reading

One of my tutoring students asked me what I read. Nowadays, I tend to read stuff in a style that I want to write. So, Nick Hornby, John Irving, Chuck Palahniuk of late. I was trying to explain to my student, that for a writerly nerd, it's hard to just enjoy a plot, because I'm wrapped up in analyzing the language or dissecting how the dude turned that phrase so hilariously. I know *just* enough to be dangerous.

"Piano" (1918)
D.H. Lawrence

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.

looking for land mines

It was a grueling weekend. As someone who works with Catholic youth, I was sent to a training session for child sexual abuse awareness, in the hopes of eventually training others in it also. Anyway, 8 hour sessions of horrifying anecdotes and shocking statistics pretty much did me in. My friend, who dragged me into this whole thing, said afterward, "where's the tallest building?" Indeed.

On the bright side, I got to connect with some high school principals, which resulted in some phone calls about jobs... but not teaching English. I dunno, at some point, maybe I'll just get the message that I shouldn't be doing this. I'd rather quit after having tried it, tho. Why don't people want me to teach English? I promise I won't be the *worst* teacher you've ever hired. Um, also I'm male and not Caucasian, so maybe I can help your quota out that way too. You wouldn't believe how many times my being male and not-Caucasian has been assumed as something that should help me. I dunno what to tell you, but it hasn't really worked out. But, considering my cold streak, I could probably apply to an all-Asian American Catholic boys writing school at this point, and still miss out.

Also, I don't know how I feel about this movie.

I'm a little worried at Ozzie's insistence of using the "Sunday lineup" more than once a week, the Sunday lineup being any combination of Pablo Ozuna, Alex Cintron, AND Rob Mackowiak all playing at the SAME TIME. I don't have a problem with resting your starters after a long postseason and a short offseason.

I know the Mariners and the Royals suck. I know that every day, we send out at least an average to above-average starting pitcher. I know the defense is pretty bulletproof. But really, can't the starters take turns having days off? Do I really need to see a lineup that has, consecutively, Mackowiak, Cintron, BAnderson (altho he's coming out of his slump), and Ozuna? We're playing offense 9 against 5. We don't need to sit 3 starters at once, outside of injuries. Cuz even Babe Ruth and Konerko will slump eventually, and the collective balance of the everyday starters will be necessary.

But no one, justifiably, has sorrow to spare for the defending champions, who, coming into Wed night, have the best record in the AL at 14-6. We're a long way from calling off the season.

even his mother calls him, the Edge

Episcopalians rock out to U2 Eucharist.

planning/thinking

"My favorite fruit is grapes. Because with grapes, you always get another chance. 'Cause, if you have a crappy apple or a peach, you're stuck with that crappy piece of fruit. But if you have a crappy grape, no problem - just move on to the next. 'Grapes: The Fruit of Hope.'"
-- Demetri Martin

Speaking of hope, waiting to hear back from last week's interview. It's funny to think that I drove an hour to go talk to somebody for 15 minutes. Also, trying to plan out my summer, mostly in terms of which five-day retreats I'll be helping on. Early July is the local one, late July is Toronto, and I might fly out to Washington for their camp in mid June. So, if anybody has an extra $300 lying around and willing to donate to a good cause... I think I really can help some kids out. I swear I won't pocket it and run.

This is my fifth year of doing these retreats, which is way longer than I ever envisioned doing something like this. I wasn't really the volunteering type during school, and now I'm responsible for coordinating or leading the retreats for my organization (MI Youth) for 3 states. I'm feeling a little pressure to make the most of the limited time that I have with it, because part of the basic philosophy of the youth ministry is to have "youth evangelize youth," and at some point in my mid 30s, I'm going to get a little old for it. So I see five more years of doing this sort of active participation in this ministry, so I want to do everything that I can, while I can. Plus, it's nice to feel like you can add something substantial to something worthwhile.

Contreras one-hit the Royals last night. If the pitching comes around, and the way Thome's been yeast to the offensive dough, Sox could be straight up killin' the Central.

I need... something to write.

***
The middle-aged woman plodded over to the chair, gingerly sinking into the cushioned seat. She looked intently at the magazines laid out on the table before her, and carefully picked one after shuffling through the titles. She held it in her left hand and leafed the pages with her right, sitting upright to ease the pressure off of her feet, it seemed, her short legs crossed and tucked under the seat.

She sat until the nurse called her to the desk, asking her to fill out a form. She nodded and took the clipboard. She asked me what some of the words said, not that she didn't understand, but because she couldn't quite make them out even with her glasses.

I read aloud "patient history" and she once again nodded her understanding, filling out the information as briefly and efficiently as possible.

"Did you eat when you woke up?" she asked, concerned that my habit of fasting until late in the afternoon would eventually ruin me.

I explained that I had a little cereal, just to appease her. I did, I just didn't finish the bowl.

She nodded again. "The bills you had to pay, you should send them soon."

"I know." She can never stop being a mother, checking up on everyone.

"Do you need some money? Do you have enough to pay?"

"It's ok. I have enough."

unstop the day

Decided to celebrate Easter by taking in some pop music at the Metro. Hey, you and I both know that Jesus loves a good beat to dance to.

The Editors opened up with an energetic set, although I got a little nauseous with lead singer Tom Smith's ADD/migraine stage hysterics. I'd say they're Interpol, but more light side and not quite as good. Their set was almost as long as headliner Stellastarr*. Also, it simultaenously gave and took away Jill's hope of starting a band completely composed of editorial staff. Or they at least would have to get a different name.

Stellastarr* only stuck around for 55 minutes and played all the goldies and oldies that I was looking for. Was definitely disappointed that they didn't have any new stuff to try out. That's guitarist Michael Jurin (left) and lead singer Shawn Christensen in the picture. Christensen has a great, fluttery hiccup that cuts through all the noise; it's cool that it doesn't get overpowered by the amplifiers. Bassist Amanda Tannen's sweet hollabacks got caught up in the wash, sometimes, but it could be that I was fricking deaf from being too close to the stage/speakers.


I'll admit that the real treat was being right up against Tannen's stage side.

This might be the last show for awhile. Coachella is far away, Intonation and the Pitchfork Festival conflict with volunteer commitments, and... wait, I hate outdoor festivals. The oppressive heat, the unwashed masses, port-a-potties, long lines, standing all day... Call me crazy, but I happen to like air conditioning and uncrappy acoustics. (Lollapalooza looks tempting, though. Wilco? Secret Machines? the Shins? BSS? New Pornographers? Heck, Feist?) I'll probably poop out and just go see Band of Horses in June at Scooba'z.

easter

There is only one temptation. All particular temptations are expressions of this one original or "primordial" temptation. This is the temptation to believe that the fulfillment of the desires of the human heart depends entirely on us. Dependence on another leaves us at the mercy of what we cannot control. Therefore, we are tempted to reject all forms of dependence. The most radical form of dependence is love. Therefore, the original temptation is to deny that our existence is a pure and perfect gift of an infinite Love that deserves to be loved in return. The fullest revelation that God is love is the incarnation of Christ. Therefore, the primordial temptation is to reject the incarnation and its consequences.

--Monsignor Lorenzo Albacete

good idea, bad idea

Good idea:
I was scrolling through Max's iPod, and he had a playlist for different years. He said the lists comprised of the songs that were particularly memorable to him at the time, so in essence, it was a musical autobiography.

Bad idea:
Most people don't use playlists on their iPod, simply relying on the "Shuffle Songs" feature. And end up hitting "skip" a lot, I suppose. Although they might not care enough to do even that.

Good idea:
Using your celebrity status to speak out about a problem, like JK Rowling and our "thin-obsessed" culture.

Bad idea:
Being a celebrity and talking too much about your past, like how your dad abused you. Really, you seemed totally fine to us.

Good idea:
Inside Man. Excellent acting and a serviceable script, although the conceit was visible far earlier than in most heist flicks. An enjoyable two hours.

Bad idea:
Showing up 15 minutes late to an interview. Diagonal streets are not my friends.

you think you know, but you have no idea (long baseball post)

Baseball preview: time to pick division winners.

But.

Colbert-style.

That means, of course, using The DaColbert Code.

AL West
Predicted finish: Oak, Angels, Tex, Sea
Oakland's got the best pitching this side of the White Sox, enough to edge out an Angels team with some injury and age issues. No surprise if the Angels finish first instead, however.

Best acquisition: Brad Wilkerson, Tex
The swag from the Soriano trade, whose OPS skillz should prosper mightily in the HappyFunBall palace that is the Ballpark at Arlington. Oh, and Tejas got to save a bundle of cash, too.

Worst acquisition: Brian Lawrence, Tex
It might not be a great idea to trade for a *flyball* pitcher to the aforementioned HappyFunBall palace. Especially when you gave up a young groundball pitcher for him.

American League West...
Kanye West...
Common...
Uncommon Grounds...
coffee...
Starbucks...

Seattle! And for good measure, hit Ichiro!! third. Oh, if this code got into the wrong hands...

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

AL East
Predicted finish: Bos, Tor, Bal, NYY, TB
Big holes in each of the contenders, but Boston seems to have the fewest, with a decent starting rotation (Beckett, Schilling, Clement, Wells, Papelbon + Wakefield) and they're still gonna score runs. Also, I hate the Yankees.

Best acquisition: Coco Crisp, Bos + Wily Mo Pena, Bos
Boston replaces Captain Caveman's production for pennies on the dollar, gets a useful part for a fungible pitcher (Arroyo), and two of the best baseball names at no extra charge. Isn't Nuke Logan still out there?

Worst acquisition: AJ Burnett, Tor
Darren Dreifort, part 2. Right on cue, he's even starting the season on the DL.

American League East...
East of Eden...
John Steinbeck...
Grapes of Wrath...
Battle Hymn of the Republic...
Civil War...
warlord...
George Steinbrenner...

Yankees?! Dammit! Even The DaColbert Code wants the Yankees to win.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

AL Central
Predicted finish: Cle, Chi, Min, Det, KC
Yah, I know I'm a White Sox fan, but I just don't see them staying injury free like they did last year. But, we still make the playoffs and win the World Series. Duh. Cleveland looks strong, aside from the bullpen.

Best acquisition: Javy Vazquez, Chi
Sox bolster the rotation with insurance just in case Contreras falls on his face without other Cubans around. Can Man Soo Lee just lie and *say* he's Cuban?

Worst acquisition: KC's entire free agency class
Scott Elarton, Reggie Sanders, Joe Mays, Mark Grudzielaniek, and Doug Mientkiewicz is a lot of money for 65 wins, and jersey lettering, now that I look at it.

American League Central...
central air conditioning...
shampoo + conditioner...
Pert Plus...
positive charge...
proton pack...
Ghostbusters...
Bill Murray...
Harold Ramis...
Dan Aykroyd...
Blues Brothers...

Chicago! Heck yes.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

NL West
Predicted finish: SD, SF, LA, Ari, Col
The ugly stepsister of MLB. Like when Jacob finally worked off seven years of labor for Laban to marry Rachel, but got stuck with Leah instead. Ya feel like somebody is getting screwed over because *someone* from this decrepit division gets to go to the playoffs (Philly fans feel me). Anybody but the Rockies can "win" it.

Best acquisition: Mike Piazza, SD
It's not the best signing, but... the Angels couldn't have used him DH? Petco is going to suppress his power, and he never was a Gold Lover behind the plate, but it's only for a year plus an option.

Worst acquisition: Shawn Estes, SD
Or, as the Doc likes to say, "Shawn Testes." Still doing the ghost of Jaime Navarro proud. Definitely the crappiest white pitcher I've ever seen. Yah, I got a list for that too.

National League West...
Best Western...
motel...
road trip...
Tom Green...
Green Lantern...
Jack O Lantern...
Halloween...
Michael Myers...
Austin Powers...
James Bond...
Barry Bonds...

SF. Ugh. Have fun, Jacobs of the National League.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

NL East
Predicted finish: Atl, NY, Phi, Fla, Was
Hard to believe Atl is going for their *15th* division title in a row. Ridiculous. Too bad Florida has twice as many titles in the same span.

Best acquisition: Carlos Delgado, NY
Sure wish the Sox got him instead of Thome, even tho Del-got-it has some tendinitis issues in the spring.

Worst acquisition: Alfonso Soriano, Was
I read an article about the Yankees when Soriano first came up with them, and they were talking about moving him to the outfield. They asked Jeter about it, and he said, no, they shouldn't do it, because he doesn't have great depth perception. Now, Jeter just happened to be on the field throwing warm-up tosses to Soriano. He says, watch this to the writer, and throws a ball 2 feet above Soriano's head. Alfonso, allegedly, didn't even move to compensate, just watched the ball sail over his head. I know that's not scientific fact, but... that doesn't give me a lot of hope. Also, the Nationals play in a huge park that's going to suppress his power.

National League East...
Easter Bunny...
Bugs Bunny...
Space Jam...
Black Jesus...
Air Jordan shoes...
Spike Lee...

NY. All that spending finally pays off. The DaColbert Code sure loves the big markets.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

NL Central
Predicted finish: Hou, StL, Mil, Chi, Pit, Cin
Mil is the popular darkhorse pick, but I think Clemens resurfaces like a horror-flick villain and takes Houston to the promised land again, if he hasn't hit the BBQ too hard by then.

Best acquisition: none. I tried, really, but Preston Wilson doesn't do it for me. Some really middling acquisitions in this division. Jacque Jones on the Cubs? St. Louis signing Prince Sidney Ponson? Yikes.

National League Central...
Central Park...
joggers...
wristbands...
wristwatch...
watch dog...
dog crap...

ChiCubs. Hey, maybe the first decade of the millennium is when all of the curses *do* die.

Award winners and playoff predictions next week. Hey! Baseball's here!

photographing, or trying to

At least some of them turned out. I have a nasty case of the jitters. Gotta lay off the coffee.

Click the images for super-big versions.

Over the weekend, robins were hanging out in the tree directly in front of our house, while nary a robin is to be seen in any other tree on our block (I checked). I don't really care about birds sitting in trees, but it was weird that they weren't out anywhere else. They probably heard about Mama Ahn's cooking. Cuz they look fat enough to have had some of it already.

Yesterday, went to Queen of All Saints basilica in Lincolnwood, which has some of the best and most extensive displays of stained glass I've seen, even better than what I'd seen in Rome. I kinda wished for a brighter day, but the sun would probably have overpowered my dinky camera.

One of the cool things about the basilica is that the stained glass is in sets of four, with each grouping of four having a unifying theme, like the Gospel writers in this example, or significant scenes from the life of Jesus, or saints who were popes. I'm probably going back next week to photograph more of it.

potpourri

Watching some horrendous movie on HBO (King Arthur, I think) with Clive Owen and Keira Knightley. Keira comes on the screen just as my mom rolls through.

mom: (stares at screen) Is that the girl who steals?
me: What?
mom: You know. The girl that steals. She shoplifts. It was on the news.
me: ... You mean Winona Ryder. (I point) That's Keira Knightley.
mom: She looks like the girl who steals.
me: That's Winona Ryder. She's American. Keira Knightley is British. (I'm not sure why that's helpful to say)
mom: Oh. I don't know her. (looks more) She's not very pretty.

On second thought, she might not be so far off.


----

I was sitting in the library, reading John Irving's The World According to Garp. I look up to stretch out my neck, and directly in my line of sight, I see an older man, bespectacled, neat mustache, probably in his late 50s, wearing a bright yellow shirt with palm tree prints crisscrossed on the front. The weird thing is that between he and me is a potted plant that actually closely resembles the plant life on his shirt. Basically, he's wearing the perfect camouflage for anyone seeing him from my angle. Good thing I could see him.

---

V for Vendetta is worth seeing. Pretty straightforward plot but with some interesting things to think about, and more about Guy Fawkes than you ever thought you'd know. It was nice to see that Hugo Weaving could shed his Agent persona for once, unlike in LOTR. Not seeing his face helped. That seems like something fun to say.

"Hey, can you do me a favor?"
"Sure."
"Can you just cover your face, so I can pretend that you're not you?"
"..."
"It's cuz when I see your face, all that comes to mind is YOU, and I'd rather think of, I dunno, somebody else, like a vigilante that throws knives but still has your cool voice."

I accept that Natalie Portman is beautiful, but the shaved head only emphasized how much she really is, actually. The poverty embellished what's left. Anybody can look presentable under the glam makeup and professional stylists, but it's hard to negate the baldy. It's different than the normal Hollywood uglification.

this one is more fairytale, than barroom

I don't normally like the blues-tinged, folksy rock that Johnny Cash propagated, so I was surprised to find myself enjoying Isobel Campbell's (of Belle & Sebastian) and Mark Lanegan's (Screaming Trees) new one, "The Ballad of the Broken Seas." It's pretty much the aural version of sweet and sour pork, or Chubby Hubby ice cream, both of which blend together two opposing flavors to pleasing results. The constrasting sweet and sour (or sweet and salty) brings out and enhances the opposing taste. Lanegan is this great, rumbly, sunburnt, prickly cactus of a voice that is clear on the other end of the spectrum from Campbell's watery pixie murmur. And it works great.


Lanegan was not in the hizzouse at Schuba's last night, with Eugene Kelly (above) pinch-hitting. Isobel was thoroughly entertaining on her own, with her Scottish accent and Small/Cute (TM) mannerisms. Melody put it best: "I can totally imagine what she was like when she was six years old." I tend to like it when performers can laugh a little onstage, show some normal human emotion, which she did in light of some technical difficulty. I was tempted to get a picture with her after, but... I'm too cool for that. Beats watching the Oscars.

gatball

One of the places I've been interviewing at, asking whether I'd consider sponsoring various clubs (depends), coach volleyball (sure, I played before), or coach baseball.

Huh?

I don't remember putting anything about baseball on my resume or application materials, not even under "nerdy obsessions."

I first think, no. I didn't even play Little League. I've played in church leagues and intramurals during undergrad.

Then I think, wait. This could potentially be ridiculously awesome.

Visions of Gatball swirled in front of me. Gatball (TM) would mostly consist of meticulously memorizing baseball stats from say, the last 25 years or so.

Who was the NL Rookie of the Year in 1987? Benito Santiago, fool! Who was the AL Cy Young for 1993? Black Jack McDowell, friends. (Greg Maddux won in the NL, which kinda made Chicago the center of the pitching world, I guess.)

The major downside to coaching baseball would be having to wear the uni, for sure. There's no way anybody looks good wearing those. There's something weird about having a non-athlete go through the rigor of wearing an ill-fitting uni. We don't do it any other sport, so why does baseball insist? They could wear comfortable althetic gear, like football coaches do, would definitely make a lot more sense.

Anyway. Something to shoot for. I already know I can do a better job than some people. Ahem.

(He has a hitting video that he sells on his website. Can't wait to get to the section on "Batting hacktastic free swingers with no plate discipline at the top of the lineup because they have speed." Or, maybe, "the Everyman Baseball Proletariat Ethic of Jose Macias," and "The God-man: Neifi Perez.")

God bless ya Dusty. I'll continue to keep my non-dark skin out of the sun while I work on the tenets of Gatball (TM).

what?

Bros. Maximillian and Pio. Who says being holy isn't cool? They're CFRs (Franciscans of the Renewal) working with the poor in Brooklyn.

While on another mission trip down in South America, the nuns they were working with asked the American brothers to sing an American song. Brother Maximillian, never at a lost, dusts off a swank version of Kenny Rogers' "The Gambler." The sisters all applaud and clap, their English not sophisticated enough to understand the song. When queried about his song choice, Br. Max said "It was the first thing that came into my head." God bless you, brothers.

... ladies

My first time going to watch a stand-up routine at his Friday night show. Thanks Melody, for finding him, wherever you found him. I haven't laughed like that in a long time. It's also nice to know that I'm not alone/crazy for noticing little things and wondering why they are that way.

"Spare change and wedgies are the same, because I only give them to people are who are really asking for it."

"I like how an eating contest, turns into a pooping contest."

"Exes and ok movies are also the same. They're both ok at the time, and I enjoyed them, but I wouldn't want to see them again."

transitioning

As I get older, I realize how little fun I have in aging. The joints creak, muscles ache, ears clog, eyes dim. As the Rolling Stones testified during halftime, it's not always pretty either. (As an aside, I'm sick of hearing "wow, for 63 year olds, they sure do move well," as if seeing 63 yr olds wearing butt tight pants and prancing around is completely normal and ok.)

I've always feared that U2 would end up turning into the Rolling Stones, AKA another band turning the grindstone to sate the gluttony of shareholders and buying golden toilets. Lately, I feel like they swallow up market share just for kicks, just because they're in a position to do so without having to earn it with superior product. I still enjoyed going to the show back in the summer, but I'm through paying $100 to see them, unless I'm close enough for Bono to drip on me. The last few albums? Ok, but not great. The songwriting will never match the eloquence that Bono musters in his prepared remarks at Harvard commencements or DATA presentations or National Prayer Breakfasts or Barbara Walters interviews, and the music suffers because of it. If he cares about all of this Third World debt and AIDS stuff, why didn't it ever show up in the music? You're still a musician, an artist seeking expression, aren't you Mr. Hewson?

And the thing is, they've become so successful that it doesn't matter what anybody thinks of their work critically anymore. Their fanbase covers every continent, every major city, and the back catalog of brilliant stuff (headed by the pantheonic Joshua Tree and Achtung Baby) distills the inevitable slide into mediocrity and insures that they'll always have fans long after they're gone. The songs have become authenticators of cool (iPod commercials), even if what they're selling has nothing to do with whatever artistic statement they try to make ("CSI: Crime Scene Investigators?").

It makes me wonder, why do I bother with keeping up with these guys? I've had to make a lot of room in the mansion of my musical universe since I stayed up in bed with Achtung blaring in my Walkman. I gave the upstairs rooms to Radiohead, the Dave Matthews Band, and the Velvet Underground. Interpol is staying in the downstairs rooms, along with Sufjan Stevens, Stellastarr*, Broken Social Scene, and the New Pornographers. Portishead, Wolf Parade, and Bloc Party are the rooms above the garage, and Feist, Fiona Apple, and Isobel Campbell & Mark Lanegan are in the guest rooms, for the time being, and that's just the tip of the iceberg. So, with the premium on space, should I kick U2 to the curb? Tell 'em to rent somewhere else?

And then Bono restores faith again in why I liked them so much to begin with, which is that they're a great band that makes great music but also cares about the Important Things. Whatever I may think of the music, reading his address at the National Prayer Breakfast reminds me that I still admire what he tries to do. The music might not be as great anymore, or you might hate the guy, but the message is important, and I'm glad that he's talking about it, because if he didn't, self-absorbed cretins like me would skim over it in favor of thinking up another iPod playlist or if I should ask that girl who pours my coffee... out to coffee. He makes me think of things outside of myself, which is good, because I get bogged down by my own selfishness and mediocrity way too often, when I promised that I'd try not to. So. Thanks Bono.

"A number of years ago, I met a wise man who changed my life. In
countless ways, large and small, I was always seeking the Lord's blessing.
I was saying, you know, I have a new song, look after it... I have a family,
please look after them... I have this crazy idea...

And this wise man said: stop.

He said, stop asking God to bless what you're doing.

Get involved in what God is doing—because it's already blessed."

--Bono, Feb. 2, 2006

Now, for goodness sake, go work on some lyrics.

genevieve

Finally took the photos off my camera. From December. I was hoping for lots of good shots of my goddaughter, but there was only one good one with her in it. I must be an awful photographer. Here it is:

That's her godmother Laura with us. What makes me laugh is that though we're in a very "family" kind of pose, there's no way anyone would believe that we're blood-related. Anyway, here she is with her real parents.


Ugh. I hate that the walls look pissy-yellow.

arcade fire and the weekend

Still sort of recovering from leading the retreat over the weekend, with a bunch (47) of Confirmation kids from a Polish parish. It always takes me at least two days afterwards to get right again, for whatever reason. I think being extroverted for that long is what does it.

I think the retreat went pretty well, from talking to my staff and seeing the kids. We had the kids interact with some intermediate and independent care residents at a hospice-type site, as a service project. It was great; they got play to bingo together, laugh, and talk (usually really loud, because many of them were hard of hearing). The point wasn't just to have fun, but to see that everyone, even people that many would consider at worst valueless, are beautiful and true treasures from God. It tied in nicely with the theme of the Magi coming to seek Jesus, that these elderly folks were simply Magi who were that much further on the journey than the kids were. The Magi brought their gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, and the kids, as modern-day Magi (as it were) bring the gift of their lives to Christ. So it follows, that if the gft of their lives holds value, then so does that of everyone else, including the residents. Anyway, the Pope develops that theme much better, it's worth reading in his words rather than mine.

That was all day Saturday. I was driving home from Adoration on Sunday night, and my iPod shuffled to the Arcade Fire's "Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels)." I hadn't heard the song in a while, but it fit, perfectly what I'd seen. It was as if the residents I'd seen the day before were singing the song, especially with lyrics like:

Then, we tried to name our babies
But we forgot all the names that,

The names we used to know

But sometimes,

We remember our bedrooms and our parent's bedrooms and the bedrooms of our friends

Then we think of our parents...Well, whatever happened to
them?!

You change all the lead sleeping in my head to gold

As the day grows dim, I hear you sing a golden hymn

It's the song I've been trying to sing...

Then I thought about "Funeral," which the Arcade Fire recorded in the midst of losing members of their families, and I thought back to the residents, with their dwindling abilities, and it all tied together in my head. What I love about "Funeral" is that it acknowledges the sadness of losing someone, but the lingering remembrance isn't a sad one; it's rather hopeful in making the best of it. So. We may all "forget the names we used to know" but at least we had the moment that we did. It wasn't all for nothing.

Needless to say, the Arcade Fire has been in heavy rotation since then.

hands

What stories do your hands tell?

--My hands are like my father's, big palms with long, slender fingers, like a woman's hands, as my mother and other women have said. Perfect for playing the piano, sighs my mother, still wishing that I hadn't quit after three years in middle school. Auntie Lydia says that the length of the fingers and the lack of big protruding knuckles make them women's hands. Uh. Ok.

--My mother calls them, directly translated from Korean, as "spicy hands," because when I playfully hit her on the arm, she says the slaps sting. I laugh, thinking of hands with hot sauce on them. Hand strength is important for volleyball and basketball. A good setter needs strong hands and wrists, although I never set very much. A lot of the power I generated for hitting a volleyball is from my wrist snap and the rigidity of my hands when I make contact. Since my hands don't give in to the contact of the ball, I can deliver more of the force from my arm motion and hip torque to the ball. Which doesn't mean I hit it so hard, compared to others; it's just what happens with me.

--They're really twitchy. I have a lot of nervous energy that comes out of my hands. They're always playing with something: silverware, napkins, cell phone, twirling pens, keys, someone else's ears, etc.

--I tear at the dead skin around the edges of my nails. Some weird kind of compulsion which I started when I was little and noticed that my pruny fingers had white things on them, and I picked at them til they went away. The skin on my fingertips got so sensitive that during one of my first sports camps, the rubber of the outdoor basketballs ripped away the skin, so I had 8 little cuts on all of my fingers, excepting the thumbs. I kept picking at them, of course, enjoying the pain a little.

--I had scabs from tennis, on the base segment of my fingers, from gripping the racket. I get contact blisters from baseball bats in the thick fleshy part of palm closest to the wrist, because my hands overlap the knob. I have to switch-hit so I can sort of evenly distribute the blisters onto both hands, so I can go longer before I have to stop.

--I crack my knuckles a lot. Nervous energy again. I was really happy to hear that cracking them isn't bad for you.

--I used to punch walls when I did poorly on a test. This only really happened in college, when it started happening so often. I dunno. I wasn't really angry at the wall, obviously, just mad with myself, and so I punished myself by scratching up my knuckles. Sort of melodramatic, but I wasn't the most mature kid when I was 19, either.

--I've never punched anybody, except for in the arm, never in earnest in a fight. Although I've wanted to.

--I remember during the exchange of the sign of peace during Mass, I would crush Ed's hands in a handshake. I don't do that anymore.

--I want to be able to use my left hand better. I'm righthanded, but I like trying to be ambidextrous. Maybe tied into my desire to be well-rounded. I've tried to use my left hand in basketball, especially on layups and such, and to use it to block shots, not always relying on my dominant hand. Ambidexterity can translate to defense as well as on offense. I hit switch for baseball, I've tried throwing baseballs, footballs, and Frisbees with my off hand. It's not always pretty, but it's an interesting enough experiment to try.

waking up

I get tired of the Hollywood cliche of waking up with a start, sweating and naked in bed. First of all, I never sleep naked. Gross. Second, I've never woken up by sitting straight up in bed, even before my back got bad. So, instead of being part of the problem, here's an attempt to be the solution. Also, just to prove that all the time I spend on my laptop is not just organizing my mp3s.

1. Her eyes popped open, only to immediately be scratched by the accumulated sleep from the long night. She worked for a good minute wiping all of it away, looking like a small child because of the angle her elbows made as she used both hands.
   
2. A dull thud echoed within him, and lifted the sleep from his heavy head. He looked at his left hand in time to see the growing bruise; his glasses, book, and cold medicine lay flat on the nightstand, still shaking from the collision.
   
3. He touched her hand, and felt the world spin faster, as if to make up for creeping so slowly before. The walls faded into the familiar dull white of his attic bedroom, as he finally heard the blare of his alarm. His body felt painfully cold and uncomfortable as his consciousness slowly warmed up all of the connections to his limbs.
   
4. She snapped her phone closed to eliminate the noisy threat of her alarm, gently rolling away from the clamor to seek new comfort on the other side of the bed.
   
5. The last thing she remembered was the steadily more violent bump-bump of the train as it entered the mountains. The bumps not only shook the entire car, but were accompanied by thin shrieks and whirls of color. Carefully, unsteadily peeking through her bangs on the safe side of her blankets, the shrieks and whirls magically blurred into her nieces pogosticking up and up and down and down on her bed, teling her that Christmas morning had (technically) arrived.

working progress

If this were a riddle, what would the answer be?

Smaller minds intoxicate themselves

with sweet-smelling trickets and shiny totems.

Poets have leveled forests into dust,

seeking to encompass the mystery in ink.

Artists have hunted to trap the

secret of the universe in canvas, stone, clay.

Men have shed blood in dangerous deeds,

the beauty of countless women has withered into rags,

and the flesh of the young is eager for its embrace,

while the sag of age is heavy with its weight.

The happy skip to its invisible rhythms,

and the sad burn offerings in its memory.

Even the righteous are made haughty bathing in it,

while the stoniest criminal minds turn to tears at its shadow

Creation groans and splits under the strain;

Mountains rise,

Seas quake,

Deserts freeze,

Trees snarl,

Earth swirls,

Winds drown,

Rains blister,

Creatures glow,

Fires soothe

in the wake of its majesty.

A bridegroom's gift to his bride,

made to fill eyes, heart, and soul

with the beauty that

the faceless Lord of the universe

sees reflected from himself

in the shimmer of his beloved.