I've discovered a website that allows one to "catalog" one's books. Check out ozimanndias8's tiny web-library. This is a prelude to an all-out library project I'm considering embarking on--cataloging my own library according to the cataloging standards I'm learning in class. It's a great way to learn by doing.
We just learned how to catalog maps. It's quite fascinating the way Library of Congress allows for a detailed classification of a particular map. You can specify each record all the way down to the type of map it is. You would think that such things as type of map, subject of map (is it topographical or a railroad map?), even the cities within a country, would be a given in map cataloging, but Library of Congress is the only cataloging standard that allows for such detail (as far as I know).

I'm taking a break because the search engines keep freezing up. Isn't technology great?

I'm going home in two weeks for spring break. I think I am going to see about visiting the Marion E. Wade center at Wheaton College to see the papers and miscellena of C.S. Lewis and Tolkien, Sayers and L'Engle, to name a few. I am also going to ask Grandma to give me a knitting lesson. That should supply the two main focuses of my brain, the intellectual and the mindless.

Crocheting is like doing the dishes, or taking a walk--my mind tends to sort and organize my thoughts much more effectively if my body is preoccupied with a repetitive task.

There is an old man who is at the Y every time I go there. He shuffles around the fitness room with a somber expression and exercises with the lowest amount of effort possible. It's wonderful to see him there--aged people shouldn't be afraid to work out, but it's absolutely funny to see him on the recumbent bike, solemnly turning the wheels (I don't say "pedal" because that implies more action that what he does) as if it is his sworn duty.
This makes me wonder how other people see me there...

Here is an excerpt from Jesus by James McCauley:

"...And when a dove came to his hand he knew
that hell was opening behind its wings.
He thanked the messenger and let it go;
spoke to the dust, the fishes and the twelve
as if they understood him equally,
and told them nothing that they wished to know."

Poetry has that knack for conveying the emotion of a thing, the full-bodied nature of a drawn out moment. This passage gave me pause, and made me think of Anne Rice's new book Christ the Lord which is a surprisingly good read. Jesus, not quite eight years old, is slowly realizing the totality of his nature, and towards the end, in the culmination of the book, he realizes that everything that is born must die, a realization that carries more weight for him than mortals.

I've sent off my application for the "audio-visual services clerk" position at the Bourbon County library. I doubt anything will come of it. What bothers me is that I am getting a graduate degree, spending thousands to claim a degree, and I will most likely have to start at the bottom with low pay and hopefully work up.
The funny thing about the cataloging business is that it is a broad spectrum. Some libraries treat it like a paraprofessional position, with pay to match, while others accord it full professional status (which it deserves, and I am speaking objectively, considering the amount of education and detail one has to possess to do the job effectively), with a decent salary. Even more frustrating is that it varies within types of libraries. Some public libraries have catalogers, while others just have clerks (like the position above).
I jumped at this position because it would let me get my foot in the door. Considering that Jon and I want to live in a rural part of Kentucky, my options for library jobs will be limited, so any chance I have of working at a public library, I'm going to snatch.

Happy Valentine's Day! Now that both sets of parents have sent us Valentine's cards, I suppose that means Jon and I will have to get one for each other.

On Sunday I went to the Lexington Vintage Dance Society's exhibition at Joseph-Beth. They advertised it as romping music from Jane Austen's time, unlike anything we've seen in the movies. It was actually quite enjoyable. The performers were familiar enough with the moves to gracefully fix any errors they made, so the audience didn't have to suffer through that peculiar vicarious embarrassment that one can feel while watching a clumsy performer.

Here are some interesting Kentucky town names (excluding the standard names like Sulphur Lick or Dogville):

-Pippa Passes
-Lothair

The latter made me think the Three Musketeers. The first was just odd. How do you say, "I come from Pippa Passes"? The way that name is constructed gives one an incomplete-thought, unfinished-sentence sort of headache. It's like a dog chasing its own tail, unable to come to resolution.

I will say right off the bat: I do not like cellphones. I am not against them per se, for they are a means of communication; I am against what they do to people.

I cannot count the number (and this countless number would probably be tripled if I wasn't hard of hearing) of times that I have been walking behind someone talking on a cellphone and overheard something like this: "I'm on Rose Street. I'm like a minute from the library. Yeah, I'm coming up the sidewalk. Okay, I'm right outside the library. I'll see you in 5 sec--whoops, there you are!"

Most of the time I overhear people on their cellphones, this is the kind of stuff they are saying. Literally. It bothers me that people will engage in such banal conversations. Are we so afraid of a mere five minute walk to the library that we have to fill up that solitude with something--anything-- that fills up the silence? Are we so afraid of being alone that we'll rush to fill it up with distractions--TV, computers, cellphones?

This might seem off-subject, but I was reminded of something Mom told Jon concerning his hiking: "You have to like yourself to be alone for extended periods of time in the wilderness. Most people couldn't handle that." I think this points to the root of the matter.

"The farmer and the cowboy should be friends.."

Us girls (or is it we girls?) watched Oklahoma!, starring Wolverine (Hugh Jackman) last night, which led to the discussion on just why we love musicals so much, but our husbands abhor them. (Case in point: Jon announced Tuesday night that he would do anything but watch the President's state of the union speech. He was even willing to watch a movie or go shopping. When I suggested, "Well, we could watch Oklahoma," he said, "Uh... I'd rather watch the state of the union speech.").

I think what bothers them must be the dream sequences, and the spontaneous song and dance that erupt out of the oddest circumstances. We joked that our lives would be much more eventful if we could make episodes out of mundane events, like dinner. We could dance circles around the dining room, belting out lyrics, then assemble in some crazy set-up around and on top of the dining table as we presented dinner with a flourish: "Lamb kebobs! Sweet potatoes! Orange carrots with the raisins on top!"

Here is my new favorite poem:

Via Negativa (by R.S. Thomas)

Why no! I never thought other than
That God is that great absence
In our lives, the empty silence
Within, the place where we go
Seeking, not in hope to
Arrive or find. He keeps the interstices
In our knowledge, the darkness
Between stars. His are the echoes
We follow, the footprints he has just
Left. We put our hands in
His side hoping to find
It warm. We look at people
And places as though he had looked
At them, too; but miss the reflection.

Negative theology (via negative=negative way) is not, as one might instinctively think, theology that attempts to disprove the existence of God. It is theology that attempts to describe God by what he is not, since he is mysterious and beyond comprehension.

I have started reading the Mitford novels. I hovered in the realm of embarrassment for a minute when Abbi asked me what I had been reading, "Should I mention it..?" then decided I was old enough to publicly embrace my eccentricities.
I thought I would look into them after reading in random articles of Lauren Winner's Mitford obsession. If a smart unorthodox girl like her reads them, there must be something about them that has made fans of millions of readers.
I am hooked and happy that the series is very long. The books are my bedside companions, perfect for reading right before sleep--nothing too frightening, sweet enough to ensure happy dreams, not too addictive that I am up until 2 AM.
I think I am going to write a paper on the similarities between Lord of the Rings and the Mitford novels.

In the uproar over Frey's book "A Million Little Pieces", people are questioning the truthfulness of memoir. Aren't all memoirs somewhat shaded with the untrustworthiness of memories, as well as authors who embellish an otherwise lackluster episode (audiences won't read books about happy family lives in which not much really happened)? Frey is an extreme example (he claims he was in jail for months when he really only languished in prison for a day, for instance).

I have powerful memories that are more impressions than factual reminiscines (the roughness of knee-high grass in the hills around the creek by Jenny & Rosie's house ; the cream-colored walls of stone of the Palace of the Popes, whose building never seemed to end, etc.) and to write about such impressions requires fleshing out the memories.

Jon was a science fair judge at a local elementary school this past Wednesday. He awarded the "most creative" prize to a kindergartener who tested whether Christmas exists (Jon said her parents must have been watching a lot of FOX news, with its raging debate over the p.c.'ness of "merry christmas" greetings).
For her experiment, she would greet people with, "Merry Christmas!" then ask them whether they thought Santa Claus existed. Of course, all the adults said "Yes," (what else would you say to a kindergartener?) So, 100% of adults said Santa Claus existed, and 70% of children agreed, therefore: Christmas exists!
Another experiment: a girl tested whether her dog was colorblind. She would show him colored pieces of paper, saying the name of the color several times "PINK! .. PINK! ... PINK!" etc. Then she laid out the pieces of paper on the ground, put doggie treats on each of them, then said the name of a color. She observed that the dog ate all the treats in "random order," therefore he is not colorblind.
I'll leave you to figure that out.

Everything in this quote combines in a bizarre funny way : "Nacho Libre" (June 2), from "Napoleon Dynamite" director Jared Hess, stars Jack Black as a Mexican priest who doubles as a wrestler to raise cash for his orphanage (from cnn.com).

Here is a movie I really-really-want to see: The Lady in the Water.

People either love or hate M. Night Shyamalan. I enjoyed all his previous movies. Jenni and I came home from Signs and sat in the kitchen, afraid to enter our rooms--afraid that dressers or dirty laundry might actually be aliens in disguise--silly imaginings like that.
The scene from The Village where the blind girl stands boldly in the door, her hand outstretched, knowing that her lover will come, even as the creepy creature is advancing down the porch not 10 feet away, still makes me shudder.
The Lady in the Water is described as a fairy tale/bedtime story that is true, with Shyamalan's customary eerie undercurrents.

From an essay I am reading:

a lamed-vovnik is one of the 36 hidden saints whose identity is known only to God, and for whose sake alone the world is each moment spared the destruction it deserves.

From a story retold within the essay: How to Pray: Reverence, Stories, and the Rebbe's Dream by Ben Birnbaum

Jewish literature is full of mystical legends like this.

Being one who likes fantastical literature, I find this funny:

Bill Nighy, some British actor, plays a range of characters that I only just now noticed. He is a sleazy politician with no soul in The Constant Gardener, a master vampire in the Underworld movies, a loser musician in Love Actually, among others. The juxtaposition of His Lord King Master Allmighty High Vampire with Billy Idol-in-his-downfall musician is especially amusing.

Perhaps I am the only one that finds this entertaining, but it's just too surprising to watch a movie in which you are deeply involved (The Constant Gardener), then think "Hey, I've seen this guy before." then realize the last time you saw him was with blood smeared on his chin, and his eyes all vampire-weird. You don't immediately register him as as an actor.

Now I understand the title "The Constant Gardener". I had just assumed that it was an avant-garde name to use for a mystery/thriller book. It is certainly a movie that makes you think. The ending was wrenching, due to the abrupt jump to the funeral scene. Throughout the movie, I had never thought seriously that Quayle would die. He would certainly live to spread the news that his wife so desperately wanted to make known.
This movie succeeded in making death very real--very present (I can think of no other word)--in Africa. It is too easy to hear news of genocide and rampant AIDs out of Africa, because millions are dying--a number that is too vast for the mind comprehend.

The other day, Jon and I were trying out some Bertie Botts, and the minute I ate the Soap bean, I immediately remembered Mom putting some soap on my tongue for sticking my tongue out at her when I was little.
Last night we were talking about how we wanted to raise our kids, in light of the overall permissiveness we see in most children nowadays. Little things, like how strict we want to be, rewards and punishments, etc. Of course, you take what you say with a grain of salt, because everything changes once you've got a kid.
Speaking of kids, why are babies the cutest things in the world when quite rationally, a lot of them just aren't? Case in point: Mary H brought her 3-week old son in to work. I meant it when I said, "Oh, isn't he just the most beautiful baby!" when we were both looking down at a pink, puckered looking thing whose limbs moved of their own free will. Maybe we are recognizing the divine spark without its being clouded over by such things as temperament and annoying behavior, and bodily odors and patches of fat in the wrong spots.

Class started today. When the teacher asks how many hours a week you can devote to the course, you know you're going to have no life for the next 4 months. That won't be too much of a problem for me, since I really don't have that much of a life to begin with, but all the same that means I have to put aside all my thoughts of books to read (which will be near impossible seeing as I work in a bookstore and a library) to focus on the task at hand.

Dr. Chan launched into the theory of subject analysis, and I could see my interpreters' eyes flicker in confusion quite a bit (some have told me: "I hope you understand all this, because I certainly don't"). I told Heather and Erin afterwards that my classes are the favorite among UK's interpreters...

It makes me wonder what it's like interpreting for a variety of classes--ranging from basic literature classes to nursing to physics, etc. Is it like going to school all over again? Are you able to switch off that part of your brain which seeks to understand what information is entering it, and just sign the words as the teacher speaks them?