Welcome to Mysteries of the Far East

Dear world,

Hello again. Another entry in the continuing saga of my life. Today we went to church, ate lunch, went grocery shopping, angsted over headphones for my new i-pod (the old one was defective) forgot to buy the hoagie rolls and hot dogs, and found out that Dan Fogelberg had prostate cancer, which means that we can't go to his concerts (he isn't doing anymore) and my mom won't be stalking him on her business trip to Colorado this week ('nuff said). But yesterday...

Oh, wait, I forgot another funny little thing that happened today. We were at the Home Depot buying some flats of flowers for our yard, and as we stuck one of the flats into the floor in the backseat of the car, a little green frog jumped right out. It was so cute, and surprisingly enough, the first actual frog I have ever seen in Texas. The rest are actually toads. This one was bright green and nervous looking. I was over getting something else out of the cart and my mom yelled, "Oh my gosh, there's a frog in the car! What are we going to do!?!" I just went over and put my hand over him. He was a slippery bugger, he got out of my hand a couple of times before I managed to get him out of the car. I wasn't just going to leave him in a parking lot to get squished or fried, so I ran back to the verge to let him free. I think I must have made a funny picture, running across the parking lot in my nice church clothes, cupping the mysterious something in my hands. I then proceeded to run from one clump of plant species to another, because I couldn't decide where he would want to be. This bunch was too leafy, what if he wanted to be on the dirt? This was too stemmy, what if the dry ground was too hot? I finally left him in a wild tangle, and he sat on my pinky calmly for a few seconds before he took a mighty leap, clearing the vegetation altogether, and landed on the wooden pallet about three feet away. I guess someone wants a little more autonomy. But now that I think of it, this was all quite foolish. Clearly the poor lad was just looking for the kiss of transformation, which is why he jumped into our flat of flowers in the first place, which I staunchly and ignorantly denied him, not recognizing the royal blood beneath the green skin and seeing only a lowly amphibian. For shame, Shannon, you must learn to look beyond...

Yes, but yesterday. Yesterday was very delightful. I made my mom reschedule her haircut so we could take a trip to the art museum, which we don't usually get to do when Heather's in town, Heather being rather rapidly bored of art museums. The exhibit I had gone there to see, French master's of impressionism or something like that, which had left by quite a while by the time we got there, like back in May or something. Which begs the question of why they were still advertising it on their website, or whatever. So we ended up seeing an exhibit that I had very little initial interest in, but one which totally changed my mind when we actually got to see it, which was on the contemporary art of Asia. It is such absolutely fascinating stuff, I hardly know what to say or where to start. First of all, I think it showed rather starkly my own ignorance of Asian culture and history. It was like stumbling on a whole world which before you had only had the barest consciousness of, but once inside it seems to just go on and on in ever increasing complexity.

So the first really interesting theme that the exhibit highlighted is the process of rapid urbanization in Asia and how there are three stages that exist simultaneously, the old buildings and sections of cities, the rubble of disrepair that no one has cleaned up yet, and the new, modernized, Western highrises. One of the most fascinating pieces, I think entitled "Chemical Balance" was a sort of futuristic urban landscape made entirely out of towers of empty prescription bottles. I think this explores some of the angst of rapid change and westernization, seeming to create a kind of dystopian view of the future, but at the same time, the skyline was calm, orderly, structured, egalitarian (everybody's pill bottle tower being roughly the same size). I think a lot of the art in the exhibit showed at least some sort of ambivalence to all the change that was happening, rather than overt critical commentary.

One way that really exemplifies this is the new kind of pop art of Japan in particular, which, in the wake of socialist government and in the wake of rapidly expanding free market enterprise and industrialization, has produced the same kind of collision of market symbols and artistic/historical symbols. In China, this emerging trend is complicated by the embedded memory of widespread communist propoganda promoting the Maoist regime. Where is the line between commercialism and propoganda?

The Luo Brother's work and in particular, their series, "Welcome to the World's Famous Brands," uses an almost seamless combination of traditional mythological and popular Asian imagery, mixed with logos of iconic Western brands and products. Perhaps the most disturbing piece was one that actually interwove the photograph of the execution of a Vietcong officer during the Tet Offensive by Eddie Adams (just google it and you'll remember which one I'm talking about, it was one of the most famous photographs ever) with a montage of international brand logos. From far enough away, if you knew it was there you could make out the image of the execution, but from up close, it was completely invisible. This, to me, says some disturbing things about commercialism and the erasure of memory, both historical/communal and private.

There was so much in this exhibit about memory and history, I was really just blown away, even to the point of pop art referencing the images from the most ancient books of Japan. There was so much memory of events like the Maoist regime, Tienammen Square, the Korean and Vietnam Wars, all making indelible but subtle appearances. But perhaps far stranger than these were the lighthearted, almost air-headed, references to anime, manga, and otaku culture (mainly young male subculture centered around technology and gaming). There was this really intriguing painting that depicted the infiltration of female anime style characters into Tokyo's Akihabara district, a center of otaku culture, which was supposed to show the rising degree of infiltration of girls into this largely male world. To what end, I have no idea, but there you have it. Another aspect of this style of pop art is the Japanese concept of kawaii, or "cuteness," which is a widespread visual motif in Japanese culture, even into places that Westerners would find such images unnecessarily juvenile, such as office environments or even governement publications. Think the visual style of Hello Kitty or Pokemon magnified onto a grand canvas, and that pretty much sums up this particular subgenre of pop art. Why kawaii? This is clearly a kind of visual cultural identity that is deeply rooted in Japanese culture, but I have to say, beyond that, I don't really understand it. This kind of style is, in my opinion, most artfully rendered in the work of Chiho Aoshima, who's amazing animation, "City Glow," explores and subverts the concept of kawaii.

The work begins in darkness and goes through a kind of zombie graveyard, where the ghosts are banished by a troupe of colorful pixie like characters, kind of the mobile spirits of the half-human buildings that you can then see rising from the forest. They sway gently through a fierce storm, but ultimately the skies clear again, night falls and the stars come out for a peaceful evening of rest. It's an amazing integration of urbanization with nature, a connection Aoshima believes is quite close. The subversion of kawaii comes with the appearance of the storm, as well as the graveyard full of zombies, but ultimately kawaii is vindicated as good triumphs over evil. Elsewhere her paintings exhibit the brightly colored pixies on the same canvas as dark clouds dripping with blood. Artistically, I am in way over my head here. Cross-cultural interpretation, anyone?

Bleh, okay this has turned into quite the marathon post, so I think I am done for the moment and now...I'll go do something else.

Wonderingly,
S.

"I am Jack's smirking revenge."

Wow. So, I finally, finally, finally got my chance to watch Fight Club. And guess what happened. I didn't get any farther than halfway through when the movie started skipping. It had already skipped a little bit previously but I thought we were over all that. So by the time I skipped through all that second patch of narrative, I figured, I am going to have no idea what's going on, and I have to complain about this anyway so they don't send the disk out to someone with more pent up aggression who might have a more drastic reaction, so I'm done for the night. But I am very, very pissed off about not getting to watch the rest of the movie. I don't think I have been so intrigued by a movie in a very, very long time. Wow. I don't even know where to start but this kicks John Eldredge's wild ass. No lie. I am so high on adrenaline right now, I'm liable to say crazy things. I would really like to know where this crazy train is going to end up. But I won't be able to find out until at least tomorrow night. I don't know what I'm going to do when Heather gets back to town, I'm going to have to schedule movie nights for myself so I don't get stuck watching nothing but that PG crap.

So, the other really intriguing thing that's happening right now is that I've started reading Phillip Jenkin's The Next Christendom. I really wish that it wasn't a library book so I could write all kinds of notes in it. I think this is going to be phase I of my Nigeria prep course, not necessarily because this is an especially appropriate book, but I don't really know what I ought to be reading, so at least I'm starting with a book that mentions Nigeria (actually it talks extensively about Nigeria's role in the growth of the church in the global south, but I like to be hard on myself and my decisions.

In other news, I am applying to work at...wait for it...a Christian book superstore and...no, seriously there's more...homeschooling supplier. Wow. This place just opened not too far from me, but if I actually get called in for an interview, let alone get a job, it will prove once and for all that God has a sense of humor. But what better place to keep my finger on the pulse of evangelical thought and culture? And, as those of you who have gotten my support letter know, I have only a smidgen of time left before the money is coming due. Furthermore, I told my mother that if I didn't raise enough money, I would take it as a sign of God's disfavor on the whole venture. Hmmm...we'll see. Ummm...I think that's just about all that's going on for the moment in my intellectual life and a bit of my actual life (such as it is). Unfortunately, I can't actually talk about these things because I am in the midst of them and not actually finished with them. Maybe next time, if you're lucky.

S.

In which many things Come Out

So here I am, and it is late. I feel like I once had inclinations towards being wise, towards having great discussions and being mindful in the world, of making changes, seeing improvements in people and whole places, of being Happy and living a Good Life with people I love. Sadly, I think I have now traded these ideals in for intriguing little episodes of Mythbusters, exotic fiction by Indian authors, and spending an entire afternoon at the mall shopping for Mei-Mei's new jeans.

This is a late post, and for me being up late is like being drunk. Remember that TLC life lesson: "Merlot and e-mail do not mix"? For me, staying up late has the same effects, all the stoppers are gone and I'm primed for free-flowing, more honest than you wanted but not quite as honest as the Real situation, stream of consciousness prose. It's like Being John Malkovitch without the edgy conceptualization, thought-provoking framing and academy award nominations. Yes, pizza.

This is a pretty blog, but I feel like I could count the people who read it on one hand. Perhaps this is only because the only people who comment I could count on one hand. Then again, I read many people's blogs on which I would never comment. This is what I tell myself as Consolation, a whole chapter, schema, and paradigm in the mind of me that grows and grows to quell the voice of dissatisfaction. Is it worth it to write to a few people? Sure, why not, you all are good people. You know who I'm talking too. I like you crazy kids. You are the Greatest. It's all for you.

My sister is leaving for England tomorrow for two weeks to do art outreach missions with hardened inner-city youth. This is so my missions trip. Why does it bother me so much that I can't go? Is this the subtle whisper of What I'm Supposed To Do With My Life, waving nonchalantly as it passes me by? Is this just a quiet longing for the lovely green hills and twisting, surprising streets and all the England once had for me? Maybe I am happy that for once I am fulfilling Big Sister Supremacy, that I get to do something before her, have something nicer than what she has. Maybe not. Maybe it makes me a little bit happy, but it certainly does not make me Happy.

I miss everyone, but only in that vague, ephemeral way that allows me to be angry about not hearing from People, but not to hold any kind of solid recollection of them in my mind to make me think that we might still be Friends. They don't exist that much, and the fragments that are left over exist in a kind of baseless hostility that never even happened, that I make up and make over while broiling under the muggy clouds while the humidity makes my hair frizz ever larger.

Dammit, I wish I was Clever. I want to be Clever like the Clever People who's stuff I read, the Clever People I stalk, but every time I try to be Clever I only end up sounding stupid and looking like I am trying too hard, mostly because I am trying too hard. You have to try hard to get anywhere in the world, if you sit still for even ten minutes you start backsliding into whatever it is that you don't want to be. You just can't try too hard, God forbid, because then you look like you're trying too hard and you'll never be Clever. Damn.

I got to work this week. I got to work for only one day, and I was doing a mass mailing so I must have spent 6 1/2 hours doing nothing but stuffing envelopes, and then a couple more hours filing. One day of work. Eight hours. I don't really want to go back. But I do. But I don't. Why do all the Grown-Ups hate their jobs? Do I have to become a Grown-Up who hates her job just trying to earn money to go to Nigeria even though I don't Want to go even though I want to go? I am not earning any money. Perhaps this means that I have no value, from a capitalist perspective. Perhaps this means I have no value from my perspective. And what about Mom? Don't even go there...

I keep wondering what it would be like to pray to God about my life and not just the lives of other people or giant socio-economic Situations or Causes. I wonder what it would be like to believe in the kind of God who is not Irrelevant, who might actually do something and muck about in the situations of my life, who might change things instead of just changing me or whatever bullshit stuff we say about that. I wonder what I would ask for. The first thing that I would ask for is that I could have friends, new ones who would know what is Really Going On here and who would ask me about my life and who I could go out for ice cream with and have a Very Silly Photo Shoot with me and have a really intense discussion where we actually started on some of the same pages. And also that my old friends wouldn't fall out of my head and my memories become distortions and my images become hostile for no good reason that I can find, that I wouldn't feel so extremely, utterly, very, very Alone. I would ask that I could know that the future holds something good, that I will be loved someday with love that I actually believe, that life will not be empty and directionless and aimless as it seems now that it must always be. Some people want to know how it will work out and where they are going and how life is going to be, but I don't need that. I just want a little, tiny, tiny promise, a spot of conviction that someday something I do is going to Mean Something, that I will find hearts to hold me into which I can pour a pitcherful of life, that I can look forward to a few rose petals on the garden walk and an Andes mint on my pillow. Pumpkins and chrysanthemums in the fall and insane hummingbirds all summer long. Those little piping birds on the beach and carnivalesque corndogs. And I do not mean these as little metonomys, to say some sappy thing about how if we can just find the little moments of happiness, we will always enjoy life. Hell no. That's for Dove chocolate to push, not me. I want more than a moment. I don't want much, maybe not too much, but I sure as hell want more than a moment.

But the full moon will always be my friend, and I will always shout "HELLO, MOON!" when she rises up in the sky, even if the skateboarders next door are out doing their tricks with their obnoxious floodlights and I am only out to make sure the dog goes pee. But there are no stars here. No stars up in that sky that is either cloaked in rainy clouds or shattered by ambient light. No stars. I hate living here. Houston is a horrible city and I don't care that it has el pan Bimbo and horchata flavored yogurt, and that the mangos are cheap and it's still 60 degrees in the winter. There are no stars here, and no snow, and hardly any trees, and no reliable farmstands, and no break from the summer heat, and no creeks and waterfalls to swim in, no forests to walk through, no soft serve custard at the gas station, no windy roads through the hills; everywhere is just more billboards and power lines. It scares me to think I might live here long enough to look at this place of angry drivers and strip malls with nostalgia. How could I ever want to return to a place where there were No Stars? And no parks and no lakes...nothing but endless suburbs littered with huge Baptist churches.

That's it. I'm done for the night. I guess this post was Honest. It's supposed to be very important to be Honest. I feel like this has all been directionless and too long and pretentious and whiny...and I am more satisfied with this than with anything I've written or tried to write in a very long time. Mmmm...catharsis. Or something like That.

S.

Tales of the Bionic Woman

So as of today I am officially immune from Typhoid, Yellow Fever, Meningitis, Polio, and Hepatitis A. I am bionic woman, free from all disease and harm. Immortality is clearly within my reach.

It is funny because I ended up having to go to two different clinics to get all my shots and my experiences could not have been more different. The first was in a poorer part of town, in a kind of shady, almost unmarked and tiny, tiny office. There was only one examination room that also apparently was home to the staff fridge, because the nurse's daughter wandered in and tried to pull her lunch out, prematurely, I might add. There I had a short conversation with the nurse, paid, got my shots, and was out.

Today I was in a large, crowded clinic, which nonetheless I think was fairly upscale by comparison. I spent about an hour talking with the nurse about various aspects of travel precautions. Actually, it was more like she was lecturing me about the six other vaccines and tests and physicals she recommended I get before leaving. I think she was doing her level best to scare the shit out of me before I could go anywhere, considering she spent the bulk of our enchanting time together detailing the many, many ways that getting a mosquito bite would cause me to contract a disease which would turn my insides into green goo before you could point to the international symbol for "Oh, God, my liver!" Seriously, this woman was like safety on hyperdrive. No sandals, no sitting on the ground, gloves when you're touching other people, and a face mask for dealing with the kids, soaking your body in soapy water if you get licked by your family dog, no swimming or wading, mosquito repellent at all times. Maybe it would be wise for me to go and just sit inside a plastic bubble the entire time and just wave to the Nigerians! I don't know quite what to think of all this. Obviously I'm not opposed to taking common sense precautions like not eating raw oysters from a street vendor or frequenting the red light district. But seriously, socks and shoes all the time? Pants tucked into your socks? Does anyone really do this? Those who have been to Africa already, feel free to weigh in.

So, after telling me all this in excruciating detail, she asked me, rather pointedly in my opinion, "So, why do you want to go?" Translation: "In the light of this information and the odds that some form of excruciating and cureless illness will surely be yours, why on earth do you want to do this?" I'm not sure what I said, something about the need being so great, to which she conceded. Oh to see what exactly was going on in her mind.

Truth be told, a lot of people have asked me that question, without the sinister subetext, and I honestly never know exactly what to say. Actually, I feel like at this moment, this little segment of time in my life, I kind of don't want to go. I think I wanted to have another adventure, to see a place in this glorious world that I have not yet explored, but mostly because there is so much bad in the world. I watch it on the news, I see it in the faces of the homeless people on my street corners, I feel like it presses in around us all the time. I wanted to do something to push back against all that pressure, to feel like I'm doing something significant and worthwhile and not wasting my life moaning about the problems or feeling helpless. I don't feel that at all times, I don't feel like I want to go. I feel rather indifferent, and sometimes I feel like it's going to be a diaster. But I have learned, as a rule, to not overrule while I'm dreaming a decision I made while I was awake. I'll stick with it. At least through a few more meltdowns.

Until the waking,
S.

Close Encounters of the Turd Kind

Well, this is the first official post on the new blog, so I wanted to come up with something extremely profound, but actually this is not so much. But I figure, even though this is the first post, it will soon be lost in the long stream of history and thought and no one will ever see it again. So there.

So, this past week I took my first trip to a Christian book store in a long time. I was actually fairly pleasantly surprised. Sure there were the requisite piles of bad fiction, but I think I saw more actual works from Christian history than the usual Lewis and Lucado stock, though there was definitely a post-Reformation slant, which was a little disappointing. And Josh McDowell's "More than a Carpenter" is still in the top-five on the apologetics best-seller list. But, on the other hand, I did see a book called "Mary for Evangelicals" and the first copy of the Catechism of the Catholic Church that I have ever seen in an Evangelical book store.

So all was going fairly well until my mom called me over to help her look for the gifts she was buying for a couple weddings she was going to this past weekend. Then, the trouble started. The issue, I'm discovering, that I have with Evangelicals is usually not so much an issue of doctrine as it is of culture. In what way does printing a bible verse on a plate, a coffee cup, a pad of paper make it a more appropriate gift or possession for a Christian than one that doesn't. Seriously, someone explain this connection to me. Why would anyone have said some day, over morning coffee, "Hey, I would feel more spiritual drinking this if I had a bible verse on the cup!" Talk about proof-texting. Actually, I don't know whatever inspirational effect these little bits are supposed to offer, but I think being surrounded by plates and angel statues that either have the verse about "the two shall become one" or "as for me and my house we will serve the Lord" on them really, really makes me want to never touch the Bible again, except perhaps to throw it across the room. Way to butcher the word of God, guys.

On a related note, lately I have had the great privilege to be exposed to both the excellent programming of TBN and the fine work of Joel Osteen. We are arch nemesis...nemeses? I didn't watch very far because my sister thought it was boring. But in that time I got to see Mr. Osteen have everyone raise their Bibles high and recite some kind of bizarre mantra of self-actualization about how they are about to recieve the almighty word of God and never, never, never, never be the same. (I am not even joking, he repeated that many nevers). The almighty word of Osteen is more like it.

Hmmm...maybe I'm becoming too cynical, too bitter. Ho hum, I don't know that I am ready to reform right now. The shudder factor is still too strong. Maybe I'll just become a Buddhist for a while until this settles down.

S.