Air Hockey

I have been sadly neglecting you, my dear--I have told you nothing about air hockey. I have told you nothing about the small coterie of devoted players who meet almost every evening, round about 9 PM (that magic hour) to whack pucks, discuss papers, tease one another, talk, and relax over the clatter of the air hockey table.

The table resides at Dorm 5's very height, on the third-floor landing. Last night was particularly satisfying, for we had three giants of the Table with us. David Snyder, his brother Tom, and Sarah Pride, who is commonly acknowledged as the female PHC champion. No one can touch Tom, except David. It has been said that Michael Tighe once beat David, but I don't believe it.

First Sarah whupped me, and then, miraculously, I beat her by a single point. It was a fluke. Tom beat me, again by a comfortingly small margin, and then David whaled on him (7-2, ouch!) Sarah played David in one of the zippiest games I've ever seen, but ultimately lost, next I played David, and was more than content with being beaten 7-5.

Today, it being a snow day, Sarah has organized an Air Hockey Tournament. Hoo, boy! Details at eleven.

Blogs - Let's Talk Comparison

There has been a small confusion in my corner of the web, aka Patrick Henry College. I was talking to a good friend, Kirsten, and she mentioned her blog. This led to an exchange of IM addresses, and I made a mental note to look up her site later.

Then I went home and got snowed in with only two schoolbooks. Ergo, there was time to update and modify my blog. "I think I'll break down and add other people's blog addresses to my sidebar," I told myself. I had been rebelling against this for some time, because I knew that, if I once I began, it would be hard for me to stop.

"I'll just add my family's blogs."

Easy enough, but no sooner done than I realized: we don't all have blogs, except in the most technical sense. Technically, the umbrella term "web log" (abbreviated to "blog" by our society's love for soundbites) applies to all kinds of personal online journals. De facto, when someone says "blog," they could mean just an online journal, which includes things like Xanga and LiveJournal, but they probably mean a Blog proper, that is, an online journal powered by Blogspot, which has a distinctive template and "look" of its own.

My blog, for example, is a Blogspot. In appearance it is very different from Davy and Mike's Xanga sites, or Nate, Mom, and Dad's LiveJournal (LJ) sites. On the other hand, any casual viewer can at once see a similarity between my blog layout and that of my sister Charity, whose online journal is also Blogspot-based.

Via IM profiles (which often contain links to personal web logs), I stumbled across the PHC blogring, which I had not supposed to exist. There I found my friend Kirsten, and all manner of other people, as well as their siblings, friends, and extended relations. The connective power of the internet is truly astonishing, in case you hadn't noticed lately. However, I was surprised to discover that what she had referred to as her "blog" was actually a Xanga site.

Now, I do not wish to peer down any lengthy proboscisi (long noses), but personally I must confess, having had an LJ of my own, that I prefer the Blogspot blogs. They are crisper, more professional, and easier to read. The same opinion goes for Xanga. I have also found that many, if not most, professional "bloggers" use Blogspot (if you don't believe me, check this out.) A Blog --in the Blogspot sense of the word--takes a little more effort than a Xanga or LJ, and is more serious (you won't find them scattered with smiley faces, which is a feature I kinda miss, being a former LJer), but the benefits are worth it.

Now, in speaking of these three--Xanga, Blogspot, and LJ--I might choose a cell phone simile. The Xanga site is a colorful phone, probably with bright green, pink, or blue plastic hull and moderately good reception. It is popular with teenagers and perfectly functional. The LJ, a more adult model, uses quieter colors but is essentially the same 5-inch rectangle of communicative capabilities. I would compare Blogspot, however, to the sleek, slim, silver flip-phones, the ones that have reception almost everywhere, the ones that you see clipped to briefcases.

Having tried an LJ, and having considered a Xanga, I opted for the Blog. I admit it; the Blog just looked more classy to me. It doesn't make me a better writer or a better person than any Xangite or LJer in the land, but the crisp, elegant, gravis format helps me to take what I'm doing seriously. I add here the mild caveat that I have seen highly professional Xanga and LJ sites (for an example, try those of Mike or Davy on my sidebar), sites which make my Blog look like an outdated Dell.

So, here are my two cents. Young hopeful, if you aspire to an online journal, may I advise Blogspot?

It Gets Harder Every Time

"Don't go back to school, Tisy!"
I pillowed my chin on Burgee's head and hugged her tight. Last night, I had her cuddled up against my knees, doing her Latin homework while I corrected papers for Linguistics. It was such a joy to talk to her, to watch her picking sentences apart and distinguishing passive tenses from present ones or perfect ones. But now it is morning, and I have to go...
"I has to go, Burgee." I said, using our family babytalk dialect.
"No you doesn't!"
"I does. I sorry, but I does. I wuf you!"
"I want you to stay home and bake cookies with me!"
I looked over her head at our family room, at dark polished wood and prussian blue and tapestry fabrics, at thick carpet and reading lamps and books and fireplace. I looked down at the kitchen table where I stood hugging her, at the tablecloth that Mama just finished last night, while she and I talked until 12 AM. Suddenly, it became very difficult to let her go.
"I has to go, Burgee." I murmured into her hair. "I has to."
"But I need you!"
I detached myself from her arms, silently cursing higher education. What good is higher education, anyway? Who cares what Sidney said about poetry and literary theory five hundred years ago? Who cares what Chandler has to say about sign systems and semiotics? Who cares if Euclid wrote a fifth postulate? This is now, and here, and I'm alive, and I want to live for God and his people, pour myself into them, watch them grow up into God as I grow with them... I want my family, my dear ones, my best friends--I never got over the first crushing wave of homesickness in my Freshman year. Here I am a Junior, and every time I go "back to school", it gets harder to say goodbye.

I begin the familiar prayer... Da mi, Domine, scire et intellegere... Augustine's prayer: give to me, Lord, to know and to understand...but I don't know why, and I can't understand why, and all I know or understand is that it's hard and it hurts.

I want to stay here....

The heart speaks thus, but the soul answers: "Go. Learn the things that you must learn at school. Grow in the ways in which you must grow at school. A season for everything, remember?"

So I swallow my tears, and let my baby sister go again. I've missed three years of her life. I may miss two more. She's fourteen, Lord. How much longer do I have before she's gone to college? How can it be that this is good and right?

Be still, my heart. Cease your stirrings. You know that you are within the will of God, and in this you must be content; you must freely submit to and take pleasure in God's sovereign and fatherly disposal.

Da mi, Domine... give to me to rest in your heart, for my heart is restless.

Snowed In

So, Tuesday morning I go to Daddy's office...

"Dad, I'm out of charity with mankind, and I need you to talk me back into it." That is one of my ways of saying that I need to hear the Gospel again.
"Hmmm... well, sit down, but first of all, do you want to come home tomorrow night and go see a play with the family for my birthday?"
"Dude, yes! Which play?"
"St. Joan of Arc."
"Oh wow..."
"I thought you'd like it."
I grinned at him. He knows, and I know, and the whole family knows, and most of my friends know, that I am absolutely dippy about Joan of Arc. This is why it only took me about fifteen seconds of reflection to say, "Well, I could skip Music Appreciation..."

Wednesday morning:

8 AM
I rose, not like Aurora with light in my arms for gods and men, but like a fuzzily blond three-year-old in pyjamas. Flip on computer. Check email. Read book by Ryken on the history of the Bible, since I'm presenting it in class this afternoon.

9 AM
Fulfill the dictates of society: ablutions, brushing of tooths, and covering of limbs.
"Clothes are so overrated, Helen."
"I'd like to see you do without them."
"Well, yes..."

10 AM
Chapel. "Good morning, Stars!"
"Good morning Trissie! Look, I got new dress pants!"
I peered at them. "Cool! They're... they're dress pants!"

10:45 AM
"Okay Stars, let's whip this paper into shape. Hmm...you're overusing 'perseverence'...and if you want to use a Supertones song to talk about Calvin's doctrine of the perseverence of the saints, then the two concepts probably want to be linked together a bit more..."

11:20 AM
"Good job, Stars! It's a good paper, and you're improving vastly. Not joking."
"Thanks, Trissie! So, what grade do you think it will get?"
"Who is it for?"
"Bouchoc."
"Non scio, kiddo. I've never done a paper for Bouchoc. But this should be a high B to mid A paper."
"Great!"

11:30-11:45 AM
Realization dawns. "Sarah, I have to review the reading for Linguistics in case there's a quiz, and I have to give this book report in Linguistics, for which I've written absolutely no notes, and I have to edit this paper for Linguistics, and I have to meet with Dr. Hake right before Linguistics, and Linguistics is at 12 noon! ACK!"
"Wow. Better get to work, Christy."

11:55 AM
"Well, Christy, this publication proposal looks good to me. Why don't you tweak it and we'll send it on to Dr. Bonicelli and probably get an answer this week."
I smiled and nodded, but what I was thinking was, "oh golly, how did I get into this? I may be editor in chief of a school-wide publication by Saturday! Yikes!"

12:00 PM
There was a quiz, and I had to give the book report with only the book (it went well, by the grace of God), and I just barely finished editing the paper.

1:00 PM
Lunch. Hilarious conversation...
"Well, Christy, I think you most resemble a raccoon."
"Helen looks like a wolf."
"Is Hannah really a puppy?"
"It was postpaperously verified."
"So the reason that Helen and Carolyn are going to go haunt the weight room in white sheets is because Hannah is wearing rosebuds in her hair?"
"Yeah, pretty much."

3:00 PM
Topics in Lit class.

4:00 PM
The cell phone rings. "Hey Baby! This is Dad, and we're here to get you."
"Um, hi Daddy! I thought you and Mom were coming at 4:30, so... I'm just out of class, and not remotely packed..."

Run to dorm room, fling clothing and toiletries about, jump into car, go home.

5:30 PM
My house is the Palace Beautiful. I got my glass of white Zinfandel (although later in the evening Daddy introduced me to some truly delightful Rhine wine...more bite than Zinfandel, and a little more like gingerale..) and went to sit in the sunroom with the Parental Ones and Marjorie, who wouldn't let me go.
"Sit still, Tisy."
"But Burgee, I have to get up! Jessica is here, and I have to say hi to her."
"No you don't! Sit still and cuddle!"
What could I do? I cuddled. Mike and his courtee (Jessica, also one of my best friends) had just arrived. Grandma, Grandpa, and various cousins all passed through my field of vision.
"Burgee, I really have to go."
"Mmmpfh!"

I disentangled myself and went to talk to Jessica while we set the table.
"Tis, can you make mashed potatoes?"
"Sure, Mom!"
"Just don't put any blue food coloring in them this time," Mike quipped, alluding to an error of my youth.
"Hey, it was you who stirred them and turned the whole pot of potatoes sky blue!"
I put mustard in. Mike didn't have to know, and it really helps the overall taste. Jessica looked a little tired.
"How's the hospital, Jess?"
"It's great, but hard. I've learned to sleep only 5.5 hours."
"That's not good, kiddo. You're gonna get sick."

We sat down to a fabulous dinner. Steak, two kinds of greens, potatoes, chocolate-covered cherries, coffee, wine, icecream cake (created by Marjorie, who is a confectionary genius)... oh wow...

"Kids, the show starts in half an hour. Let's load up!"

St. Joan was great. Discussing it afterwards was even more fun. And who should I see first when we get to the theater, but my adorable little brother...
"Krasiva!"
"Danya!"
With Davy, I try to speak a little Russian, because that is what he loves.

Bed.

Thursday Morning:

"It's snowing hard, Chris. We won't be going to PHC this morning."
"Huzzah! I'll email my professors."

Classes cancelled. Joy upon joy known before! Charity appeared in my range of vision.

"Tisy, come huff and puff with us!"
I gave her a flummoxed look. "Huff and puff?"
"Excercise! You can sit on the bed and entertain us while Mom and Marjie and I do our workout."
"I was going to go have my quiet time, actually..."
"Oh, come on!"
What could I do? I sat on the bed and they began flapping their arms in unison. I just about died laughing...

"Tisy, you're supposed to be entertaining us!"
"Well, how shall I entertain you?"
"Tell us about your love life."
I grinned at Charity. "Sorry, babe, I don't have one."

Mom's deep bathtub was available...

"Tisy, will you braid my hair?"
"Certainly Churdee, but look who I have in my sweatshirt."
"Awww! Hi, Emma!"
Our ferret's head poked sleepily out over my sweatshirt zipper. Charity fondled it. "Do you need a hairbrush?"
"And a hairtie. I'll meet you downstairs."

I threw on one of Daddy's old blue button-down shirts, jeans, and put my hair back in a French braid. Haven't done that in ages, but Marjie had hers the same way, and it appealed to me. Charity's hair took a long time to braid, but how often do I get to handle sunshine? Not often enough.

Marjorie tied on her apron. I sat on the counter to talk to her.
"Okay Burgee, here's how it works. You haven't had the 3rd Conjugation yet, but there are these four verbs, and in the imperative the 'e' drops off the end of all of them. So: dic (speak), duc (lead), fac (make), and fer (bring). Those are used so much that they got elided. So if I say to you "dic ad me verba in lingua Latinae..."
"Speak... toward me?... words... in tongue of Latin?"
"'Speak to me words in the Latin language,' basically. Lingua takes the ablative because of in, and Latinae has to be genitive because it's the 'language of Latin'".
"Well, I'm going ad parentes..."
"You mean Mom and Dad?"
"I mean the grandparents."
"Ah. That might be meliores parentes...I'm not sure."

We wandered into the piano and began to play with split chords.
"G/D means that you play all the notes of the G chord with your right hand, and the D in octave with your left hand."
"Why?"
"That's just the way they set it up."

Nate wandered through on his way to the warehouse.
"Okay people! We're filming now, so no screaming, no running, no throwing of punches."
"Who's filming?"
"Mom is filming training tapes for Tapestry."
"Oh."

And so on. You never know what's coming next around here, but I hope that you can see, through my eyes, that it is the dearest places on earth...or at least, mihi (to me).

Lord God, who am I that you have blessed me as much as this? I am a thought and a vapor, a moment upon the earth, and a rebellious moment, a moment of sin against the holy eternal God... but you have saved me out of my darkness and brought me into your marvelous, polychrome light... as stained-glass windows and the sunrise is your presence, and as a heart overfilled with laughter is your service. To be the slave of Christ is to be free from all fear of death. Domine, Domine mei, orabo te nunc et semper, si dabis me ocules videre te ut tu es.... Lord, my Lord, I will worship you now and always, if you will give me eyes to see you as you are...

For without your Spirit, Lord, I do not see you, and without your love I am lost in a darkened cave.

Too Busy to be Bored

My dear, God has such a sense of humor. For the last few weeks I have been complaining that my life lacks challenges. Well! Let the simple one observe my story and become wise, for I am plunged suddenly (and I mean suddenly, as in "over the last 48 hours") in mediam rerum (into the middle of things). I will explain.

Somewhere about the beginning of last week, four different stories which I have been working on for one to six years, depending on the story, suddenly coalesced into a single story. All at once I have a massive narrative on my hands, which is complete in plot and beautiful in form, but which will require much more labor than I really want to contemplate. This thing has five hundred pages worth of potential, at least. Should I write it? Can I not write it?

Last night, I finally found a name for the fiction and poetry publication that Dr. Hake and I have been discussing for about a month. This afternoon, I sent him my proposal for the publication, to be sent through appropriate faculty channels. It is entirely possible that I shall find myself editor in chief of that publication by Spring Break. Ay-yi-yi....

On top of all regular schoolwork, I have two book reports to give this week (and dare not think of next week, which includes two papers, a set of DQ's, and a Geometry exam).

RA applications are coming up. Term papers are coming up. Major decisions are coming up (do I want a degree in History as well as Literature, or not?). SUMMMER is beginning to become an object of thought. It looks as though I will be employed once more this summer in writing Latin grammars, and need to brush up my lingua Latinae, but that is only the tip of the iceberg. Montana. Yellowstone. Conferences (Ohio? PA? Mass Hope? NC?). Switching back to my CLC caregroup (which, by the way, only entails a complete switchover of relational circles). Practicum. Do I want to choose a writing mentor and work on poetry or a novel next semester? Am I ready to write a novel?

Oh golly, pleasure reading alone! I have a booklist as long as my arm, and most of it is theology/philosophy/history/literature! Which reminds me that I still have to write my miniature treatise on why "poetic" is a misunderstood adjective as applied to literature, and, per last night's conversation with Sarah, I have to hammer out a philosophy of Christian friendships and the transience or intransience thereof...which reminds me that I was working on an analysis of courtship as a pre-matrimonial model...which reminds me that I wanted to write on the artificiality of environment in higher education institutions (aka "college")...which reminds me that I need to finish my worldview construction on the Christian family and its primacy...

Which reminds me that my little brother called me last night, in tears, to say that his beagle has died, and to ask me what is Latin for "in loving memory"? Oh, my beloved Danya, I am so sorry...

You see how life beats a rhythm between the abstract and the concrete, the universal and the particular? In heaven God reigns, and on earth my Danya's beagle has died. In the Capitol sits a Legislature, and at PHC I need to sit down with Daddy to do my taxes. I was wrong to think that life begins after college. Life is much too robust a thing to wait while I prepare for it; it laps around my very desk, and laughs at all my efforts to meet it with skill. Thanks be to God, it forces me to be utterly dependent on grace.

Da mi, Domine, scire et intellegere, sed super eas res, amare. Amavisti me, ergo, doce me amare te.... et amare tuos populos. Et da mi felicitas in Christo, qui est mea vita.

Don't mistake me, my dear.... I am so very glad to be alive in this rich, bewildering profusion of opportunity and choice--opportunity to glorify God, choice to choose his will.

UWC

The "Unnamed Writing Club" (I'm not kidding; that is its "name") is a joy, delight, and pleasure to me. Seven girls meet in one or another of our collective dorm rooms to share manuscripts, edit one another's work, drink tea, and eat chocolate. Soft music in the background, usually classical or celtic, adds to the elegant ambience... which is all to the good, for the conversation generally detracts from it, and in this I am the chief offender.

I will tell you of the UWC fairly regularly from now on, but I must protect the guilty. Ergo I shall invent pseudonyms for my comrades. They are as follows:

Dramatis Personae

Christy
"Athena"
"Camilla"
"Lavinia"
"Nausikaa"
"Andromache"
"Cassandra"

As with all my accounts of dialogue, I cannot answer for perfect accuracy. However, the gist of the thing is set down here, with it being understood that my memory is being embellished by my imagination, though of course I would prefer to have perfect auditory recall. Also, as any fiction author knows, sometimes rearrangements and additions are subconsciously (or even consciously) included to make the thing understandable. I shall try to remain true to life, but it is important that you not absolutely impute any of these words or sentiments to my esteemed colleagues, because I cannot remember, always, what was said as opposed to what may or may not have been said, but sounds like it was. With this in mind, then...

"I just counted six definite articles in this sentence alone! It should be a crime to use "the" this many times!" - Christy
::General laughter::
"More hot water?" - Andromache
"I think I need a new teabag." - Athena
"This is really good, [Cassandra]! I like the way you've woven the battle scene together." - Lavinia
"Thank you. I was a little concerned that it became confusing on the second page." - Cassandra
"Christy! I liked my 'beautiful violet eyes'! Why did you mark it as bad?" - Camilla
"I'm sorry, dear, but it was so purple! It's a fairytale cliche, you know." - Christy
"But it's necessary to the plot." - Camilla
"That's true, it is. However, I ask you, is there ever a sufficient excuse for violet eyes?" - Christy

"Christy, I don't understand who your main character is talking to." - Lavinia
"Oh, that. Yes, I'm sorry, I was experimenting with second/first person perspective. I like experimenting with perspective, but I admit that it gets a little confusing. She's talking to the star." - Christy
"Hang on a second. She can't be!" - Camilla
"But she is. It's based off of a Romanian poem called Luceaferul." - Christy
"Then it's fantasy. I thought you were going for realistic." - Athena
"Well, we have Biblical accounts of angels visiting earth, yes?" - Christy
"Yes...." - Athena
"So, in a sense, reality is fantasy, at least as we generally conceive of the fantasy genre." - Christy
::laughing:: "I am not going to get into a philosophical discussion about reality with you during a writing meeting!" - Athena
"Oh, all right. We can have a philosophical discussion about reality after the writing meeting. By the way, your story gets confusing in the last paragraph or so." - Christy
"Shall I act it out for you?" - Athena
"You're going to act out getting hit by an arrow in the shoulder and wolves dying all over the place?" - Christy

Much later...

"Riiggghhht.....So I'll just give up chocolate, and then I won't need men?" - Christy
"Let us know if it works!" - Nausikaa

And so on. The UWC has one creed: excellence for Christ, friendship for one another. It has one law: at every bimonthly meeting, each author must bring something new, even if it be only a few paragraphs. Among all of my on-campus activities, this meeting is second only to caregroup, and reminds me that God loves to give his children good gifts, among them this great blessing: friendship.

Apologiae Prufusae

I don't know why I should feel compelled to offer "profuse apologies" for not posting much during these last few weeks. It's not as if I have a public, and it's certainly not as if I made any promises to be regular in my blogging.

Well, I am compelled, in spite of rationality, and therefore I offer apologiae profusae. Obviously I expect to mend my errant ways, though I adjure you to note that this is not, even now, a promise to post regularly.

With all of these caveats in mind...

Hi. I'm back.

Linguistics... Romantics... It Must Be Spring!

"You're going to do what?"

"I'm going to rewrite my Linguistics paper on a new thesis."

"Yeah, but romantic love? Were you that hard up for ideas?"

"I was inspired by this truly foul textbook that I found in the library on how to write a romantic novel." I waved it under her nose.

"Ugh! Christy!"

I smiled my most innocent smile. "Yes?"

"Well, it's certainly interesting."

"I thought so. See you later!"

I stepped outside, musing. It was a rather odd combination, but I had to find some way to make linguistics interesting. Besides, love was one of the few things I could count on as a language-conception that has been written about since time began, and therefore one in which a good deal of change can be traced. Language change was the point of my paper; romantic love merely an example.

I lifted my head up to the brilliance of a windswept warm day in February, and laughed at myself. It was good to laugh, good to be young and free and worshipful towards God. "Oh Thou, my Holy Sweetness! Oh Thou, Thou best playmate! Thou dearest love, Thou richest color, Thou vision-filler and dream-maker!"

I can't remember a time before now when I have been so consistently joyful. I overflow with it, not just sometimes or in some moods, but more and more constantly, a steady flame, a brisk, lively burning. Sore throat or not, sunshine or not, sleep or not... still Spirit always.

Gaudate! Christus est natus!