You have consumed me, body and soul.... with HATRED

I think it's about time for me to step out of the literary closet, so to speak.

For me to reveal something my close friends and family know, but it's gotten so out of control that I want to open up to the entire world.

I am about to say something that will cause some of you to judge me, some to hate me, and some to call me a heathen sinner and never speak to me again. This is worth it, just to relieve myself of the burden I've been carrying for years. I need to come clean. It's time.

I hate Jane Austen.


That's right. All you girls, you better click off now. Run away to some happy blog that quotes Pride and Prejudice every five sentences and compares every male to Mr. Darcy. I don't care. I don't need your desperate pleas defending her writing, describing how she makes you believe in love (to which I say, PSHAW), how she stands as an inspiration for women authors everywhere. I don't want to hear it.

I hate her. This is a deep, lasting, forever kind of hatred. There is no grudge here. It's a vendetta, a lifelong disdain for her works and her self.

Right now, I am at the point where if I could go back in time and kill one person from history, Hitler, Judas, and Nero can rest easy. Live on to be horrible another day. Believe me, if I was killing two persons from history, I'd keep one eye open, but for now you all are safe. Because I would target Austen and her snobbish, restricted class fluff pieces.

I don't care if Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy ever get together. They'd probably both grow a lot more as people if they didn't. And I don't care about Emma and her match-making. She should have stopped being silly and realized what was there the whole time. It's her own fault. And don't even get me started on Anne Elliott and Captain Wentworth. Newflash: you are both idiots who allow society to pressure you, and, quite frankly, only have yourselves to blame for years of unhappiness. If either of you had an ounce of confidence and assurity, this novel would never have happened. And I would be a lot happier. It would have led to the salvation of many souls, as girls realized that sort of behavior is not acceptable in real life, and that's why they are still alone, eating chocolate and watching BBC movies in their dorm room. Get out and actually interact with real people, instead of swooning over men in high-waisted pants and frilly shirts. No one pulls those off anymore. There is a reason that is not the fashion. If you saw a guy with a cravat, you would run away from him, not towards him. Rant rant. Rave rave. And etc.

And I refuse to believe that any merit to be found in her books cannot be found in spades in other tomes. Ever heard of the Bronte sisters? Woman empowerment that is actually empowering. And has depth. I know. Gasp. But look at Wuthering Heights. It tackles racial issues, class structures, whether man is inherantly evil or just a product of environment, AND it includes a very funny bit with a dog! What more do you want? Romance? There are lovers that are driven literally mad for each other. Or is that type of devotion too much for you? Because it is so much more realistic than anything in your silly little Austen books. But go on. Carry on with your "he's rich and prideful and I want nothing to do with him so we will fall madly in love". Good luck with that. Call me when that tactic works.

Come on girls. How many of you really just like Jane Austen because you are expected to? I mean, seriously. Colin Firth is not really attractive. Not even as Mr. Darcy. It's kind of horrible acting, to be honest.

I guess the real point of this is, does anyone want to write my multiple papers on Persuasion? Because it's causing serious harm to my sanity.

So It Begins...

I was going to write about having my first teaching nightmare. But because I am becoming a teacher, I have no time. Obviously.

Ugh. Welcome to my life.

Still, I will share two things that are making me really happy.

This:

Two Weeks - Grizzly Bear from Gabe Askew on Vimeo.

And this. (Extra Credit: this).

Chirp

Tonight was one of those ideal summer nights.

The kind of night where you sit on the front porch, relishing the warm air and the darkness surrounding you and the rising sound of crickets.

I love the crickets.

And you sit there and realize that you are experiencing perfect happiness. Until you notice that the widow across the street is totally spying on you through her blinds. But even that can't bring you down, so you just smile and laugh at the fact that your neighbors watch your every move, and soon you're going back to school so they'll have to find a new subject.

As far as days go, today was pretty swell. I love it when things turn out better than you expect.

So here's to new apartments, Batman, a chef named Joe Hicks that makes BLTs with "mother loving", my apparent inner Jew, smirking, the ever-delicious hot dog, Miniature Tigers, Pavarotti, and blackberries.

Now all I need is a snow cone, and I'll call Summer '09 a roaring success.

L'il Nothing

Last night, I made cupcakes whilst listening to Jimi Hendrix.

It's moments like those that make me realize I'd make the most kick-A mother ever.

Also: less than 24 hours until it's just me and Sam Beam's beard.

Art Vandelay, Inc.

It's official.

Architecture is now the sexiest profession.

It was bound to happen. So I'm sorry all you poets, journalists, rock stars, carpenters, rebels-without-causes and doctors out there. But there was a reason the estimable George Costanza proclaimed "architect" as his non-existent employment. It's just super hot.


We had to know this was coming with Ted Mosby. His optimistic view of love and desire to "settle down" combined with humor and sensitivity (but not total wussiness) made him a heartthrob to all, even hardened cynics like certain characters named Robin. And the only job capable of handling so much attractiveness? Architect.

But what guaranteed the win? Tom Hansen. The dreamy romantic from 500 Days of Summer will have every girl swoon as they fervently wish to console his wounded heart. And of course, architect is the only work that could show Tom as an observant, creative, but with a possibility to be succesful in a career, artist. That's what it comes down to. The perfect marriage of tortured artist with successful business sense. Whimsy and the ability to provide a level of comfort in the future. What more could we want, ladies?

So students of architecture, prepare. You are about to get so much action. You won't know what to do with yourselves as waifish hipsters cast seductive looks in your direction. Just throw on a cardigan and go with the flow, and don't say I didn't warn you.

Those Awful Normals

Tonight, I watched this movie:


It was ... ... interesting. I don't know if I'd recommend it to everybody. Actually, I'm not even sure I liked it. At least, not the traditional definition of "like". It would be more accurate to say it fascinated/terrified/intrigued me. It was one of those movies that enters your brain slowly, wriggling in through your ear and through layers of conscious thought until it hits the innermost psyche, until it feeds on every fear and doubt and insecurity and philosophy you hold.

That sounded dramatic.

The thing is, every character resonated with me. Near the beginning I saw myself as a child, identified with the imaginative worlds and fantasies. Then came the drama teacher, and she encapsulated everything I hope to be as an adult and an educator (one of the shortcomings of the film is how grossly underused she was). But even as I watched, I convinced myself that I could never be that way, that I have too much doubt brought on by social and self pressure. Can I ever really accept myself, can I ever "see myself for who I am"?

And Phoebe's mother. Ugh. Even as I hoped to imitate one person, I saw my future, far less pleasant, in another. There is one part where the mom breaks down and lists the angers and concerns she has. I want so badly to not be like that when I've reached that point, but I feel like I will, that I'll age into a haunted shell.

So I sat there through the movie, these agonizingly egotistical worries crushing me, compounded by the onscreen drama. Then came the end, which I found strangely comforting.

WARNING. SLIGHT SPOILERS.

Part of the climax deals with an absence of hope. Hope is such an odd, elusive thing. With most definitions, it goes hand in hand with faith. While I was hiking with some family/friends last week, we discussed the commonly held belief that you can't have fear when you have faith (slash hope). We all agreed that principle was baloney. Hogwash. Utter false doctrine. If there is an opposition in all things, then fear is not only going to be a part of our lives, but it is a necessity.

Right now I'm reading Mormon Scientist, the biography of Henry Eyring (not to be confused with son Henry B.) (also, this is a great book, especially for Mormon intellectuals). One section deals with the fear that accompanied and aided Henry's life. Henry managed by not having "fearfulness, but rather respect for powerful forces and inevitable consequences." When used that way, fear quite naturally runs to a confidence in ones self, an assurance that we will be able to handle what comes our way, regardless.

Bringing this back to the movie, Pheobe in Wonderland finishes in the most glorious way I could imagine. Using quotations from the book, it ends with a hanging question, leaving it open for the audience. It asks, quite literally, "who are you"? We all have misgivings about ourselves. There will be times when we aren't satisfied with what we have to offer the world, and that could tempt us to never try and to hide away in mediocrity. But if negativity is faced straight on, victory is possible. We can overcome challenges. We can more than accept the person we are, we can gain self-reliance through the process of unwavering trust in our own self.

Set You Free

OK, so seeing the Black Keys live is going down in history as one of the greatest concerts ever.

It's such a relief after last week's disappointment with Jenny Lewis (she was fantastic, the crowd and my view was not) to go to the Gallivan Center and enjoy the experience. Yes, the audience was still full of self-important hipsters, but this time with some rowdy rock fans. And yes, everything still smelt like beer, smoke, and B.O., but when you're in the FRONT ROW, who cares?

That's right. Through some miracle, my friend Paige and I ended up in the front against the barrier, just to the right of center. Which was the best luck ever, as we probably would have died where we stood for the opening act. Let's just say personal space was non-existent, and that is no exaggeration. But never before have I been so happy, even while I was incapable of moving my arms. As I shook my hips and banged my head in time with the music, it was pure joy.

Blues rock is my ultimate. It's so full of emotion, so full of passion, and these two men wailed. Patrick on drums was a wonder; he just goes into this zone and creates this glorious cacophony that fills the air with clashing and pounding and rhythm. But when Dan touched the strings of his guitar, my face melted. I was a puddle, liquefied by his outstanding riffs. Being close enough to see his hands move up and down the neck, bending and twisting notes and banging out chords is a highlight of my life. As are the many moments where he came right in front of us and we shared brief eye contact as he blasted through a solo, leaning so close I could almost touch his guitar.

I'm pretty sure I just killed my body, what with the trials of standing that long and enduring the massive crunch of the crowd (major shout out to the guys behind us who protected Paige and me from the worst of it), but it was ABSOLUTELY worth it.

Now please excuse me while I pass out from exhaustion.

Epic.