okay. No one really stood out, apart from Louie Leonardo as Mincayani, Nate Saint's killer, who is generally good. Chad Allen, playing both Nate and the adult Steve, tries his best, but he's just not given much script at all to work with--few characters are, and some (like the other missionaries) barely register. Most scenes are set like those in Hallmark specials, with stirring music and broad emoting meant to choke us up rather than relay depth and complexity. Kathie was worried I'd dislike the "emotional manipulation," and I did. The culmination of Steve learning the truth about Mincayani and his reaction slip by in a matter of minutes at the end of the film.
Now the good news: the movie gets better as it progresses and gives the characters some time to come into their own. Interestingly, this is definitely the Waodoni's movie--though the narrator and the missionaries are white Westerners, the conflict among the tribespeople as they are torn both by their own continued violence against one another and the utter confusion the missionaries' sacrificial deaths sows among them is the centerpiece. The tension between the traditional values the warriors (with Mincayani as their leader) hold to, and Kimo, the warrior who begins to adhere to the women's talk of the new message from Waegongi (the Waodoni word for the "Creator god") and refuses to lift a spear against his enemies, is the real conflict of this film.
And manipulative as the film may sometimes be, there's no denying the real power of the story it tells. The elements are mythic: five men laying down their lives for the gospel (one nice quote, from Nate Saint trying to tell his son why they will not defend themselves if the Waodnoi attack: "They're not ready for heaven. We are."). The wives going to live among their husbands' murderers. A people torn apart by a few men refusing to offer them violence. A son confronting his father's killer. It's heady stuff, and the sacrificial heart shown by so many, and the amazing changes their sacrifices wrought is a story you would reject as being too incredible if it were not true.
It was also interesting on at least a couple of sociological levels, neither of which I have the time to get into fully here. But the first thing I thought of was the entire fiction of anthropological relativism, the idea (decried to me by Dan, who knows of what he speaks) that native cultures are sacrosanct, never to be tampered with--unless, of course, they're doing something bad. The modern world criticizes Christianity for destroying native cultures, but saving girls from genital mutilation in Africa, or decrying the mistreatment of women in Middle Eastern cultures is okay. The Waodoni were trapped in a cycle of violence which was decimating them--they are now a thriving community thanks to the missionaries who showed them another way. Not to mention the innovations they've seen in modern medicine, education and--oh, yeah. Salvation. Yes, missionaries (past and present) have been too cavalier about their actions and have stomped over native cultural traditions that perhaps should have been afforded more respect in many cases--but the idea that ever introducing change in a culture as promoted by the modern secular mind is cruel--and hypocritical to boot.
The second thing that struck me was simply the presentation of a non-violence as such a transformative power. In this age of militant Christianity and a sense of "we have to fight to defend our own," the amazing effects produced by those who lay down their lives willingly is amazing. Not that all are called to this, or that defense is never an option, but no other action but self-sacrifice is likely to have gotten through to the Waodoni; after all, Christ's initial sacrifice without resistance changed the world...
So, should you go see The End of the Spear? Most definitely. Go find Beyond the Gates of Splendor, and you'll be further rewarded (in fact, if you can only see one, see Gates). It's just a good film, but it's an amazing story.
ps--There. Was that long enough, Slater? Not funny, but you get quality or quantity these days, not both.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
I Fell into a Burning Ring of Fire
So I'm taking another stab at it. I had a post in mind and everything.
Only there's a fire nearby, which always throws off my mental balance further than usual. It's not threatening the town and there's only a precautionary voluntary evacuation of some of the lower streets, but it's still nerve wracking. I can poke about at things, but my mind is always distracted.
I'll keep you updated on the happenings up here in the land of heavy low-moisture fuel as I get the chance. Any prayers are appreciated.
Good night, all.
Only there's a fire nearby, which always throws off my mental balance further than usual. It's not threatening the town and there's only a precautionary voluntary evacuation of some of the lower streets, but it's still nerve wracking. I can poke about at things, but my mind is always distracted.
I'll keep you updated on the happenings up here in the land of heavy low-moisture fuel as I get the chance. Any prayers are appreciated.
Good night, all.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Supplication
I give in.
In order to avoid the revelation of my most embarassing secrets on Slater's Diametral Pitch, I'm putting up a post. In defiance of his blackmail, however, it won't be a funny one.
Take that, world!
I'm at that point in the evening when my thoughts are not at all clear or useful. It's entertaining to watch in a kind of nauseating, horrifying kind of way. I just spent half an hour thinking, "I ought to go to bed now. Yup. I'm gonna be tired tomorrow, by golly," and so on and so on, ad nauseum. And I was going to avoid this again, but for the aforementioned threats. So I guess blackmail works pretty well.
Still and all, I can't think of too many stories Slater knows that would embarass me. Not that that's an invitation to share, mind you--I just can't think of any tales that might haunt me at this point. My suggestion late one night that Daphne from Scooby Doo was stacked really isn't that shocking a revelation. I once had that rather unfortunate incident with the copy machine and the chicken and the rubber glove, but really, who hasn't had that experience?
Besides, I'm not the one who taught vacation bible school classes for an entire summer playing the part of a girl named Lark...
However, I'm willing to concede that my current mental state is probably not the best for remembering compromising incidents, so I'll keep my mouth shut and plan on more extensive posting in the future.
Your comments, as always, are an encouragement I appreciate. Chime in. Heck--give me something weird to write on and I'll make it a future topic. How's that for audience participation? Yes, you too can be a part of The Sojourner Chronicle; how lucky for you!
I'm going to bed. Probably.
In order to avoid the revelation of my most embarassing secrets on Slater's Diametral Pitch, I'm putting up a post. In defiance of his blackmail, however, it won't be a funny one.
Take that, world!
I'm at that point in the evening when my thoughts are not at all clear or useful. It's entertaining to watch in a kind of nauseating, horrifying kind of way. I just spent half an hour thinking, "I ought to go to bed now. Yup. I'm gonna be tired tomorrow, by golly," and so on and so on, ad nauseum. And I was going to avoid this again, but for the aforementioned threats. So I guess blackmail works pretty well.
Still and all, I can't think of too many stories Slater knows that would embarass me. Not that that's an invitation to share, mind you--I just can't think of any tales that might haunt me at this point. My suggestion late one night that Daphne from Scooby Doo was stacked really isn't that shocking a revelation. I once had that rather unfortunate incident with the copy machine and the chicken and the rubber glove, but really, who hasn't had that experience?
Besides, I'm not the one who taught vacation bible school classes for an entire summer playing the part of a girl named Lark...
However, I'm willing to concede that my current mental state is probably not the best for remembering compromising incidents, so I'll keep my mouth shut and plan on more extensive posting in the future.
Your comments, as always, are an encouragement I appreciate. Chime in. Heck--give me something weird to write on and I'll make it a future topic. How's that for audience participation? Yes, you too can be a part of The Sojourner Chronicle; how lucky for you!
I'm going to bed. Probably.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Providing a Distraction
WHAT IN THE WORLD CAN THAT BE?!!???!?
Did you look the other way and completely fail to notice that this is not an actual blog post?
No?
Darn.
In truth, I did have plans to put up a substantial post (mainly to avoid a right royal humiliating from Slater), but I got caught up on an ongoing discussion/debate/saga over at Devin's Mystery Cycles. Click over there and the headline of the latest post (from January 6th) should clue you in as to why it's raised such a ruckus. The good news is that it has instigated a great deal of discussion about some core issues, so be sure to give yourself a few hours and chew through all the comments. My last (and, to date, only substantial) one was something on the order of six pages long.
I submit that in lieu of content here. I've got to get some sleep 'cause I'm all emotionally worn out.
ps--If you think about it carefully, this really is a blog post. It's kind of like that famous painting of a pipe that underneath says, "This is not a pipe."
I just blew your mind, man.
Did you look the other way and completely fail to notice that this is not an actual blog post?
No?
Darn.
In truth, I did have plans to put up a substantial post (mainly to avoid a right royal humiliating from Slater), but I got caught up on an ongoing discussion/debate/saga over at Devin's Mystery Cycles. Click over there and the headline of the latest post (from January 6th) should clue you in as to why it's raised such a ruckus. The good news is that it has instigated a great deal of discussion about some core issues, so be sure to give yourself a few hours and chew through all the comments. My last (and, to date, only substantial) one was something on the order of six pages long.
I submit that in lieu of content here. I've got to get some sleep 'cause I'm all emotionally worn out.
ps--If you think about it carefully, this really is a blog post. It's kind of like that famous painting of a pipe that underneath says, "This is not a pipe."
I just blew your mind, man.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
Where Have I Been?
No, really. I'm asking. If anyone knows, clue me in. I feel like I've been lost.
The world has been a whirlwind since my last post in December. If I remember rightly (and there's no guarantee of that these days), it was just at the end of my semester. It was right before the endless cycle of events, visits, and family and friend stuff.
Now, much of that was great. We had a Renaissance Christmas party on the 19th at the in-laws, which was fun and delicious. The next day was the roleplaying joke-fest of the visiting Parker Horde, followed the next day again with the open house for same, both of which were terrific.
Then began the rounds of family visits. Joanna's entire clan was out from their various points around the country, making it a big Polman time. We were either seeing them or my family at all times for two weeks. The Polmans numbered twenty with all kids and adults tallied, and for an introvert like me, that can be a bit hairy. It was good to visit with Tim, my brother-in-law-in-law who is now a pastor out in Georgia and is the kind of guy who takes a sniper's training course so as to dominate paintball games, and I did get in some fine X-Box time with him and my other brother-in-law-in-law, Dave. But getting the kids ready every day and being among so many folk for long hours and ingesting vast quantities of quite tasty but very girth-enhancing food was just draining.
Finally all that came to a close this week, leaving me just time enough to try to take care of a few of the issues that have been piling up in the intervening weeks--like preparing for classes which start on Monday and taking care of the registration tags the DMV fails to send us every year so that we get pulled over at least once per annum for expired tags.
Fascinating stuff, isn't it? It's been a struggle to get back on here because my life seems to be in a strange, shapeless place, floating free from anything I've known before. My many-times-aforementioned secret project fell through completely (though I'm still not telling what it was, as it may come back one day); I've not really written anything in weeks; I'm staying up even later than usual and have no idea why. My motivation seems to have been sapped completely, yet I've never felt like I've wanted to pursue my calling more strongly. I get weepy watching The Chronicles of Narnia or just listening to the dramatization of them on CD.
Kathie mentioned to me in November that she was praying for major changes in my life, which I much appreciate. Perhaps this is some sort of point along the journey, but it seems a pretty low one. Still, blogging again may be a help. I make no promises to reform, as I've failed on that score far too many times to try it again. But something is underway.
I'll stop now before the rambling becomes interminable. Thanks for sticking around this far. All further prayers and thoughts are most welcome.
The world has been a whirlwind since my last post in December. If I remember rightly (and there's no guarantee of that these days), it was just at the end of my semester. It was right before the endless cycle of events, visits, and family and friend stuff.
Now, much of that was great. We had a Renaissance Christmas party on the 19th at the in-laws, which was fun and delicious. The next day was the roleplaying joke-fest of the visiting Parker Horde, followed the next day again with the open house for same, both of which were terrific.
Then began the rounds of family visits. Joanna's entire clan was out from their various points around the country, making it a big Polman time. We were either seeing them or my family at all times for two weeks. The Polmans numbered twenty with all kids and adults tallied, and for an introvert like me, that can be a bit hairy. It was good to visit with Tim, my brother-in-law-in-law who is now a pastor out in Georgia and is the kind of guy who takes a sniper's training course so as to dominate paintball games, and I did get in some fine X-Box time with him and my other brother-in-law-in-law, Dave. But getting the kids ready every day and being among so many folk for long hours and ingesting vast quantities of quite tasty but very girth-enhancing food was just draining.
Finally all that came to a close this week, leaving me just time enough to try to take care of a few of the issues that have been piling up in the intervening weeks--like preparing for classes which start on Monday and taking care of the registration tags the DMV fails to send us every year so that we get pulled over at least once per annum for expired tags.
Fascinating stuff, isn't it? It's been a struggle to get back on here because my life seems to be in a strange, shapeless place, floating free from anything I've known before. My many-times-aforementioned secret project fell through completely (though I'm still not telling what it was, as it may come back one day); I've not really written anything in weeks; I'm staying up even later than usual and have no idea why. My motivation seems to have been sapped completely, yet I've never felt like I've wanted to pursue my calling more strongly. I get weepy watching The Chronicles of Narnia or just listening to the dramatization of them on CD.
Kathie mentioned to me in November that she was praying for major changes in my life, which I much appreciate. Perhaps this is some sort of point along the journey, but it seems a pretty low one. Still, blogging again may be a help. I make no promises to reform, as I've failed on that score far too many times to try it again. But something is underway.
I'll stop now before the rambling becomes interminable. Thanks for sticking around this far. All further prayers and thoughts are most welcome.
Friday, January 06, 2006
New Post Appearing Soon
This is a placeholder post. Slater has been bugging me and demanded a "high-quality" post by today. That I cannot provide, for my soul is in turmoil and I'm just sleepy. But I do plan on beginning to post regularly once again, so stay tuned.
Bed now. Writing later.
Bed now. Writing later.
Friday, December 16, 2005
I Am the Quizmaster!
After filling out all those quizzes on Quizilla, I finally gave in to my urge to make one myself.
I discovered quickly that this is a great way to waste enormous amounts of time. My defense is that, since this is a quiz based on Animal Farm, originally inspired by my students and their reactions to the book, I can actually make students go take it and report their findings.
So here you are: What Animal Farm Character Are You?
Feel free to post your reactions here, and let me know what you think. It's a bit messy, as the quiz editor is kind of clunky, but hopefully it'll be an entertaining few moments of your life. You'll also help me test it out and see if it's in any way accurate. Sadly, the results have no fun pictures or fancy fonts; it's pretty basic.
To show willing, here was my result:
You are Snowball.
"Snowball was a more vivacious pig than
Napoleon, quicker in speech and more inventive,
but was not considered to have the same depth
of character."
You may have some elitist tendencies, but at heart
you really do want to see the world become a
better place. You have many ideas about how to
improve life and are willing to take risks to
bring those changes about. You may be naive
about political maneuvering, assuming everyone
must see the world as you do, and you feel that
you do deserve some praise and
compensation for your efforts, but your
greatest reward would be to see positive change
in society.
What Animal Farm Character Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
Two words: En-joy.
I discovered quickly that this is a great way to waste enormous amounts of time. My defense is that, since this is a quiz based on Animal Farm, originally inspired by my students and their reactions to the book, I can actually make students go take it and report their findings.
So here you are: What Animal Farm Character Are You?
Feel free to post your reactions here, and let me know what you think. It's a bit messy, as the quiz editor is kind of clunky, but hopefully it'll be an entertaining few moments of your life. You'll also help me test it out and see if it's in any way accurate. Sadly, the results have no fun pictures or fancy fonts; it's pretty basic.
To show willing, here was my result:
You are Snowball.
"Snowball was a more vivacious pig than
Napoleon, quicker in speech and more inventive,
but was not considered to have the same depth
of character."
You may have some elitist tendencies, but at heart
you really do want to see the world become a
better place. You have many ideas about how to
improve life and are willing to take risks to
bring those changes about. You may be naive
about political maneuvering, assuming everyone
must see the world as you do, and you feel that
you do deserve some praise and
compensation for your efforts, but your
greatest reward would be to see positive change
in society.
What Animal Farm Character Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
Two words: En-joy.
Massive Malapropism Madness, Vol. II
It's that time again. It's the end of the semester and I'm combing through dozens of essays. Whether it's lack of sleep or just the brain-melting effects of reading so much student writing, a few strange turns of phrase have caught my attention the last day or two, and I knew you'd want to hear about them. Mind you, if I had been paying better attention in the grading session on Wednesday, I'd have a few dozen more to add here, but as it is I'll just entertain you with a few examples.
My 101 class has produced a couple of interesting statements. One student was writing about the spread of Christianity during the late Renaissance and bemoaned the cruel treatment of "the ingenuous peoples of South America." No matter what your opinion of the inhabitants of the southern-western hemisphere, to call them liars is just not okay. Once again, spell checking on the computer does not pick up all errors...
The same happened to another student writing about public transportation, only this time in such a way that I wasn't at all certain it was a mistake to begin with. The student was pleading for better public transport in Southern California, because such measures would help "to move the asses of young and old to their destinations in comfort." I had to read the sentence a few times, and I had nearly concluded that the student actually meant that, either in a fit of colloquial language or as a transcription from a less-formal draft into the final. Finally it occurred to me that she probably meant masses of people. That made me feel better, though it was hard to apologize to the person at the next table whom I had sprayed coffee all over upon first reading the passage.
Then came my 914 class finals, in which they had to write an essay on Orwell's Animal Farm. Now, if you know anything about Orwell at all, you can probably guess that his writing is going to be political in nature. No matter how much we discussed this in class, the students were bound and determined to read what they wanted into the text. The final question asked them to write on one of the lessons that Orwell might have been trying to convey in the novel. It's a low-level class and I'm pretty generous on such matters, but you wouldn't believe how many people wrote to me that Orwell's main point was to get people to be nicer to animals. No, really. The treatise on the animal revolution at Manor Farm, the power struggles between the elitist pigs Napoleon and Snowball, the parallels with communism, the eventual transformation of the pigs into creatures so closely resembling their former human masters that the animals can no longer tell them apart--all this to get us to be a little less mean to cows and chickens.
Most of the responses were also hopelessly muddled and convoluted. Take, for example, this sentence that is meant to discuss the relation between two characters:
Um... okay. If you say so.
Some of them became disturbingly bizarre and made me uncomfortable:
I read that over and over, and I still cannot figure out what it was supposed to say. I'm open to ideas, 'cause what's there now disturbs me deeply.
On the other hand, this contained a timely warning:
Aaaaahhh! They have mines! Yes, I suppose we definitely should be nice to them. Imagine:
Farmer Bob: (walking to the pasture with a bucket in his hand) Hey, you rotton cows! Stupid filthy bastards! Here's your--"
KA-BOOM!
(A huge explosion rocks the meadow. As the smoke clears, we see, Monty Python-style, Farmer Bob's smoking boots. After a few seconds, the twisted and charred bucket drops to the ground from the sky.)
Cow: (smugly) Moo.
Remember: be kind to the species below us. They're armed, and they demand respect.
My 101 class has produced a couple of interesting statements. One student was writing about the spread of Christianity during the late Renaissance and bemoaned the cruel treatment of "the ingenuous peoples of South America." No matter what your opinion of the inhabitants of the southern-western hemisphere, to call them liars is just not okay. Once again, spell checking on the computer does not pick up all errors...
The same happened to another student writing about public transportation, only this time in such a way that I wasn't at all certain it was a mistake to begin with. The student was pleading for better public transport in Southern California, because such measures would help "to move the asses of young and old to their destinations in comfort." I had to read the sentence a few times, and I had nearly concluded that the student actually meant that, either in a fit of colloquial language or as a transcription from a less-formal draft into the final. Finally it occurred to me that she probably meant masses of people. That made me feel better, though it was hard to apologize to the person at the next table whom I had sprayed coffee all over upon first reading the passage.
Then came my 914 class finals, in which they had to write an essay on Orwell's Animal Farm. Now, if you know anything about Orwell at all, you can probably guess that his writing is going to be political in nature. No matter how much we discussed this in class, the students were bound and determined to read what they wanted into the text. The final question asked them to write on one of the lessons that Orwell might have been trying to convey in the novel. It's a low-level class and I'm pretty generous on such matters, but you wouldn't believe how many people wrote to me that Orwell's main point was to get people to be nicer to animals. No, really. The treatise on the animal revolution at Manor Farm, the power struggles between the elitist pigs Napoleon and Snowball, the parallels with communism, the eventual transformation of the pigs into creatures so closely resembling their former human masters that the animals can no longer tell them apart--all this to get us to be a little less mean to cows and chickens.
Most of the responses were also hopelessly muddled and convoluted. Take, for example, this sentence that is meant to discuss the relation between two characters:
I also think that out of all the characters that they had the most comparing and contracting, but more then less comparing."
Um... okay. If you say so.
Some of them became disturbingly bizarre and made me uncomfortable:
Napoleon sensually sanded another pig to say or simplify his long speeches.
I read that over and over, and I still cannot figure out what it was supposed to say. I'm open to ideas, 'cause what's there now disturbs me deeply.
On the other hand, this contained a timely warning:
What the book was trying to tell us was not to be mean to animals, that they have mines and they want to live.
Aaaaahhh! They have mines! Yes, I suppose we definitely should be nice to them. Imagine:
Farmer Bob: (walking to the pasture with a bucket in his hand) Hey, you rotton cows! Stupid filthy bastards! Here's your--"
KA-BOOM!
(A huge explosion rocks the meadow. As the smoke clears, we see, Monty Python-style, Farmer Bob's smoking boots. After a few seconds, the twisted and charred bucket drops to the ground from the sky.)
Cow: (smugly) Moo.
Remember: be kind to the species below us. They're armed, and they demand respect.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Whither Goest the Blog?
Well.
Been a bit, hasn't it? It's been a strange time, but that's nothing new. In fact, there's not much new I could put down here by way of explanation. I tried warning you people that at some point these things would get unendingly repetitive and self-pitying, yet you encouraged me anyway. What were you thinking?
So, interesting things, interesting things...
I'm still working on the secret project mentioned earlier. It's a little more tricky than I expected, of course, as all things are in life. I still have some hopes, but time is running short. It has to do with Christmas, and it may involve blood, devestation, death, war, and horror. Or not.
I'm in the final stretch of grading (seems like I'm always saying that... it's a long stretch), with our large "holistic" grading session for English 015 tomorrow. English 015 is Preparation for College Writing, and all the classes take the same final exam. It's a short essay in response to a reading presented at the time of the final, and all of the instructors in the department participate in an all-day grading session. The exams are done by student number rather than by name and most essays are graded by two instructors who did not have the student in question in their classes. The resulting grade--pass or fail--is the departmental recommendation of whether the student should continue on to English 101 or not. It's not the only factor in the final grade (that would be illegal, actually), but it is a strong indicator of offical approval or disapproval. You can always argue against the recommendation of the department, but it's time consuming and considered bad form without very good evidence of student ability.
It's a great point of debate in the department. Many argue that such an exam does not show all the skills a student has learned during the semester, that it puts too much emphasis on a single test, and that it is generally icky. The counter argument is usually that it is a test of many useful skills, it is a fair indicator of future success, and that ickiness is better than lack of preparation. I fall, as always, somewhere in the middle. It certainly doesn't require students to use every skill they've developed--the only way to really do that would be to have a departmental review of portfolios of student work, which would take years off our lives--and it carries more weight than would be completely useful. However, if you've got basic writing skills, it's something you ought to be able to do reasonably well, and having other instructors review the student's work is no bad thing. I get too many students as it is who clearly just showed up every day and were relatively nice and so were allowed to pass 015 when they were not ready. Without the "gatekeeping" function of the final, I suspect even more unprepared students would find their way into Freshman Composition, and my life would be that much more annoying.
I had best get to bed so I can get up and stay awake through 80-100 short essays, each one saying very much the same thing as the last, just with different vague rationalizations and varying degrees of awful grammar (you can tell I'm excited, can't you?). There is a sick little part of me that enjoys the session--being with other instructors as we work through the texts, discussions of what we're looking for in a good paper (I'm always there to argue that we ought to be meaner rather than nicer, just like in all other aspects of my life), drinking too much coffee and getting a big chunk of final grading out of the way in one sitting...
There's something deeply wrong with me, I know. Now if I could just fix it, that would be sweet. Your suggestions are welcome.
postscript--In other news, I was endlessly pleased today to open a fortune cookie and find an actual fortune within. Apparently, I will "enjoy good health" and "be surrounded by wealth and luxury." Heck, that even has the delightful mystical lack of clarity I so enjoy--will I actually be healthy, or will I just delight in my positive health for the short time I possess it? Will I be wealthy, or just a bum who dies on the street corner in a posh neighborhood? Well done, China--well done.
Been a bit, hasn't it? It's been a strange time, but that's nothing new. In fact, there's not much new I could put down here by way of explanation. I tried warning you people that at some point these things would get unendingly repetitive and self-pitying, yet you encouraged me anyway. What were you thinking?
So, interesting things, interesting things...
I'm still working on the secret project mentioned earlier. It's a little more tricky than I expected, of course, as all things are in life. I still have some hopes, but time is running short. It has to do with Christmas, and it may involve blood, devestation, death, war, and horror. Or not.
I'm in the final stretch of grading (seems like I'm always saying that... it's a long stretch), with our large "holistic" grading session for English 015 tomorrow. English 015 is Preparation for College Writing, and all the classes take the same final exam. It's a short essay in response to a reading presented at the time of the final, and all of the instructors in the department participate in an all-day grading session. The exams are done by student number rather than by name and most essays are graded by two instructors who did not have the student in question in their classes. The resulting grade--pass or fail--is the departmental recommendation of whether the student should continue on to English 101 or not. It's not the only factor in the final grade (that would be illegal, actually), but it is a strong indicator of offical approval or disapproval. You can always argue against the recommendation of the department, but it's time consuming and considered bad form without very good evidence of student ability.
It's a great point of debate in the department. Many argue that such an exam does not show all the skills a student has learned during the semester, that it puts too much emphasis on a single test, and that it is generally icky. The counter argument is usually that it is a test of many useful skills, it is a fair indicator of future success, and that ickiness is better than lack of preparation. I fall, as always, somewhere in the middle. It certainly doesn't require students to use every skill they've developed--the only way to really do that would be to have a departmental review of portfolios of student work, which would take years off our lives--and it carries more weight than would be completely useful. However, if you've got basic writing skills, it's something you ought to be able to do reasonably well, and having other instructors review the student's work is no bad thing. I get too many students as it is who clearly just showed up every day and were relatively nice and so were allowed to pass 015 when they were not ready. Without the "gatekeeping" function of the final, I suspect even more unprepared students would find their way into Freshman Composition, and my life would be that much more annoying.
I had best get to bed so I can get up and stay awake through 80-100 short essays, each one saying very much the same thing as the last, just with different vague rationalizations and varying degrees of awful grammar (you can tell I'm excited, can't you?). There is a sick little part of me that enjoys the session--being with other instructors as we work through the texts, discussions of what we're looking for in a good paper (I'm always there to argue that we ought to be meaner rather than nicer, just like in all other aspects of my life), drinking too much coffee and getting a big chunk of final grading out of the way in one sitting...
There's something deeply wrong with me, I know. Now if I could just fix it, that would be sweet. Your suggestions are welcome.
postscript--In other news, I was endlessly pleased today to open a fortune cookie and find an actual fortune within. Apparently, I will "enjoy good health" and "be surrounded by wealth and luxury." Heck, that even has the delightful mystical lack of clarity I so enjoy--will I actually be healthy, or will I just delight in my positive health for the short time I possess it? Will I be wealthy, or just a bum who dies on the street corner in a posh neighborhood? Well done, China--well done.
Friday, December 09, 2005
Unfortunate
I decry a great public evil that has reared its ugly head these last few years. An insidious plague that threatens to rob us of our hopes and dreams has made its way unremarked upon by the general populace and now it is so widespread that our means of fighting it have almost been robbed from us before we realized we needed them.
I speak, of course, of the awful decline in the quality of fortunes found in fortune cookies.
I had occasion to eat Chinese food the other day, which always makes me happy. And, as always, I approached my crisp dessert delicacy at the end of the meal with anticipation and delight. But what I found within was not delightful but insipid and uninspired.
You hardly ever get an actual fortune in your fortune cookies anymore. I mean a solid, straightforward, honest-to-goodness prediction of a future event. I like my cookies to perform as advertised, so that little slip of paper should read something like, "You will die in 17 minutes," or, "Something slightly unpleasant is about to happen to you, like having an onion drop on your head."
But nowadays cookies at your better Asian restaurants come in three varieties: Compliment Cookies, Advice Cookies, and Aphorism Cookies.
Compliment Cookies are the cheap substitute for fortunes. They say something nice about you, as if that was what you turned to baked goods for. "Your kindness is evident to all," or, "Your hard work makes you stand out," are not predictions of the future. I don't know if a compliment from a cookie is meant to make me feel better, but it doesn't usually work. How does it know? I bet total jerks get cookies that say, "You are warm-hearted and well loved." Where's the mystery in that?
Now, if there were insult cookies, that would be worth the price of admission. "What are you looking at, asshat?" or, "You've put on a few pounds--maybe drop the rest of this cookie, eh, Chunk-style?" I'd pay extra for those.
Advice Cookies just seem pushy and unhelpful, like an elderly uncle who always thinks he has the answers to all the problems in your life even though he last knew what was going on during the Cleveland administration and has never had successful human contact. "Always do your best," "Do the work you love," and, "Save a little every day," are not any more useful than the morals of after-school specials and motivational posters. They're also kind of insulting in that they suggest you are slacking before you even start. I usually hold the cookie in my fist and shake it, yelling, "I'm already doing my best, evil pastry!" before hurling the sharp fragments across the restaurant.
Aphorism Cookies, though, are the worst. At least Compliment and Advice Cookies show some slight interest in you as a person; Aphorism cookies just have bland admonishments about general topics. "A clean workplace is a good workplace," "Chopsticks don't kill people; people kill people--with chopsticks," "British television is often more pretentious than witty," or, "Licking toads is a cheap and effective high," don't even speak to me where I live. There's no mystical insight into my soul, no numinous foretelling of my fate, just some tired quote from Benjamin Franklin wrestled into no more than nine words for space considerations. I could get that from opening the almanac randomly, or by reading matchbooks in cheap midwestern diners. My oracular cookies are supposed to do more than the placemats at Cracker Barrel, you know?
I'm about to give up my stereotype of the Orient as mysterious and mystical if this keeps up.
It's late--can you tell?
I speak, of course, of the awful decline in the quality of fortunes found in fortune cookies.
I had occasion to eat Chinese food the other day, which always makes me happy. And, as always, I approached my crisp dessert delicacy at the end of the meal with anticipation and delight. But what I found within was not delightful but insipid and uninspired.
You hardly ever get an actual fortune in your fortune cookies anymore. I mean a solid, straightforward, honest-to-goodness prediction of a future event. I like my cookies to perform as advertised, so that little slip of paper should read something like, "You will die in 17 minutes," or, "Something slightly unpleasant is about to happen to you, like having an onion drop on your head."
But nowadays cookies at your better Asian restaurants come in three varieties: Compliment Cookies, Advice Cookies, and Aphorism Cookies.
Compliment Cookies are the cheap substitute for fortunes. They say something nice about you, as if that was what you turned to baked goods for. "Your kindness is evident to all," or, "Your hard work makes you stand out," are not predictions of the future. I don't know if a compliment from a cookie is meant to make me feel better, but it doesn't usually work. How does it know? I bet total jerks get cookies that say, "You are warm-hearted and well loved." Where's the mystery in that?
Now, if there were insult cookies, that would be worth the price of admission. "What are you looking at, asshat?" or, "You've put on a few pounds--maybe drop the rest of this cookie, eh, Chunk-style?" I'd pay extra for those.
Advice Cookies just seem pushy and unhelpful, like an elderly uncle who always thinks he has the answers to all the problems in your life even though he last knew what was going on during the Cleveland administration and has never had successful human contact. "Always do your best," "Do the work you love," and, "Save a little every day," are not any more useful than the morals of after-school specials and motivational posters. They're also kind of insulting in that they suggest you are slacking before you even start. I usually hold the cookie in my fist and shake it, yelling, "I'm already doing my best, evil pastry!" before hurling the sharp fragments across the restaurant.
Aphorism Cookies, though, are the worst. At least Compliment and Advice Cookies show some slight interest in you as a person; Aphorism cookies just have bland admonishments about general topics. "A clean workplace is a good workplace," "Chopsticks don't kill people; people kill people--with chopsticks," "British television is often more pretentious than witty," or, "Licking toads is a cheap and effective high," don't even speak to me where I live. There's no mystical insight into my soul, no numinous foretelling of my fate, just some tired quote from Benjamin Franklin wrestled into no more than nine words for space considerations. I could get that from opening the almanac randomly, or by reading matchbooks in cheap midwestern diners. My oracular cookies are supposed to do more than the placemats at Cracker Barrel, you know?
I'm about to give up my stereotype of the Orient as mysterious and mystical if this keeps up.
It's late--can you tell?
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Life? Don't Talk to Me About Life
I apologize for my lack of postage recently. I had thought to get by without comment, but some parties have made it known that I am a bad person for not posting, and with that I cannot argue. I sort of let myself fall out of the habit--I was without access to a computer on Saturday night down at my in-laws', and Sunday night was simply busy and I am a bad person. Last night was yet another "fell-asleep-on-the-couch-when-I-needed-to-grade" evenings; this night is not so different, only I woke up when I was supposed to so now I can grade.
Nothing looks quite as bleak as a stack of essays that must be marked at 3:32am.
Class this weekend was a mixed bag. Saturday morning we had a booth director out from ICM, which is the talent agency that represents Samantha (you can take a listen to her demo, along with many another famous client (like Mark Hamill, Jim Belushi, and Kathy Najimy), here; check out Jim Cummings and Maurice LaMarche for familiar voices you may not have put a name to before), which was fun; I didn't stand out particularly, and the director was generally nice to everyone, so no breakout hit there. In the afternoon we had Ned Lott (he of Disney vocal casting) again, and we got to read from the script to the new Narnia movie, which was very cool (we had to promise not to show anyone the script until next week). Again, an entertaining time, but while I may be able to imitate Mr. Beaver's accent, I'm just not a voice match for him, so it won't be my voice you hear from the plush doll or the video game. The clips of the film he brought in, while rough, looked very cool.
Then I stayed on to engineer the evening class, a Scene Study acting course taught by Susan Blu (also previously mentioned; she was the Pillsbury Dough Girl [for those old enough to remember that--I'm not one of them] and the mother in Friday the 13th Part VII: The New Blood; she's also over at ICM). It was very small--out of eight registered students, only five showed up. Though I was only really opening the door and making the coffee, it felt strange and powerful to be the only one in the studio for a while there, and because the numbers were low I was allowed to participate in the class.
I am the first to admit I could be a better actor, and (believe it or not) since the heart of doing well in this business is being believable no matter what kind of kooky role you're asked to play, an acting class is definitely in line with what I need. I had to pray to make myself take it seriously, though, because I'm simply no good at acting exercises. I've got a built-in smirk that pops up when people are "playing" at acting, and something about most theater games makes them seem goofy and pretentious. It's also hard to imagine DeNiro pretending to be a rabbit or Judy Dench trying to really be a telephone (not that I'm on that level or anything). I did take it more seriously than usual, and the exercises Susan had us do were not of the silly variety, but a great deal of self-consciousness that I've not experienced at Voicetrax before did creep in. I think there's some real value in bringing your "real" self to the work, and I know I need that more in most of the creative areas of my life, so it was good; still, I was not overly sad when, because of the low numbers, the class was ended early on Sunday and I was able to head home.
Onward and upward. This grading should (should, mind you) be my last late-night session this semester, as this is the last week of the semester. I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to the break, busy as it will be. As always, I'm disappointed with my performance this semester and look forward to a chance to start fresh next time around. I do start my CCC class this Wednesday evening (tonight, actually), but that tends to be fairly small with somewhat more motivated students, so it's not as bad.
There--you asked for more posts, and you get this kind of drivel in response. I hope you're happy.
Nothing looks quite as bleak as a stack of essays that must be marked at 3:32am.
Class this weekend was a mixed bag. Saturday morning we had a booth director out from ICM, which is the talent agency that represents Samantha (you can take a listen to her demo, along with many another famous client (like Mark Hamill, Jim Belushi, and Kathy Najimy), here; check out Jim Cummings and Maurice LaMarche for familiar voices you may not have put a name to before), which was fun; I didn't stand out particularly, and the director was generally nice to everyone, so no breakout hit there. In the afternoon we had Ned Lott (he of Disney vocal casting) again, and we got to read from the script to the new Narnia movie, which was very cool (we had to promise not to show anyone the script until next week). Again, an entertaining time, but while I may be able to imitate Mr. Beaver's accent, I'm just not a voice match for him, so it won't be my voice you hear from the plush doll or the video game. The clips of the film he brought in, while rough, looked very cool.
Then I stayed on to engineer the evening class, a Scene Study acting course taught by Susan Blu (also previously mentioned; she was the Pillsbury Dough Girl [for those old enough to remember that--I'm not one of them] and the mother in Friday the 13th Part VII: The New Blood; she's also over at ICM). It was very small--out of eight registered students, only five showed up. Though I was only really opening the door and making the coffee, it felt strange and powerful to be the only one in the studio for a while there, and because the numbers were low I was allowed to participate in the class.
I am the first to admit I could be a better actor, and (believe it or not) since the heart of doing well in this business is being believable no matter what kind of kooky role you're asked to play, an acting class is definitely in line with what I need. I had to pray to make myself take it seriously, though, because I'm simply no good at acting exercises. I've got a built-in smirk that pops up when people are "playing" at acting, and something about most theater games makes them seem goofy and pretentious. It's also hard to imagine DeNiro pretending to be a rabbit or Judy Dench trying to really be a telephone (not that I'm on that level or anything). I did take it more seriously than usual, and the exercises Susan had us do were not of the silly variety, but a great deal of self-consciousness that I've not experienced at Voicetrax before did creep in. I think there's some real value in bringing your "real" self to the work, and I know I need that more in most of the creative areas of my life, so it was good; still, I was not overly sad when, because of the low numbers, the class was ended early on Sunday and I was able to head home.
Onward and upward. This grading should (should, mind you) be my last late-night session this semester, as this is the last week of the semester. I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to the break, busy as it will be. As always, I'm disappointed with my performance this semester and look forward to a chance to start fresh next time around. I do start my CCC class this Wednesday evening (tonight, actually), but that tends to be fairly small with somewhat more motivated students, so it's not as bad.
There--you asked for more posts, and you get this kind of drivel in response. I hope you're happy.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity-Jig
I made it through the wind and the rain to my home once more. I am beyond pleased that the foul weather has put in an appearance again--now if only it would snow, and it would stay this way for a few months...
Class tonight went well enough, though not spectacularly. Our LA agent was a very nice fellow--he'd do perfectly as Christopher Guest's younger brother, and he was friendly and supportive. I did okay. It's hard because sometimes I do fantastically well, which means that when I'm just competent or close to, it feels like I've failed.
The tricky bit is, I'm never positive about what it is that makes the difference. In some ways I feel like I've plateaued in the voice work; I can do well with coaching and my instructors have been encouraging, but I can't seem to make the leap to doing a great job the first time out of the gate. And that is what the industry demands, because you usually only get a few minutes to look over the script, then have to jump into a booth and do the thing spot-on the first time before they usher you back out. Time is money in this industry, and a producer might read two dozen people for the same spot--and that just from your agency. The real professional is able to look at a script, figure out all its "beats" and turns, latch on to what the producer/writer/director/whatever is looking for, and is able to interpret the part terrifically, giving the creators more than they were hoping for and imparting a bit of the performer that is unique at the same time.
It's a tall order. At this point I can read a script and get a feel for it rather quickly, but it's figuring out what I bring to it that no one else can that's difficult, as well as making my performance match what I mean to convey. Samantha or other directors can coax it out after a few tries, but I have to learn to self-direct and get this on my own if I want to succeed. I don't seem to be getting noticably better at it. As always, I have to keep my eyes on God so that I don't become too attached to any particular outcome of any particular class.
On a closing note, I have discovered that the future Douglas Adams predicted has come one step closer to reality: tonight, I ran into a gas station pump with a Genuine People Personality.
No, really. Anyone who's read The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy, or even saw the movie, may recall that Marvin the paranoid android was a prototype GPP robot who was terminally depressed. If you recall, as he took Ford and Arthur through the Heart of Gold, he complained about the cheery personalities of the doors, which would thank the passer-by for allowing them to open and would hum with satisfaction for a job well done when they closed. Arthur reacted with horror to the idea of robots with personalities, and I could never quite figure out what bugged him so deeply about happy robots. Until tonight.
I had to fill the truck in Palm Springs, so stopped at Mobil station by the freeway. I was slightly annoyed at the canned Christmas music they were playing, which was bland and generic and was interrupted every 25.6 seconds for some smarmy announcement of snack items available in the Snak Stop. Then suddenly the recording started playing something along the lines of, "Hi! I'm your automated gas pump, and I'd just like to say it's been great to be of service this evening."
I almost screamed. It was terribly off-putting. I didn't know how to respond. Should I accept the gas pump's thanks? Should I ignore it? What part of it is the hose and nozzle, after all? And above all else, why in the world would we need a gas pump that was grateful for being used? Let's let inanimate objects remain inanimate, shall we? That way I don't risk offending my trash can for putting my garbage in it, or have to counsel my toaster about the sheer monotony of doing nothing but making toast. In the Hitchiker's Guide series, the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation has to devote entire operations to the psychological counseling of neurotic machinery; let's not see that played out here.
Class tonight went well enough, though not spectacularly. Our LA agent was a very nice fellow--he'd do perfectly as Christopher Guest's younger brother, and he was friendly and supportive. I did okay. It's hard because sometimes I do fantastically well, which means that when I'm just competent or close to, it feels like I've failed.
The tricky bit is, I'm never positive about what it is that makes the difference. In some ways I feel like I've plateaued in the voice work; I can do well with coaching and my instructors have been encouraging, but I can't seem to make the leap to doing a great job the first time out of the gate. And that is what the industry demands, because you usually only get a few minutes to look over the script, then have to jump into a booth and do the thing spot-on the first time before they usher you back out. Time is money in this industry, and a producer might read two dozen people for the same spot--and that just from your agency. The real professional is able to look at a script, figure out all its "beats" and turns, latch on to what the producer/writer/director/whatever is looking for, and is able to interpret the part terrifically, giving the creators more than they were hoping for and imparting a bit of the performer that is unique at the same time.
It's a tall order. At this point I can read a script and get a feel for it rather quickly, but it's figuring out what I bring to it that no one else can that's difficult, as well as making my performance match what I mean to convey. Samantha or other directors can coax it out after a few tries, but I have to learn to self-direct and get this on my own if I want to succeed. I don't seem to be getting noticably better at it. As always, I have to keep my eyes on God so that I don't become too attached to any particular outcome of any particular class.
On a closing note, I have discovered that the future Douglas Adams predicted has come one step closer to reality: tonight, I ran into a gas station pump with a Genuine People Personality.
No, really. Anyone who's read The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy, or even saw the movie, may recall that Marvin the paranoid android was a prototype GPP robot who was terminally depressed. If you recall, as he took Ford and Arthur through the Heart of Gold, he complained about the cheery personalities of the doors, which would thank the passer-by for allowing them to open and would hum with satisfaction for a job well done when they closed. Arthur reacted with horror to the idea of robots with personalities, and I could never quite figure out what bugged him so deeply about happy robots. Until tonight.
I had to fill the truck in Palm Springs, so stopped at Mobil station by the freeway. I was slightly annoyed at the canned Christmas music they were playing, which was bland and generic and was interrupted every 25.6 seconds for some smarmy announcement of snack items available in the Snak Stop. Then suddenly the recording started playing something along the lines of, "Hi! I'm your automated gas pump, and I'd just like to say it's been great to be of service this evening."
I almost screamed. It was terribly off-putting. I didn't know how to respond. Should I accept the gas pump's thanks? Should I ignore it? What part of it is the hose and nozzle, after all? And above all else, why in the world would we need a gas pump that was grateful for being used? Let's let inanimate objects remain inanimate, shall we? That way I don't risk offending my trash can for putting my garbage in it, or have to counsel my toaster about the sheer monotony of doing nothing but making toast. In the Hitchiker's Guide series, the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation has to devote entire operations to the psychological counseling of neurotic machinery; let's not see that played out here.
Friday, December 02, 2005
My Mind as a Blank
I sat here last night trying to think of something to write, and I failed.
And tonight, other than that issue, I'm blank again.
A lot of grading, a lot of outside issues, a lot of craziness seem to be taking over my brain. Yet none of it is particularly noteworthy: it's all very dull, mundane stuff.
I am looking forward to this weekend. I have a class titled "LA Connection" out at Voicetrax, at which several agents from LA agencies will be in attendance. It's not one of those classes at the end of which a student gets to audition at an agency, but it's always good to be up in front of real agents who can give you honest opinions about your actual standing. Just after that, I'm engineering for a second class, a scene study with Susan Blu, mentioned here before for the vast number of shows she provided a voice for and the yet vaster number she now produces. She's a terrifically nice lady and just cute as a bug--she's cemented in my mind the idea that to succeed in this business, you have to be a tiny blonde woman (like she and Samantha both, as well as a few other instructors).
And on Sunday, we celebrate St. Nicholas Day (a couple of days early). Maybe I'll explain that for the newcomers next time around. It's really a preview of Christmas, to make sure you're on the right path before the big day arrives; thanks primarily to my mother, it's really a kind of mini-Christmas itself. But I'm not one to complain about two Christmases.
Okay--this has taken a couple of hours to put up, thanks to the baby being unconscionably awake. I must stumble to bed. Until tomorrow, friends.
And tonight, other than that issue, I'm blank again.
A lot of grading, a lot of outside issues, a lot of craziness seem to be taking over my brain. Yet none of it is particularly noteworthy: it's all very dull, mundane stuff.
I am looking forward to this weekend. I have a class titled "LA Connection" out at Voicetrax, at which several agents from LA agencies will be in attendance. It's not one of those classes at the end of which a student gets to audition at an agency, but it's always good to be up in front of real agents who can give you honest opinions about your actual standing. Just after that, I'm engineering for a second class, a scene study with Susan Blu, mentioned here before for the vast number of shows she provided a voice for and the yet vaster number she now produces. She's a terrifically nice lady and just cute as a bug--she's cemented in my mind the idea that to succeed in this business, you have to be a tiny blonde woman (like she and Samantha both, as well as a few other instructors).
And on Sunday, we celebrate St. Nicholas Day (a couple of days early). Maybe I'll explain that for the newcomers next time around. It's really a preview of Christmas, to make sure you're on the right path before the big day arrives; thanks primarily to my mother, it's really a kind of mini-Christmas itself. But I'm not one to complain about two Christmases.
Okay--this has taken a couple of hours to put up, thanks to the baby being unconscionably awake. I must stumble to bed. Until tomorrow, friends.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Logic and Advancement
Kathie and I were having a conversation the other day when I think she stumbled onto an important truth. We were discussing my students and their inability in most cases to connect their actions to any consequences. No matter what grades they've been earning or how many warnings/threats/promises/what-have-you I give, they always seem totally surprised at their grade by the end. Even if I tell them they're going to fail and should drop the class, they will continue showing up, somehow hoping that by dint of sheer presence to pass; the odd part is that they will rarely make any change to their work or habits which lead them to fail in the first place. It's frustrating to seem to have no impact on their consciousness one way or another--it makes all that time spent giving feedback and answering questions seem useless.
Kathie then pointed out that it's a lack of logic--an inability to tie a cause to a result. We decided that perhaps an early education in basic logic could make a difference for a lot of folks from difficult backgrounds or at least with little other education. It makes sense, in a way. Many of these folks live in worlds where effects really don't seem to have identifiable causes. The government agencies that are so prevalent treat people like cattle, little caring about their personal stories. I remember vividly when we returned from Canada and were on MediCal for a short time when I didn't have a job: it didn't matter how we acted, what we did or said--our processing was long and confusing, and the resultant aid that was given out didn't seem dependent on anything but the whim of our case worker. Our treatment at the clinics we had to go to had nothing to do with how much aid we needed or the nature of our need, but on the scheduling and budgeting of bureaucrats far removed from our movements. As well, low-wage jobs rarely reward workers for hard work: if you're at McDonald's and you knock yourself out to do a great job, you still get the same pay as the guy who sits in back smoking all day, and any other rewards are mostly non-existant (promotion in fast food is usually very limited, with most management brought in from outside rather than raised from the ranks of floor workers). You get recognized by any such organization simply by being around for longer than anyone else--senority is one of the only measures of achievement available to them, and the only way to crack government services is to wait long enough for them to do something.
My students have a terrible sense of disenfranchisement, regarding voting or participation in anything beyond their own lives pointless because they can't really change their lot. For them, everything seems to be based on favoritism, who you know and who can give you an "in" to a better situation. In many cases, they are probably right, but that leads them to surrender in all areas, even those where their effort can make a difference, like school. It may be frustrating, but it does explain, in some ways, their unspoken, almost certainly unarticulated sense that just showing up for long enough in one spot is their best chance to get something, and why admonitions, either good or bad, have little effect. We might do more good at a stroke with mandatory logic and reasoning classes in grade schools than with any disciplinary or civic program. Yet another reason why a good education is vital to success: learning dates, formulas, and vocabulary may not immediately be useful, but a system that shows you your effort can lead to accomplishment (where work is graded thoughtfully and students are neither failed in a way that seems arbitrary nor passed on without regard to their work standards due to social promotion) is exactly what many of my students could have used.
Or so it seems to me.
Kathie then pointed out that it's a lack of logic--an inability to tie a cause to a result. We decided that perhaps an early education in basic logic could make a difference for a lot of folks from difficult backgrounds or at least with little other education. It makes sense, in a way. Many of these folks live in worlds where effects really don't seem to have identifiable causes. The government agencies that are so prevalent treat people like cattle, little caring about their personal stories. I remember vividly when we returned from Canada and were on MediCal for a short time when I didn't have a job: it didn't matter how we acted, what we did or said--our processing was long and confusing, and the resultant aid that was given out didn't seem dependent on anything but the whim of our case worker. Our treatment at the clinics we had to go to had nothing to do with how much aid we needed or the nature of our need, but on the scheduling and budgeting of bureaucrats far removed from our movements. As well, low-wage jobs rarely reward workers for hard work: if you're at McDonald's and you knock yourself out to do a great job, you still get the same pay as the guy who sits in back smoking all day, and any other rewards are mostly non-existant (promotion in fast food is usually very limited, with most management brought in from outside rather than raised from the ranks of floor workers). You get recognized by any such organization simply by being around for longer than anyone else--senority is one of the only measures of achievement available to them, and the only way to crack government services is to wait long enough for them to do something.
My students have a terrible sense of disenfranchisement, regarding voting or participation in anything beyond their own lives pointless because they can't really change their lot. For them, everything seems to be based on favoritism, who you know and who can give you an "in" to a better situation. In many cases, they are probably right, but that leads them to surrender in all areas, even those where their effort can make a difference, like school. It may be frustrating, but it does explain, in some ways, their unspoken, almost certainly unarticulated sense that just showing up for long enough in one spot is their best chance to get something, and why admonitions, either good or bad, have little effect. We might do more good at a stroke with mandatory logic and reasoning classes in grade schools than with any disciplinary or civic program. Yet another reason why a good education is vital to success: learning dates, formulas, and vocabulary may not immediately be useful, but a system that shows you your effort can lead to accomplishment (where work is graded thoughtfully and students are neither failed in a way that seems arbitrary nor passed on without regard to their work standards due to social promotion) is exactly what many of my students could have used.
Or so it seems to me.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Read All About It
Just a short entry tonight; it's late and I'm tired.
I expect that every reader who finds his or her way here is well familiar with 1987's The Princess Bride; in fact, I suspect that a fair proportion of you could recite much of the movie from memory, as can I. It's a terrific little film that doesn't fail to turn up on everyone's short list of favorite movies.
However, I was in the camp among those who had never read the book. I noticed a new edition sitting on the Barnes & Noble shelves a few weeks ago and leafed through it--it appeared to be as charming as its cinematic offspring. Then I contemplated the fact that for work, I have to put in a certain number of "development" hours each year (which are supposed, legally, to be furthering my understanding of my field; in practice, it's another tangle of bureaucratic red tape to wade through), and that these can be (and have been by me) gotten by participating in or leading a book discussion. Suddenly fate and divine will collided, and I went and ate some lunch.
But shortly thereafter, I returned and purchased the book.
I can't recommend the book highly enough. It contains all the lyrical charm of the movie, though at much more depth, and is full of enough characters and incidents not covered in the movie that the reading, while delightfully familiar, also has some surprises and shocks, especially when it comes to the framing device.
Not to do disservice to Fred Ward and Peter Falk, but Goldman goes crazy with the "real world" aspects of producing the novel. The conceit is that, in fact, Florin and Guilder are real places in Europe; Goldman's father, who read him the story, is a Florinese emmigrant, and the whole book is actually supposed to be Goldman's translation and abridgement of a work of the same name by S. Morgenstern. It's all very convoluted and fascinating, as Goldman drags in such real-world presences as the Simon and Schuster publishing house, Arnold Scwarzeneggar, Andre the Giant (and the entire film crew, as well as the filming process), and Stephen King.
I can't tell you how excited I am to bring up the subject of metafiction in my book discussion. Not sure where it will go, but just being able to have such a conversation is fabulous. Trying to untangle the web of layers Goldman weaves is an engaging process and dizzyingly delightful. If you've not read it, do so at once! The next time we discuss The Princess Bride, if you can't tell me about the Zoo of Death, or the Green Recluse, or king bats, or Buttercup's baby, or the Scottish master Inigo trained with, then our conversation is over, friend.
I expect that every reader who finds his or her way here is well familiar with 1987's The Princess Bride; in fact, I suspect that a fair proportion of you could recite much of the movie from memory, as can I. It's a terrific little film that doesn't fail to turn up on everyone's short list of favorite movies.
However, I was in the camp among those who had never read the book. I noticed a new edition sitting on the Barnes & Noble shelves a few weeks ago and leafed through it--it appeared to be as charming as its cinematic offspring. Then I contemplated the fact that for work, I have to put in a certain number of "development" hours each year (which are supposed, legally, to be furthering my understanding of my field; in practice, it's another tangle of bureaucratic red tape to wade through), and that these can be (and have been by me) gotten by participating in or leading a book discussion. Suddenly fate and divine will collided, and I went and ate some lunch.
But shortly thereafter, I returned and purchased the book.
I can't recommend the book highly enough. It contains all the lyrical charm of the movie, though at much more depth, and is full of enough characters and incidents not covered in the movie that the reading, while delightfully familiar, also has some surprises and shocks, especially when it comes to the framing device.
Not to do disservice to Fred Ward and Peter Falk, but Goldman goes crazy with the "real world" aspects of producing the novel. The conceit is that, in fact, Florin and Guilder are real places in Europe; Goldman's father, who read him the story, is a Florinese emmigrant, and the whole book is actually supposed to be Goldman's translation and abridgement of a work of the same name by S. Morgenstern. It's all very convoluted and fascinating, as Goldman drags in such real-world presences as the Simon and Schuster publishing house, Arnold Scwarzeneggar, Andre the Giant (and the entire film crew, as well as the filming process), and Stephen King.
I can't tell you how excited I am to bring up the subject of metafiction in my book discussion. Not sure where it will go, but just being able to have such a conversation is fabulous. Trying to untangle the web of layers Goldman weaves is an engaging process and dizzyingly delightful. If you've not read it, do so at once! The next time we discuss The Princess Bride, if you can't tell me about the Zoo of Death, or the Green Recluse, or king bats, or Buttercup's baby, or the Scottish master Inigo trained with, then our conversation is over, friend.
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Thrown to the Wolves
Okay, so I didn't post yesterday after promising to do so.
However, for once, I have a good reason. Two actually: Denver and Poncho.
Last night was a neverending revolving door of boys out of bed. I thought of giving a play-by-play of the night here, but realized that that would not be as interesting to you as it was mind-boggling to me. Suffice it to say that from about midnight until nearly 5am, one of the other of the boys or some combination thereof was up and about, complaining about being frightened of their room, or about mysterious ailments, or just chatting about life. Every time one of them was down, the other would pop up, and every time I thought I'd have a few moments to do something, it was stripped away. I ended up laying down (but not sleeping, mind you) in our bed, on both couches, and on the large chair in the boys' room at various points. Joanna, angel that she is, let me catch some sleep this morning before church. It was a long, long night that I'd not like to repeat any time soon, the kind of night that makes you long for a stasis chamber in which to stash the little darlings, or at least kindles the desire to give them just a little bit of scotch so they'll sleep. I don't have the former and couldn't bring myself to the latter, so it was lots of talking quietly and commands to lie down with eyes closed for me.
I've got to get to my grading (only two weeks to the end, so not too much of that left for the moment). However, I did want to clairfy a few things from my last post, specifically the portion related to boldly going forth in faith.
First, an apology for the mixed metaphor: it should have been something about throwing myself on God's grace, or putting myself in God's hands. The way it was phrased sounded a bit like I would be making myself a football on a long Hail Mary pass (there's an allusion for you) and hoping He wouldn't punt me.
But moreso than that literary faux pas, I wanted to address the idea contained therein. Many of you know I've been whining for ages about wanting to move the northwest (among the many things I whine about with some consistency), and it's been suggested by those already there (Beth just the latest among them) that I should just move the family up there, damn the torpedoes, and see what turns up. After all, it worked for the Foxes and has lead to great growth for others. The comments are always made in the tone of those who think that I'm just scared to trust God that much.
I can't deny there's always some fear in putting oneself out for God's use and fully trusting Him to provide in a real, moment-by-moment sense. Well, there is some fear for me, anyway, and I suspect for the majority of folks. But fear is no reason not to do something. Honestly, that's not the major component of my not already having packed up and made the journey. Rather, it's that I don't feel like He's called me to do so yet. I'm in a strange transisitional place at the moment, and I'm not certain where He's going to end up putting me or allowing me to go. I still very much see myself ending up in the northwest, but the path there is not necessarily straightforward. I've got irons in the fire here, irons He Himself seemed to have moved me to put in that fire, and I'd like to see how they pan out.
And to those who are concerned that I might be stalling, I appreciate that concern and encourage you to keep poking me about it, because I am prone to inertia. But I will point out that I already have struck out in faith with no other support: that was what Toronto was all about. After being accepted to the University of Toronto, my incredibly supportive wife and I sold most of our things, packed a moving van with what was left, and headed for Canada. We had no place to live, no jobs, and knew no one there. We lived in cheap motels for a week, then rented a basement apartment with 5 foot ceilings from a drunken former ambassador from Barbados. We scraped by on student loans, gifts from my parents, and Joanna's grueling job in an underground mall. It was an incredible year, full of joys and difficulties (especially for a couple who hadn't been married even a year yet), and we had to literally rely on God to provide every day. Many a night was spent in tearful prayer, and many a day was begun with tremendous blessing.
But I knew I felt called to that. Though it was, I am convinced, a portion of the path we were meant to walk, we're also still paying it off: the credit counseling we've been in the past few years is an effort to eradicate the debt we built up during that time. We learned a lot and grew a lot and I'm more than willing to put myself on the line again (as Joanna is also, though more hesitantly, and I've got kiddos to think about these days as well), but not until I feel that it's time. My little wish is to move right now, to start a new life right this minute, but that's always my little wish for everything, and I think I've got some more work to do here at the moment. Maybe even within six months or a year that will change, but I'm going to concentrate on the lessons I have to learn in this place.
Now, that said, if you hear about some wonderful job opportunity up north, don't hesitate to share it--you may be the engine that gets this ship moving. I'm all for God flinging open the doors and shining the light on the path. And if I feel that it's time to head out, we'll do so even if no opportunity is immediately evident. I trust He will let me know when the time is right. I dream of my little community every day, and I trust that if it is His will, it will happen.
I guess this post, as most of them are, was much more for my own understanding than it was useful for any of you. One of my textbooks contains the quote, "How can I know what I think until I write it down?" As a bad teacher, I can't remember who said it, but it's certainly true for me. But I'm more than open to comments from the usual crew or any newcomers who may be lurking out there, and I'd love to hear stories of times when you have put your faith on the line and really put yourself out there in total reliance on God to provide. Such stories are always welcome.
However, for once, I have a good reason. Two actually: Denver and Poncho.
Last night was a neverending revolving door of boys out of bed. I thought of giving a play-by-play of the night here, but realized that that would not be as interesting to you as it was mind-boggling to me. Suffice it to say that from about midnight until nearly 5am, one of the other of the boys or some combination thereof was up and about, complaining about being frightened of their room, or about mysterious ailments, or just chatting about life. Every time one of them was down, the other would pop up, and every time I thought I'd have a few moments to do something, it was stripped away. I ended up laying down (but not sleeping, mind you) in our bed, on both couches, and on the large chair in the boys' room at various points. Joanna, angel that she is, let me catch some sleep this morning before church. It was a long, long night that I'd not like to repeat any time soon, the kind of night that makes you long for a stasis chamber in which to stash the little darlings, or at least kindles the desire to give them just a little bit of scotch so they'll sleep. I don't have the former and couldn't bring myself to the latter, so it was lots of talking quietly and commands to lie down with eyes closed for me.
I've got to get to my grading (only two weeks to the end, so not too much of that left for the moment). However, I did want to clairfy a few things from my last post, specifically the portion related to boldly going forth in faith.
First, an apology for the mixed metaphor: it should have been something about throwing myself on God's grace, or putting myself in God's hands. The way it was phrased sounded a bit like I would be making myself a football on a long Hail Mary pass (there's an allusion for you) and hoping He wouldn't punt me.
But moreso than that literary faux pas, I wanted to address the idea contained therein. Many of you know I've been whining for ages about wanting to move the northwest (among the many things I whine about with some consistency), and it's been suggested by those already there (Beth just the latest among them) that I should just move the family up there, damn the torpedoes, and see what turns up. After all, it worked for the Foxes and has lead to great growth for others. The comments are always made in the tone of those who think that I'm just scared to trust God that much.
I can't deny there's always some fear in putting oneself out for God's use and fully trusting Him to provide in a real, moment-by-moment sense. Well, there is some fear for me, anyway, and I suspect for the majority of folks. But fear is no reason not to do something. Honestly, that's not the major component of my not already having packed up and made the journey. Rather, it's that I don't feel like He's called me to do so yet. I'm in a strange transisitional place at the moment, and I'm not certain where He's going to end up putting me or allowing me to go. I still very much see myself ending up in the northwest, but the path there is not necessarily straightforward. I've got irons in the fire here, irons He Himself seemed to have moved me to put in that fire, and I'd like to see how they pan out.
And to those who are concerned that I might be stalling, I appreciate that concern and encourage you to keep poking me about it, because I am prone to inertia. But I will point out that I already have struck out in faith with no other support: that was what Toronto was all about. After being accepted to the University of Toronto, my incredibly supportive wife and I sold most of our things, packed a moving van with what was left, and headed for Canada. We had no place to live, no jobs, and knew no one there. We lived in cheap motels for a week, then rented a basement apartment with 5 foot ceilings from a drunken former ambassador from Barbados. We scraped by on student loans, gifts from my parents, and Joanna's grueling job in an underground mall. It was an incredible year, full of joys and difficulties (especially for a couple who hadn't been married even a year yet), and we had to literally rely on God to provide every day. Many a night was spent in tearful prayer, and many a day was begun with tremendous blessing.
But I knew I felt called to that. Though it was, I am convinced, a portion of the path we were meant to walk, we're also still paying it off: the credit counseling we've been in the past few years is an effort to eradicate the debt we built up during that time. We learned a lot and grew a lot and I'm more than willing to put myself on the line again (as Joanna is also, though more hesitantly, and I've got kiddos to think about these days as well), but not until I feel that it's time. My little wish is to move right now, to start a new life right this minute, but that's always my little wish for everything, and I think I've got some more work to do here at the moment. Maybe even within six months or a year that will change, but I'm going to concentrate on the lessons I have to learn in this place.
Now, that said, if you hear about some wonderful job opportunity up north, don't hesitate to share it--you may be the engine that gets this ship moving. I'm all for God flinging open the doors and shining the light on the path. And if I feel that it's time to head out, we'll do so even if no opportunity is immediately evident. I trust He will let me know when the time is right. I dream of my little community every day, and I trust that if it is His will, it will happen.
I guess this post, as most of them are, was much more for my own understanding than it was useful for any of you. One of my textbooks contains the quote, "How can I know what I think until I write it down?" As a bad teacher, I can't remember who said it, but it's certainly true for me. But I'm more than open to comments from the usual crew or any newcomers who may be lurking out there, and I'd love to hear stories of times when you have put your faith on the line and really put yourself out there in total reliance on God to provide. Such stories are always welcome.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
How Did We Get Here?
Or, more precisely, how did I get here?
I was doing so well, you know? Posts every day, witty banter filling up my blog. Then I took a little break for one day. And another. Then some two- and three-day breaks.
Now it seems I'm posting a couple of times a week when the urge strikes me.
Pleh.
Not that this is the Bad Old Days when I posted once every three months, but I've still fallen down on the job. Not good.
So I'm going to get back on track here. A post a day, even if it's short and pointless, or just shorter and more pointless than usual. Like this entry, for instance.
We had a fine Thanksgiving over at my parents'; a very small affair it was, too, with just us, my folks, and my sister. Then today it was down to the other folks' place for a "leftover" Thanksgiving, which turned out to be larger than the original item. There were some 13 people over there and six of them children.
It's been busy but fun; today was our fourth visit to another house in three days, though, and it's beginning to wear on the boys. They're crying more easily, getting out of sorts, and generally seem tired. So tomorrow we're staying here, and the main job shall be catching up on the housework that hasn't gotten done for the past three days. You'd be amazed how much that can be with three kids (if you don't have at least that many, that is).
If I survive, I'll be back in here tomorrow--or, hopefully, later today.
ps--If you know Chris Skaggs, you can check out his Thanksgiving thoughts over at his blog, The M. I've got to say that his description of his little "family" up there appeals so strongly to me that my head almost came off in reading that. Who wants to sign up to throw ourselves into God's hands in the northwest with me? Eh? What do you say?
I was doing so well, you know? Posts every day, witty banter filling up my blog. Then I took a little break for one day. And another. Then some two- and three-day breaks.
Now it seems I'm posting a couple of times a week when the urge strikes me.
Pleh.
Not that this is the Bad Old Days when I posted once every three months, but I've still fallen down on the job. Not good.
So I'm going to get back on track here. A post a day, even if it's short and pointless, or just shorter and more pointless than usual. Like this entry, for instance.
We had a fine Thanksgiving over at my parents'; a very small affair it was, too, with just us, my folks, and my sister. Then today it was down to the other folks' place for a "leftover" Thanksgiving, which turned out to be larger than the original item. There were some 13 people over there and six of them children.
It's been busy but fun; today was our fourth visit to another house in three days, though, and it's beginning to wear on the boys. They're crying more easily, getting out of sorts, and generally seem tired. So tomorrow we're staying here, and the main job shall be catching up on the housework that hasn't gotten done for the past three days. You'd be amazed how much that can be with three kids (if you don't have at least that many, that is).
If I survive, I'll be back in here tomorrow--or, hopefully, later today.
ps--If you know Chris Skaggs, you can check out his Thanksgiving thoughts over at his blog, The M. I've got to say that his description of his little "family" up there appeals so strongly to me that my head almost came off in reading that. Who wants to sign up to throw ourselves into God's hands in the northwest with me? Eh? What do you say?
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
My One-Hundred-and-Oneth Post
Huh. Who'd have thunk it? I hadn't realized I'd been approaching this number until Marilyn pointed out her 101st entry over at Well-Driven Nails. It's a nice number, but a bit humbling to think that all this frenzy of posting the last few months has only just brought me in line with everyone else; I thought I'd be leading the pack by now. Had I been posting every day, I would be.
There's a slap upside the head.
Wouldn't be the first one today, either. A student's brazen dumbness caused me actual injury today.
It's a scene oft-repeated in my classroom. I was discussing the schedule for the last few weeks of the semester, including all the due dates of major assignments. I do this to reinforce just how soon some of those are coming due. I also repeated, as I have for the past couple of weeks, that our final in the course takes place on December 12. I make a point of repeating this because the final is at a different time than the normal class meeting. This is printed in the schedule, but we can't expect something as wild as a student actually reading the schedule; it's not an assigned exercise, and it's not tested.
At any rate, knowing that they may need to arrange transportation, babysitting, getting time off from work, etc. to come in earlier than usual, I reiterate pretty regularly the time and date of the final. It was written on the board in large letters, and I talked about it for a good seven minutes. I used hand puppets to pantomime a student coming in early. Okay, that's not true, but I did everything short of this.
You can see where this is going, can't you?
About ten minutes after I had discussed this and had moved on to our latest essay, a student at the back raised her hand. When called upon, she asked, "So, is, like, our final on that day in the morning?"
To make the point that she had caused me great misery and despair, I turned around and rammed my head against the whiteboard. Normally this is a great trick. I have a very hard head to start with (I used to scare my mother by banging my forehead against metal railings. This explains a lot, doesn't it?), and it makes a terrific noise, especially when the whiteboard is not securely fastened to the wall, as most of them are not. It has tremendous shock value and makes everyone laugh.
I had forgotten, however, that these rooms had recently been renovated and refitted to make them earthquake-proof. This whiteboard, backed by a solid cement wall, did not budge.
Thunk. Ouch.
It still worked--my exasperation was sufficiently conveyed and the class laughed (rightly) at the very absurdity of asking the question. But it was a bit of a shock for me.
Lest you think this is an isolated incident, I assure you it is not (the lack of basic comprehension and retention, not my injuring myself--though this is common enough). When I mentioned that the students' response journals to Animal Farm were due next week, I could see a look of blank confusion pass across several faces, and when given the opportunity to get a copy of the prompt for the assignment, several students came up to take one. Mind you, this is an assignment we've been working on for at least two weeks, which I have mentioned at every class meeting during those two weeks. I still have students who, when I mention the Assessment Standards (the set of criteria by which I grade their essays, for which I have a handout and about which I speak several times for every single essay) have no idea what I'm talking about.
It's a strange world students live in, one in which their mere presence in the classroom and consumption of oxygen that could be more productively used elsewhere is somehow sufficient to get them a passing grade. What are they doing for those four hours a week when they're not listening to me? Most of them are looking at me for the duration, not scribbling away on their magnum opi; I foolishly tend to assume they're engaged in listening during that time. Maybe they're creating worlds within worlds inside their minds, or playing out the important political discussions of the day in intricate detail--though I tend to lean toward the explanation that they are part of a growing cult of Active Non-Listeners, a mental discipline devoted to protesting the status quo by refusing to engage the brain and purposefully barring any new information from penetrating the gray matter, probably spawned by one of my former students after I forced him to confront the idea of crimestop from 1984 in my 101 course. Now he's training legions to enter my classes and put up psychic barriers to being educated.
I like that explanation because it keeps things centered on me, right where they should be.
There's a slap upside the head.
Wouldn't be the first one today, either. A student's brazen dumbness caused me actual injury today.
It's a scene oft-repeated in my classroom. I was discussing the schedule for the last few weeks of the semester, including all the due dates of major assignments. I do this to reinforce just how soon some of those are coming due. I also repeated, as I have for the past couple of weeks, that our final in the course takes place on December 12. I make a point of repeating this because the final is at a different time than the normal class meeting. This is printed in the schedule, but we can't expect something as wild as a student actually reading the schedule; it's not an assigned exercise, and it's not tested.
At any rate, knowing that they may need to arrange transportation, babysitting, getting time off from work, etc. to come in earlier than usual, I reiterate pretty regularly the time and date of the final. It was written on the board in large letters, and I talked about it for a good seven minutes. I used hand puppets to pantomime a student coming in early. Okay, that's not true, but I did everything short of this.
You can see where this is going, can't you?
About ten minutes after I had discussed this and had moved on to our latest essay, a student at the back raised her hand. When called upon, she asked, "So, is, like, our final on that day in the morning?"
To make the point that she had caused me great misery and despair, I turned around and rammed my head against the whiteboard. Normally this is a great trick. I have a very hard head to start with (I used to scare my mother by banging my forehead against metal railings. This explains a lot, doesn't it?), and it makes a terrific noise, especially when the whiteboard is not securely fastened to the wall, as most of them are not. It has tremendous shock value and makes everyone laugh.
I had forgotten, however, that these rooms had recently been renovated and refitted to make them earthquake-proof. This whiteboard, backed by a solid cement wall, did not budge.
Thunk. Ouch.
It still worked--my exasperation was sufficiently conveyed and the class laughed (rightly) at the very absurdity of asking the question. But it was a bit of a shock for me.
Lest you think this is an isolated incident, I assure you it is not (the lack of basic comprehension and retention, not my injuring myself--though this is common enough). When I mentioned that the students' response journals to Animal Farm were due next week, I could see a look of blank confusion pass across several faces, and when given the opportunity to get a copy of the prompt for the assignment, several students came up to take one. Mind you, this is an assignment we've been working on for at least two weeks, which I have mentioned at every class meeting during those two weeks. I still have students who, when I mention the Assessment Standards (the set of criteria by which I grade their essays, for which I have a handout and about which I speak several times for every single essay) have no idea what I'm talking about.
It's a strange world students live in, one in which their mere presence in the classroom and consumption of oxygen that could be more productively used elsewhere is somehow sufficient to get them a passing grade. What are they doing for those four hours a week when they're not listening to me? Most of them are looking at me for the duration, not scribbling away on their magnum opi; I foolishly tend to assume they're engaged in listening during that time. Maybe they're creating worlds within worlds inside their minds, or playing out the important political discussions of the day in intricate detail--though I tend to lean toward the explanation that they are part of a growing cult of Active Non-Listeners, a mental discipline devoted to protesting the status quo by refusing to engage the brain and purposefully barring any new information from penetrating the gray matter, probably spawned by one of my former students after I forced him to confront the idea of crimestop from 1984 in my 101 course. Now he's training legions to enter my classes and put up psychic barriers to being educated.
I like that explanation because it keeps things centered on me, right where they should be.
Monday, November 21, 2005
Speaking of Lies...
I have tried fairly consistently to always tell the boys the truth in their short lives. It just seems like good policy. Sure, sometimes I don't elaborate on the truth, or give them a simplified version of a complex answer that wouldn't interest them at this point anyway, but I make a conscious effort (as does Joanna) not to fabricate answers simply to placate them. Sure, it would be easier to say, "Wolves outside will devour you if you go out without permission," rather than, "Going outside is fine with Mommy and Daddy, but if you go out by yourself you might get hurt or lost, so you always need to make sure that we are with you," and perhaps for the moment it might even prove more effective to warn of dire vengenace to be wreaked by the beasts that lurk in the darkness between the trees, but in the end I think it's good practice to keep things on the level.
This despite how darn fun it is to lie to kids. I can hardly say why this is so--why is it so much more amusing to lie to someone who has no real chance of disbelieving? It's not like you have to be some master storyteller to get a kid to believe just about anything. I will always remember fondly Devin convincing my cousin that pirates used to ply the waters of our tiny mountain lake, stealing vast treasures of gold and diamonds from a handful of fishermen in rowboats. Not that it's malicious, but there is a definite tug-of-war in me between my delight in a child's acceptance and the certain knowledge that purposefully attempting to make a child believe something that isn't true is A Bad Thing.
I occasionally make my students read an essay on this phenomenon. It points out that when kids catch adults in a lie, it changes their fundamental belief in things. If Mommy can tell them that she can't afford to buy them a toy, then turns around and buys something for herself an hour later, the poor kid's left with little to work with except that Mommy is hurtful and a big fibber. It also suggests to the child that lying is acceptable when it gets you out of difficulty--something I manifestly do not need the boys picking up any sooner than they already are (Nathaniel already tells us routinely now that either he is "too scared" to do his chores or that his stomach hurts the second we ask him to do something).
[Whoops--between that paragraph and the next, I had to run out and drive away some raccoons from the trash. Of course, they tipped over the can that had the boxload of packing peanuts in it...]
Why bring this up? Because Christmas is coming. And this entails telling the boys what may involve the largest lie ever shared among humans outside certain cults: Santa Claus. Telling stories about and seeing the boys excited about Santa is terrific. Such stories were a large part of my childhood, and so much a part of shared cultural experience, that it would seem nearly abusive to try to excise the old fellow from the holiday. Surely, we don't put the emphasis on him when it comes to the meaning of the day (at this tender age, the boys are only aware that Christmas is "Jesus' birthday"), but he's pervasive in the decorations, in the talk of the time, in the programs and commercials they're exposed to. Heck, in my family I still get gifts from Santa every year. This year, one of my goals is to write letters to the boys from Santa, as I occasionally got as a child (much of my inspiration also comes from those letters written by J.R.R. Tolkien to his children, published these days as Letters from Father Christmas--why doesn't our New World version of St. Nick get a dignified moniker like "Father Christmas," anyway?).
I certainly don't hold with the KJV Onlyists who would insist that any reference to Santa is the work of the devil; I've even heard it suggested that when children learn that Santa is not real, they then might question whether God is as well, since He's another person we talk about a lot but never see. I don't intend to insist to the boys that Santa is a real person; we already talk about him as a "fun story," and hopefully they'll see through our actions, words, and prayers that our belief in Christ is genuine while our discussion of Santa is amusing entertainment. But still, a guy kind of wonders.
It was Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, of course, who put this into perspective for me--and a great deal else having to do with fiction, actually. It occurred to me that this bears much relevance to my desire to write fantasy fiction as a Christian, as well as the occasional Christian flap over Harry Potter and the like. As ever, my two literary heros have also not failed me on the field of literary criticism. Tolkien's excellent essay "On Fairy-Stories" has much to say on the matter; in discussing our fears that children will really "believe" in fantasy, he says of his own childhood, "Fairy-stories were not primarily concerned with possibility, but with desirability," and later, "I never imagined that the dragon was of the same order as the horse."
Lewis, in his An Experiment in Criticism, sums it up very neatly:
[Dang--between that paragraph and this next one, I've spent some half an hour getting the boys back to bed; Nathaniel was roused by a bad dream and Caleb followed, out of curiosity, I suppose. One day I'll have to relate to you the fantastic tales they can come up with in the middle of the night...]
I suppose there would be real trouble if we constantly insisted that Santa was a real, living, breathing being--but we no more do that than we admonish them to believe in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, or Frosty the Snowman, or Bob the Builder and Dora the Explorer for that matter. (We may be drawing a fine line by taking the boys out to see the "real" Thomas the Tank Engine, but even at this point they seem to make a distinction between the Thomas they see on television who talks and gets in quarrels and has occasional facial expressions, and the train they rode on last week.)
We already play games that are clearly consensual fantasy. When you steal one of my son's noses, they immediately demand that you put it back. If you claim to be putting it on your own face, they will come and snatch it away from you again and put it in its proper place on their own head. If you pretend to eat their fingers, they will insist you "spit my pieces back out." And they constantly ask questions of inanimate objects, pets, and other unspeaking subjects (like their sister), which I always answer in the voice of the object. We've had long conversations in such a fashion (the most tedious being the three-hour dialogue with "Mammoth Mountain" as we drove there for our vacation this summer; you try talking like a mountain for that long...). Yet in all of this, though they boys may be serious, there's never a moment when it wasn't clear they were playing at it as well. They never scream at the thought of having no nose, or cry out in pain for a bitten-off finger--and they never question for a moment why I am doing all the talking for the passing firetruck, or their baby sister, or the moon...
This has been a long and rambling post (blame the interruptions, the hour, and my confused thoughts); I'll leave off with another Tolkien quote:
This despite how darn fun it is to lie to kids. I can hardly say why this is so--why is it so much more amusing to lie to someone who has no real chance of disbelieving? It's not like you have to be some master storyteller to get a kid to believe just about anything. I will always remember fondly Devin convincing my cousin that pirates used to ply the waters of our tiny mountain lake, stealing vast treasures of gold and diamonds from a handful of fishermen in rowboats. Not that it's malicious, but there is a definite tug-of-war in me between my delight in a child's acceptance and the certain knowledge that purposefully attempting to make a child believe something that isn't true is A Bad Thing.
I occasionally make my students read an essay on this phenomenon. It points out that when kids catch adults in a lie, it changes their fundamental belief in things. If Mommy can tell them that she can't afford to buy them a toy, then turns around and buys something for herself an hour later, the poor kid's left with little to work with except that Mommy is hurtful and a big fibber. It also suggests to the child that lying is acceptable when it gets you out of difficulty--something I manifestly do not need the boys picking up any sooner than they already are (Nathaniel already tells us routinely now that either he is "too scared" to do his chores or that his stomach hurts the second we ask him to do something).
[Whoops--between that paragraph and the next, I had to run out and drive away some raccoons from the trash. Of course, they tipped over the can that had the boxload of packing peanuts in it...]
Why bring this up? Because Christmas is coming. And this entails telling the boys what may involve the largest lie ever shared among humans outside certain cults: Santa Claus. Telling stories about and seeing the boys excited about Santa is terrific. Such stories were a large part of my childhood, and so much a part of shared cultural experience, that it would seem nearly abusive to try to excise the old fellow from the holiday. Surely, we don't put the emphasis on him when it comes to the meaning of the day (at this tender age, the boys are only aware that Christmas is "Jesus' birthday"), but he's pervasive in the decorations, in the talk of the time, in the programs and commercials they're exposed to. Heck, in my family I still get gifts from Santa every year. This year, one of my goals is to write letters to the boys from Santa, as I occasionally got as a child (much of my inspiration also comes from those letters written by J.R.R. Tolkien to his children, published these days as Letters from Father Christmas--why doesn't our New World version of St. Nick get a dignified moniker like "Father Christmas," anyway?).
I certainly don't hold with the KJV Onlyists who would insist that any reference to Santa is the work of the devil; I've even heard it suggested that when children learn that Santa is not real, they then might question whether God is as well, since He's another person we talk about a lot but never see. I don't intend to insist to the boys that Santa is a real person; we already talk about him as a "fun story," and hopefully they'll see through our actions, words, and prayers that our belief in Christ is genuine while our discussion of Santa is amusing entertainment. But still, a guy kind of wonders.
It was Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, of course, who put this into perspective for me--and a great deal else having to do with fiction, actually. It occurred to me that this bears much relevance to my desire to write fantasy fiction as a Christian, as well as the occasional Christian flap over Harry Potter and the like. As ever, my two literary heros have also not failed me on the field of literary criticism. Tolkien's excellent essay "On Fairy-Stories" has much to say on the matter; in discussing our fears that children will really "believe" in fantasy, he says of his own childhood, "Fairy-stories were not primarily concerned with possibility, but with desirability," and later, "I never imagined that the dragon was of the same order as the horse."
Lewis, in his An Experiment in Criticism, sums it up very neatly:
"Admitted fantasy is precisely the kind of literature which never deceives at all. Children are not deceived by fairy-tales; they are often and gravely deceived by school stories. Adults are not deceived by science-fiction; they can be deceived by the stories in women's magazines."
[Dang--between that paragraph and this next one, I've spent some half an hour getting the boys back to bed; Nathaniel was roused by a bad dream and Caleb followed, out of curiosity, I suppose. One day I'll have to relate to you the fantastic tales they can come up with in the middle of the night...]
I suppose there would be real trouble if we constantly insisted that Santa was a real, living, breathing being--but we no more do that than we admonish them to believe in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, or Frosty the Snowman, or Bob the Builder and Dora the Explorer for that matter. (We may be drawing a fine line by taking the boys out to see the "real" Thomas the Tank Engine, but even at this point they seem to make a distinction between the Thomas they see on television who talks and gets in quarrels and has occasional facial expressions, and the train they rode on last week.)
We already play games that are clearly consensual fantasy. When you steal one of my son's noses, they immediately demand that you put it back. If you claim to be putting it on your own face, they will come and snatch it away from you again and put it in its proper place on their own head. If you pretend to eat their fingers, they will insist you "spit my pieces back out." And they constantly ask questions of inanimate objects, pets, and other unspeaking subjects (like their sister), which I always answer in the voice of the object. We've had long conversations in such a fashion (the most tedious being the three-hour dialogue with "Mammoth Mountain" as we drove there for our vacation this summer; you try talking like a mountain for that long...). Yet in all of this, though they boys may be serious, there's never a moment when it wasn't clear they were playing at it as well. They never scream at the thought of having no nose, or cry out in pain for a bitten-off finger--and they never question for a moment why I am doing all the talking for the passing firetruck, or their baby sister, or the moon...
This has been a long and rambling post (blame the interruptions, the hour, and my confused thoughts); I'll leave off with another Tolkien quote:
"'"Is it true?" is the great question children ask,' [Andrew] Lang [compiler of fairy tales] said. They do ask that question, I know; and it is not one to be rashly or idly answered. But that question is hardly ever evidence of 'unblunted belief,' or even of the desire for it. Most often it proceeds from the child's desire to know which kind of literature he is faced with. Children's knowledge of the world is often so small that they cannot judge, off-hand and without help, between the fantastic, the strange (that is rare or remote facts), the nonsensical, and the merely "grown-up" (that is ordinary things of their parents' world, much of which still remains unexplored). But they recognize the different classes, and may like all of them at times. Of course the borders between them are often fluctuating or confused; but that is not only true for children."