What do ya like?

As you all may or may not know, curling is my latest obsession. In fact, the only way you may not know this is because I haven't talked to you recently. It does seem to seep into my every conversation. If you have not witnessed the enchanting splendor that is curling, then I suggest you hop on that bandwagon before it pulls out of town. During NBC's olympic coverage of curling, they explained how it has taken quite a hold on Europeans and Americans alike. To demonstrate this, they showed a a particularly witty, entertaining commercial airing in Europe that plays off of the sport involving an attractive lady, two bachelors, and a bartender (sounds like a bad joke, I know).

In an effort to find the commercial on the internet, I ran across the quotation below which is random but so funny. It is the end of a brief discussion of the sounds of sports and their correlation to this particular gentleman's enjoyment of those sports. He outlines baseball, hockey, basketball, football, and finally curling. Perhaps you'll appreciate it, perhaps not.

"None of this explains the sport of curling.

Even the sounds associated with curling -- something like the end-of-shift cleanup at a tuna packing factory -- are enigmatic. I have nothing to say about curling except to observe that, like the equally gnomic sport of golf, it originated in Scotland. The Scots, apparently, have embarked on some avant-garde project to push the frontiers of what can plausibly be called a "sport" -- they are to athletics what Frank Gehry is to architecture, what James Joyce is to English literature, and what Pablo Picasso is to the concept of bilateral symmetry."

If you care to read the rest of this speech by Rober Charles Wilson (I don't know who he is either), you are welcome to check out http://www.geocities.com/canadian_sf/wilson/goh_speech.htm . I have not read the entire thing, so I cannot testify to its general humor and worthiness of your time.

A list of amusements, thoughts, and preferences in no specific order

1. Andre Dubus (as recommended to me by a friend). He is my new favorite short story writer (implying that there are many vying for the position, which is simply not the case). I relate to his characters, probably more than I should.

2. Bearded men. In Much Ado About Nothing, Beatrice says, "I could not endure a husband with a beard on his face: I had rather lie in the woollen . . . He that hath a beard is more than a youth . . . and he that is more than a youth is not for me." I could not disagree with the Bard more. As I left my church tonight (see "Trinity Vineyard" link to your right), passing its many bearded men, I was grateful that they, and their facial hair, were there. I love bearded men.

3. Brown hair. I discovered recently that I have finally taken the plunge from dark blonde to light brown hair. And to be honest, I'm thrilled. I've never really felt like a blonde.

4. Fellini's spinach and mushroom pizza. It's delicious, though not recommended for any sort of outing that may end in a kiss.

5. "Atlanta's Best Coffee." I enjoy this merely because the billboard read: "World's Best Coffee" with "World" crossed out and "Atlanta" written in. At least we can't accuse them of being too ambitious.

6. Not looking in the mirror, but looking through the lens. In a recent and quite good Rolling Stone interview with Bono, he said that the Scriptures are "a clear pool that you can see yourself in, to see where you're at, if you're still enough." Though I don't disagree with the B-man, I think it's time that I stopped looking at the Bible as mostly a "clear pool" in which to see myself and started thinking of it as primarily a lens through which I can see the world. Time to step away from the self-obsession and self-betterment and have more concern for others and more desire for God's heart (and not for any veiled self-glorification).

7. Yellow lights. I get such an irrational thrill from "running" yellow lights. While running red lights makes me uneasy and a little paranoid, running yellow lights gives me a little dose of adrenaline and that euphoric light-headedness that we all enjoy.

8. Good beer. Right now I am enjoying the pleasant, somewhat sweet flavors of Hoegaarden. Fine beer is indeed delicious and can be my dessert anytime. I imagine that, in Heaven, Jesus, the Saints, and I will have some wonderful chats over pints of Guinness. It just seems right.

9. Back Up Plans. I have recently come up with my Back Up Plan in case I don't get into graduate school. It's probably no less ludicrous and unlikely than me getting into grad school (and therefore is not a reasonable Back Up Plan), but I like it. It stays.

10. Literary friends. I am impassioned by those characters and authors I meet in my reading journeys whose voices stick with me, those whom, when I hear something funny or am confronted with a unique situation, I think of and wonder how they would respond to or enjoy it.

11. Good movies. They turn me on; they get me jazzed; they make me smile. The Rushmores, The Big Lebowskis, and the Punch-Drunk Loves of this cinematic world are little gifts of joy.

And finally . . .

12. Belly laughs/bear hugs. I am guilty of and known for both. I have a "contagious and delightful" laugh and give "good" hugs, both of which stay with you as my trademarks for as long as you know me. I figure that if you're going to express yourself, you should do so robustly and do so well.

P.S.
12.5. Hasidic Reggae. I just discovered it, just now. I haven't heard it, but is it possible that this could ever be a bad thing? (http://www.hasidicreggae.com/)

A-ha!

I am currently single. And although this reality is something with which I am comfortable, I have spent my fair share of time pondering the significance and cause of my singleness. This state, I was once certain, is caused by a variety factors at any given moment, ranging from personal flaws to the general evils of mankind. It is only now that I realize the true culprit, the sole and most obvious reason why I am without love.

E-Mail Chain Letters.

Even if I could, I would not admit to you, my horrified public, how many powerful and ominous chain e-mails I have overlooked with lofty derision worthy only of Oscar Wilde. I have ignored them; I have scoffed at them. "Ha!" I have said, "Certainly something as removed and harmless as an e-mail forward cannot ruin my chances at the happiness promised by true love! No! I shall not succumb! I shall not make a wish and forward this message to a thousand people in one second! I don't even know a thousand people!"

Oh! What brashness!

Oh! What folly!

Did I not know? Did I not comprehend? Why did I so arrogantly flaunt my worldy wisdom in front of the Powers That Be in the Great Beyond the World Wide Web! How dare I assume that I am impervious to these Powers while my e-mail friends so clearly are not!

And so my initial question is answered, and with that I resign myself to a life of spinsterdom. I would seek my joy in other places--wealth, fame, saved lives of loved ones, free $500 gift cards, or participation in important internet surveys--but I have squandered my hopes there as well. Let this be a warning to you who have not yet buried your future beneath the suffocating mass of unforwarded chain e-mails. What is the inconvenience and annoyance of friends when your future romantic and financial happiness is at stake!

Fwd: On!

light

A shadow of light cascades through thick darkness
clouds submerge, suffocate, destroy
eyes scarred by lacerating blackness

light, stuns, eyes wide-open in darkness shudder, scream
mouths closed shut with sticky moisture
pupils dart in; out; in; out

man, woman, child fumble in a paste of sweat and tears
fists clenched tight to comrades, dying, dead
wails, a catacomb of spirits, searching; air
hope; cleansing

shadow of light, softly falling, draping weary souls in rest; truth; life

(c) Copyright 2005 Rachel Osterhage

Betrayal

One of my good friends says she loves Starbucks Coffee. Not because of the drinks or the food but because it's comfortable and familiar. She knows that every Starbucks she patronizes throughout the united 50 will be almost exactly the same. The same decor, music, and, of course, drinks await her there. I suppose it gives her a sense of safety and belonging. It cushions the place's strangeness; it cushions her strangeness.

I wish I could say that such consistency comforted me in the same way. My experience was quite different, however, as I walked into a local Best Buy and marveled at how, as soon as I entered those doors, I entered a windowless, timeless rift in the universe where I could be literally anywhere and nowhere. There was no individuality, no heart, and no soul to be found in the four walls of that gigantic monument to almost entirely superfluous consumer culture (do we really need super-duper sub-woofers for our cars, giant high definition televisions, and 10 seasons of Friends?). I was sickened as this huge place with little-to-no understanding of who I am or where I came from told me what was cool, what was essential for my existence, what was not, and what was, in fact, a best buy. And I am proud to say that nine times out of ten, they got it wrong.

Okay. It's time to fess up. I admit it. I work for big business. Corporate America. The heartless, soulless cash cow that is this capitalist enterprise I am lamenting. I can't, in good conscience, complain too much about big bad corporations because, without them, I would be jobless and insurance-less. And yet it typifies the very thing I lament, the iconic, uselessness of consumer culture where people are willing to cough up thousands a year for something they not only don't need, but occasionally don't even like. I admit with sorrow that I wish I wasn't a part of the machine, but then I say, hey, it's a paycheck. Is that the worst sell out of all?

I know that most people who go into business do it, ultimately, to make money. And usually at some point making money means growing. Growing means big business. Growing means what was once personal and unique is now standardized and tepid. Growing changes the fabric of our economy. Growing changes the method of maintaining a certain standard of living, deceives us into thinking we are at once more affluent and more needy than we actually are. Growing has not left me unscathed, and so I sit thoroughly enjoying my Best Buy purchase. Another 30 pieces into the coffer of corporate America.

Time

I watch time move steadily on, full of its own finality. It taunts us with each deliberate tick of the hand, forever leaving the moment before, forever dangling just beyond our grasp. And what else can be expected of time in a fallen world? Why do we assume so confidently that time is neutral, unscathed? It has been said that life moves at the same rate for all sixty-seconds per minute, sixty minutes per hour, twenty-four hours per day. But perhaps it does not. Perhaps its movements are less mindless, more cruel. We beg for more time, and it obliges . . . when a lover leaves our side, when a young child meets an untimely end, when a friend is taken ill. We beg for a moment to last forever, and it obeys . . . freezes us with fear and dread, drowns us when we feel most alone and invisible. Perhaps it favors the evil, cushions the hours of the thief, the murderer. But those lovely parts of our lives--the day of the birth of our child, the day of our first kiss--those days race past as seconds become milliseconds and hours become minutes. Is this all in our heads or is it indeed the cold humor of time?

And in honor of this Valentine's Day...

love poems

--

so quiet
the window's clatter, against the chipping paint of a
frail rotting pane, tapping
the rusted fence, violent dance back and forth
in stained holes, murmuring
the hinges on the door, aches , pains slow and
hard with age, welcoming -- denying
the whirr of the old fan, constantly looking
from me to you, whispering

and I am so awake with you next to me
heaving your chest in absent-minded sleep
and my eyes are so delighted when they see
a coy smile creep across your peaceful face
and my heart tells me stories of our love
that only I can hear, sighing

(c) Copyright 2003 Rachel Osterhage

--

"When You Are Old"
by W.B. Yeats

When you are old and gray and full of sleep
And nodding by the fire, take this book;
And slowly read, and dream the soft look,
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep.

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And love your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead,
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

Dreaming Responsibly

"With dreams begin responsibilities . . ."

The song to which these lyrics belong is relatively old--almost 15 years or so--and certainly existed before the conversations of this day, week, year. I'm sure the artist had neither me nor my acquaintances in mind when he penned the words, but they, at this moment, seem almost as personal to me as my name or blood type. His words have clung to me, so when pondering what I should write about, I decided these would be nothing better.

As young people we are encouraged to dream. From boot camp to creative writing class, we are told that we can achieve anything our imagination can invent if we just apply ourselves. When you are young and full of ideas, this is invigorating. It is not, however, always beneficial because you are, after all, young and full of ideas. Where do you go? Even while I was young, I never found these proddings to be particularly helpful because I never knew how to choose between my dreams of, say, becoming a movie actress or a super model. What is a girl to do?

Now, as I look back, I realize that not only was this advice not helpful, it was quite reckless. To encourage a child to dream but not to make him understand that in those dreams lie much more than a whim is loading a gun and leaving it half-cocked, and the rub doesn't rear its head until the child becomes an adult and doesn't know how to fire the thing properly, responsibly. A dream is so much more than a favorite color or even a major in college. It is a burden, a passion that has been entrusted to you, and I believe that the more clearly you can see it in your mind's eye, the more truly it is yours. This gift lies in your hands, waiting to be used, demanding to be used, because it is yours, in the way that a family or a lover or a friend is yours. It is a trust and a privilege to have a dream and therefore it is a responsibility.

I have very specific dreams that have been honed with time and experience. The picture comes gradually into focus as I move from one phase of life to the next, and sometimes they leave me for a while only to return with strength and vigor. They seem at once possible and beyond reach, but I now realize that it is my duty to chase them. They are no one else's desires in the unique way that they are mine, and even if it is not my destiny to reach them, it is my destiny to take the path toward them. For I believe that a dream is perhaps one of the greatest trusts that is ever granted in this life, and I am obliged, and honored, to pursue it.

for your consideration

It is award season in Hollywood. Now is the time when posters of last year's hopeful are re-vamped with an elegant, scripted invitation "For Your Consideration" noted above or below the title. The makers and marketers of the film petition the men and women of the Academy to scrutinize their work, and they are hopeful and even confident that the finished products will stand this test and become golden children for one night.

I feel a bit like those films, willingly submitting myself to the careful eye of admissions boards across the country, even across the pond. This week, I officially submit my second application for graduate school, and next week is the third. The process is nerve-wracking, yes, as I knew it would be. There are big questions about my future that depend on what these schools decide. It is an arduous task, of course, with the amassing of information, documents, and writing samples, the verifying of information and the wrangling of references and transcripts. I expected it to be these things from the beginning.

What I did not expect it to be, however, was quite so humbling. The humility began early in the process when I studied the statistics and expectations of dream schools and held myself to the bar. I read dissertation excerpts and CV's, and I wondered if these people were really that much more intelligent and better equipped for this endeavor than me or if it merely seemed that way. I prepared my writing sample and personal statements and worried that my kind of best and unique is not the kind of best and the unique they are looking for.

As I prepared to finalize and submit the information and papers that summarized, too neatly, the last seven years of my life, I hesitated. I re-read and revised until I made myself stop. I realized that these schools would look at this and decide whether my decisions of the past and who I have become in the present is worthy of their institution, worthy of their name. This realization has been the most humbling of all.

Whatever confidence I may have in the things I have done and the choices I have made is moot in the harsh, fluorescent light of admission standards and decision letters. I long to be a welcomed part of their world, and I have wondered more than once if they include the likes of me. Although, I know that my world will not shatter or my identity will not fall apart if they do not accept me, it will indeed be the bitterest morsel of humility. Nevertheless, I will try to smile and applaud as I understand that, if the best man wins and it is not me, then I am not, in the end, the best man. Perhaps I am merely the better man, which always leaves room for improvement.