"Puzzles and codes, I imagine they lay down to you like lovers."

Last night I decided to be social, so I went to a friend's house with a couple of friends.  We all decided that it was the perfect movie-watching night, but we had some disagreements on which film to watch.  Some people wanted to watch a scary film, while one wanted to watch a Disney film. 

Somehow, we decided that The DaVinci Code was a compromise on these two things.

I'm still not really sure how that worked.

Anyways, we watched The DaVinci Code.  And in between squirming when Paul Bettany tortured himself "for Jesus' sake", wondering why Tom Hanks thought having long hair would ever be a good idea, being generally confused by the complexity of the plot, and questioning what was true history and what was "true" history, I found myself questioning how the filmmakers wanted me to feel by the end of the film.

The point of the film seemed to me to be that Jesus was married and had a child by Mary Madgalene, which apparently meant that Jesus was not divine, but just a regular Joe. 

This just seemed like the strangest point in the world to make.  Of all the reasons you could think of to "prove" that Jesus was not divine, really?  That's the one you chose?

 
Here's my thing: say Jesus was married to Mary and say he was just a man and say God doesn't exist and say we are all just hanging out on earth until we die and say there's nothing after we die, just blackness and the end.  Say all of that is true.  Say it's all true, and that believing in God and Jesus is stupid because there is no God and no Divine Jesus and nothing but us.

Alright, that's fine.  I'm still going to follow God, even if he is just make believe.

Here's why: if there's nothing more beyond us and life, then that means we are all living a pretty hopeless life.  And we're all just going to become nothing after we're done here.

If that is the case, I don't want it.  I don't want life.  If this is it, why keep living this?  There would be absolutely no point besides self-gratification.

So I'll just keep sticking with God, even if there is no God, and even if Jesus isn't Divine.  At least by believing in Him, even if it wasn't real, I'd be living for something besides my own self-gratification.  I'd be living for some kind of purpose.

And if God isn't real and it's all made up, it's not going to make a difference whether I believe in it or not, right?  I'd still become nothingness when I die, so why does Ron Howard care if I believe in it or not?

At least I have more hope and a point to my existence than he does.  At least I wake up in the morning and can embrace the day with a fake sense of security and hope, instead of waking up thinking, "One more day closer to becoming nothingness."

I wish I was as creative and brilliant as C. S. Lewis was and could say this as beautifully as he did, but I don't think I can.  So I'll just write out what he said:

"Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things - trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important that the real ones. Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well it strikes me as a pretty poor one... I'm on Aslan's side even if there isn't any Aslan to lean on... we're leaving your court at once and setting out in the dark to spend our lives looking for Overland. Not that our lives will be very long, I should think; but that's a small loss if the world's as dull a place as you say."

I'm glad I have hope.



 

Well you're hot, hot, loaded like a gun

I'm questioning if there is anything more peaceful than sitting in the School of Religion's Reading Room, listening to the rain, and wearing my comfy-but-cute clothes.

I think not.

Well, if you add sushi in the mix, it would make it perfection, naturally.

It's days like these, when there's lots to be done but time to just sit and listen to the rain and talk to God for a little while, these days are the days where it's just good to be alive.

Even bad hair can't get you down on days like this.  These are the days that headbands and bobby pins were created for.

On days like today, I wish I lived in France, and I wish I could dance. Or at least could make an attempt at dancing.  When I dance now, I just look like a dying animal.

I want to dance like Gene Kelly.  Is that possible? 

Storytelling

Sometimes I feel like being a journalist means I get to experience the things that other people do without actually doing them myself.

I can't decide if this is a good thing or not.

I interviewed an actress today.  Secretly, I've always wanted to act.  You know how you have those plans that you will never follow through with, but you know that if you could do anything in the world, you would do x?  I've always thought acting in plays is like that thing for me.

So I was excited to interview this actress.  And in talking with her and listening to the fluctuation of her voice and the way she spoke in hushed tones about becoming her character when she is on stage, I imagined myself in her shoes.  For that eighteen-and-a-half minute interview, I personified myself as an actress.

And then I came home and wrote the story.  And turned back into the storyteller I am inside.

Does that mean that a good storyteller puts on different hats in order to tell the best story possible 

Maybe not.  But I think that's what I'm finding myself doing.

Maybe it's hard to see anything negative about this.  But at times, especially the past month or so, I've found myself backing out of activities and living (in certain ways) because I have to interview someone or write a story or whatever.  And while I am talking to them or writing their story, I feel like a part of something huge, even if it's just talking to an actress who shaved her head for a play or a lonesome man who drives a trolley.

But sometimes when I'm done writing the story or talking to them or I put away my storytelling pen, I am reminded that I forgo certain aspects of life in order to tell others' stories.  I have at times put aside my own life in order to tell someone else's.

Is that sane?

"This is my rock and role face. Millions of women find it very sexy."

It's funny to watch people's reactions to you smile at them. 

That's one thing I've noticed about students here.  You can tell a lot about a student by their reaction to your smile. 

Maybe people do this everywhere, and I've just noticed it since I've been at Lee.  But when people see someone else walking towards them, they look at everything in the world they can possibly look at to avoid eye contact until the most opportune moment.  

Then, when the timing is right, when you are both passing each other, you look up and acknowledge their presence. 

It's an odd system to me, but I've found myself following this unspoken rule while I've been here.  If you deviate from this rule, it really throws people off.  

What throws them off even more is when you smile as broadly as you can to someone you don't even know.  Or, Heaven forbid, when you speak to them. 

I tested this theory the other day.  I was walking past a girl I had seen around but never actually met.  She has one of the best senses of fashion I've ever seen, and I'm constantly jealous of her outfits.  

So the other day, as we walked past each other, I looked at her until she looked up from the ground, and smiled my most friendly smile, then said, "I love your dress." 

I thought she was going to fall over in shock or something.  

I took her so off guard, I heard her utter an, "Um, thanks," after we had already passed each other. 

It made me laugh that such a simple, friendly gesture would shock someone so much. 

It also made me want to break the unspoken rule more often.  Just to see people react as if the world has just been shaken and confused. 

Attribution for the title: Hugh Grant in Music And Lyrics

Trolley Drivers And Truth

The thing I learned today is that things don't just happen.

I had been working on a story for my university newspaper.  The story itself wasn't bad, but I just kept feeling like I was writing stories just to have words on a page so my managing editor wouldn't yell at me. I knew this was not how a journalist should act, but I just couldn't seem to help it.  I felt stuck as a writer.

I was zoning out a little during an interview for this particular story.  I couldn't seem to get motivated to be a journalist, I was just hoping to squeeze by.  And then my interview-ee changed everything just by a simple sentence.

"I never did figure out the trolley system."

I'm not even sure why this particular sentence made me sit up and start listening.  But thank God it did.

Even though this statement had nothing to do with my particular story, I stopped asking my questions on my list and started asking my interview-ee about this trolley system he couldn't figure out.

The more he talked, the more deeply I could smell my next story.

I decided I would figure out this trolley situation, no matter what.  I was determined.  I felt like I had this breaking story, even if it was just about a trolley.  Or so I thought, anyways.

I did something that is rare for me - I talked to everyone I could think of about this trolley.  I had talking to administrative people, but I didn't really seem to care when it came to this trolley.  I wanted to know.

And then I felt like I hit a wall.  I couldn't find anyone who really wanted to talk to me.  I talked to three or four admin people, but they just didn't seem to see how this story was relevant, even though I was determined.

So again, I did something that all journalists do, but that I typically avoid like the plague.  I ran after my story.  Quite literally, actually.

I saw the trolley sitting on campus as I walked out from a class.  I hadn't prepared for an interview, I didn't even know what kinds of questions I would ask, and I hadn't spent the typical twenty minutes I normally spend mentally preparing for an interview.  I just decided to get on the trolley and start talking.

I could hear the trolley motor from several hundred feet away, and I suddenly was hit with a terrible thought; it is about to drive away.  I might miss it.

So I literally ran from my class to the trolley. It was exhilirating running after a story like that.

I smiled at the driver and he kindly opened the door for me. I didn't know what to say, so I just started talking.

"I'm a writer.  I mean, I'm an editor.  For the Lee Clarion.  The school newspaper, I mean.  Well, it's called the Lee Clarion.  Can I talk to you?  I mean, for a story.  Cause I'm writing a story about the trolley.  Well, not the trolley itself, but like the trolley system. Oh, can I record this?  I have my recorder."

This is literally what I said to the poor man. And even though I blubbered all over myself, he agreed to talk to me.

I was embarrassed by my outburst, so I decided to be incredibly professional.  I stood right next to him on the trolley, my recorder practically in his face, doing the Journalist Nod as he talked and doing the Journalist Ear, which means that I was half listening half thinking up my next question.  After getting all the Important Facts from him, I wondered if maybe our interview was over.  I mean, it had only been 6 minutes and 14 seconds, but I seemed to have all the Important Facts I needed.

And then told me I should take a seat. I sat down.

An hour later, I stood up and got off the trolley.

It's not that the trolley driver and I had an especially deep or theological conversation.  We just talked.  About life.  About people.  About goals and dreams and hopes and places we've been and places we hope to go.

And through this incredible hour long conversation with a kindhearted, God-filled trolley driver, I remembered why it is that I am a journalist.

I am a journalist because I love stories.  There is nothing that makes me happier than listening to someone just talk.  It doesn't have to be particularly powerful or life-changing, it's just truth.

For that brief hour, the trolley driver and I made a difference in each other's lives.  He told me that he had been feeling depressed, that he had been wondering about his life and what God was up to, but that I refreshed him.

And even though I didn't say it to him, he refreshed me as well.

So if you are looking for me around campus and you can't seem to find me, just look for the trolley.  I will probably be on it, just riding around with the trolley driver, my new friend, and talking.

I feel like I can spit fire! - Neville Longbottom

"Music, the greatest good that mortals know, and all of heaven we have below. Music can noble hints impart, engender fury, kindle love; with unsuspected eloquence can move and manage all the man with secret art." 
- Joseph Addison

Rain and music are, I think, the two most beautiful things in creation. They are also very much alike to me. 
I love listening to conductors like Alexandre Desplat when it rains. I think perhaps he sometimes writes his music just for rainy days. 

Have you ever listened to a song and felt like it was the last song you ever wanted to listen to again? I feel like I find songs like that all the time. 


A few years ago, a sweet boy named Michael let me borrow his copy of The Perks Of Being A Wallflower. In this wonderful book, Charlie says to his friend, "I have finished To Kill A Mockingbird. It is now my favo[u]rite book of all time, but then again, I always think that until I read another book." This is me at nearly every book and song and film that I see. 
I love Stephen Chbosky for saying that for me. But then I love Mr. Chbosky for saying a lot of things for me in his book. 

I love Mr. Chbosky for this: 
"Sam tapped her hand on the steering wheel. Patrick held his hand outside the car and made air waves. And I just sat between them. After the song finished, I said something. 
'I feel infinite.'
And Sam and Patrick looked at me like I said the greatest thing they ever heard. Because the song was that great and because we all really paid attention to it. Five minutes of a lifetime were truly spent, and we felt young in a good way." 


I didn't have a particular point to writing any of this, but maybe that's when the best emotions come out of oneself. Anyways, maybe I just wanted to pretend like someone somewhere might be paying attention and might listen to these songs and read Mr. Chbosky's book and feel as if their soul had found a nice place to curl up and rest. 


One last song for the road. 

And The Sky Is Not Cloudy All Day

I've been thinking about war. Somehow just admitting it seems odd.

Maybe I shouldn't bring everything back to film, but I can't seem to help it.  Film seems sometimes to be my life.  Or at least how I spend a considerable amount of my life.

Anyways, I watched this film entitled Brothers.  It was not what I had expected.
The premise of the film is that one brother is in the military and goes off to fight in the war, only to get kidnapped.  He is mistaken for dead. His wife and daughters are struggling through his "death", so his brother helps them, only to fall for his brother's wife.  While she herself falls for him, she knows her heart belongs to her husband, even if she thinks he is dead, so she stays pure for her husband.  When she learns that he is not really dead, she is thrilled, but knows that things with her brother-in-law will be difficult. When her husband returns, he thinks that his wife and brother are having an affair.  This, mixed with what happened to him while he was kidnapped in the war, makes him go mad.

When I checked this film out from the library, I thought it was just going to be about mixed up love and a lot of good acting. I didn't realize it would provoke so many feelings about war.

There is one part in the film where the husband is forced to make a choice about his future.  He must decide if he will do anything to get back to his family, or if he will instead give his life for the war.  This decision was painful to see because I hated that he was forced to make it.

I understand war sometimes.  I understand that sometimes war is fought to end holocausts or stop innocent people from being destroyed or to bring down a ruler that has sold himself to evil.  I understand this.  What I don't understand is what actually goes on during a war.

I sometimes wonder if the men who are killed and the men who killed them even knew why they were dying or why they were killing.  Do they even understand what is actually going on?  In the heat of a battle, do you stop to think about the value of a human life, or are you just scared out of your mind?

I have not witnessed any sort of war first hand.  I do not know what it is like to be shot at and see your friends blown up beside you and feel as if you would do anything and kill anyone to just make it stop.  I cannot possibly imagine how this feels.
And maybe it is extremely naive of me, but I wish so desperately that no one had to know what this feels like.

I watched another film about a week ago called The Messenger.  The only reason I picked it up was because I am quite taken with Woody Harrelson.  But I am very glad I picked it up. I would recommend it to everyone.
It's all about two men who deliver the news of soldier's deaths to family members and what this does to their own minds and lives.

I never thought about these messengers before.  I never stopped to think how telling about death as a job could possibly affect someone.  But I understand better now.
I also desperately wish that no one had to know what it feels like to deliver the news of a death of someone you don't even know to someone you don't even know.

I've wondered for a long time if I'm a pacifist.  Films like Brothers makes me wonder this.  Perhaps I am.
War I suppose is just too much for me to really get, to really understand and agree with completely.  I suppose it's not my job to understand war, that's for presidents and rulers and commanders to understand.
But sometimes I wonder if they understand it.

I wish I knew how to fight against war.  I'm not going to picket or complain to leaders or refuse to support our military or any of that rubbish.  That's just silly stuff.
The only way I know how to stand up against war is to love.
But sometimes I wonder if love's enough.