Here's to You, Mr. Tambourine Man

8:30 Tuesday night finds me ensconced in my favorite booth at the local coffeehouse, with a large cup of coffee and Kierkegaard open in front of me. It’s been a long day already: a five mile run at 6:00 am, work, a quick bike ride before class, two hours of debating about whether or not we know what “quality” is and if we can make the assumption that God=Quality. Now, I’m sitting with 300 pages of reading that I have to complete before Thursday and a excruciatingly tired brain. God Bless that first person who decided that running hot water over pulverized coffee beans was a good idea. If they hadn't existed I wouldn’t be functioning these days.

I’m too engrossed in my Kierkegaard to pay attention when the bell rings above the door. It isn’t the sudden chatter of a number of voices, or the frenzy of the barista behind the counter that pulls me out of my reverie. It’s the abrupt strumming of acoustic guitar strings that sounds like a death knoll over my studies. I look up only to see an undergrad, probably around eighteen, sitting amid a semi-circle of adoring women of about the same age. He wears a yellow t-shirt that states: "Somewhere in Texas there's a village missing its idiot." He has perhaps the BIGGEST hair I’ve ever seen, and is digging in his pocket for a guitar pick. An ill-suppressed groan and dive for my MP3 player and headphones earn me one of the dirtiest looks I’ve ever received from one of the young women seated next to me. “Some people,” she comments to a friend in a stage whisper, “just don’t know how to really appreciate music.” I roll my eyes as she turns back to the undergrad who’s in the process of saying “This is totally, like, the GREATEST song ever written.” Then he launches into a horrendous version of “The Times They Are A-Changing.”

As I crank up my MP3 player, I acknowledge that there is some truth to the young woman’s words. A quick perusal of my music library would show you anything from Appalachia Waltz to Shakira and Damien Rice. I am entirely tone-deaf, can’t play an instrument to save my life and can’t even tap my foot in time to music. Despite all of these setbacks, I think it’s possible for me to acknowledge some universal truths about music. The foremost is that there are WAY too many protest-song writing, idealistic, mediocre to terrible singer-songwriters out there. In Chuck Klosterman’s words, I have to blame someone, so I’m going to blame Bob Dylan.

A caveat before I go much further. I love Dylan. “Don’t Think Twice” is possibly my favorite break-up song and I’ve included “Just Like a Women” on a disproportionately high number of mix tapes. However, liking Dylan’s music is not incompatible with hating the tuneless, nasal-y imitators he spawns on college campuses every year. Dylan made is possible for guys with big hair and terrible voices to believe that, if only they write enough songs with anti “The Man” slogans in them, they'll be hailed the voice of their generation. I can understand someone who was kicked out of choir idolizing Dylan, but I’m not quite so sure how he ended up as the poster-child of the neo-hippies. Yes, he has some pretty searing social commentary. He also, wonder of wonder, has some great songs about falling in and out of love, faith and modernity, and isolation and lonliness.

I pause my music to hear a little bit more of the young man at the front of the room and between phrases like “bring the regime down!” and something about demilitarization I can tell that this guy’s guitar is out of tune and that he probably hasn’t taken his allergy meds today. Buddy, when I can tell you’re out of tune, you have some major issues. I’m tempted to stop him between songs and offer him a Kleenex, but somehow I don’t think that would go over well

It’s not the fake nasal voices or the untuned guitars that really grate on me. It’s the fact that every single one of these songs sounds the same. If I hear one more song about bringing down the WTO or the military injustice of the Bush Administration I might strangle someone with their spare guitar strings. I dislike these songs for the same reason I dislike God-Pop and angry feminist music. In the whole constellation of human experience, you can only write on one theme? I understand the idée fixe, but for goodness sake, could you occasionally write a love ballad or cover an Elton John song? I’d suggest “Tiny Dancer.” I’ve never met someone who seriously dislikes that song. All right, so Elton John might ruin your street cred, but how about a little Mason Jennings—he has some great non-protest songs. Give your diatribes a rest and sing a little bit about joy, or sadness if you must. But lay off politics for awhile. If you have to vent your frustrations about border patrol or a military presence on campus you could take the highly radical approach of writing to your representatives or having a conversation with a ROTC student about values. If you really can’t contain yourself, why not set some Wendell Berry to music?

Despite the Prince I’m currently blasting into my brain, this guy and his groupies have totally shattered my concentration. It’s back to Emmaus, I guess, to try and finish this round of work before another long day starts. I quickly pack up my belongings, get a coffee refill to go, and head for the door. As I’m leaving, the woman who commented on my lack of musical taste mock-whispers to her friend again. “I’m so glad there’s room now for people who actually want to enjoy the show.”

What can I say? This kind of music, it ain’t me, babe.

Five Realizations During the First Week in Collegeville

1. The Catholic Church isn't what it used to be.

And I don't mean that we've left the Inquisition behind. An old professor of Krista's who teaches at the SOT told her recently "The grad students aren't like you." When she passed this along to me, I became more than a little concerned. Apparently even the SOT is attracting more conservative students which is, I think, reflective of the Church as a whole. People from my generation seem to think that Vatican II went a little too far in one direction and we need to swing things back to the way they used to be. This isn't to say that everyone I meet is for Latin Masses, but the overwhelming sense seems to be that we need to readjust ourselves to get back in line with tradition. I'm pro-tradition, to an extent. If it means that we're heading back to the days where I have to wear a chapel veil and am not allowed to speak because of one misunderstood line in Paul (vs 33-36) I might, in my mother's words, pitch a fit. As one of the professors who recommended me to the SOT wrote later: "Be sure to shake them up! I know you will."

2. Theology is hard.

Even without reconciling the aforementioned issue to my faith life, theology, as a discipline, sucks. I love it to bits, don't get me wrong, but it's so hard that I can't even describe it to you. The best analogy that I've been able to come up with so far is the following. Imagine you're a scientist working on a life or death issue. You have a hypothesis you have to test, but there's no real way of testing it. You don't have the equipment you need because the equipment you need is more advanced than anything we have to date. In fact, it's more advanced than anything you can even begin to fathom. So the absolute best thing that you can do is test it against a bunch of other similar hypotheses and argue about which one is better and why without ever knowing (or even having the hope of one day knowing which is right.) Now imagine that you can be graded on this, that we say some theology is good and some theology is bad an we have a whole rubric for evaluating the relative truth of something that we're just assuming exists.

Shit.

3. This ain't your momma's grad program.

Let's face it. I didn't work very hard in college, particularly in my major programs. I didn't work very hard and I got very good grades. My professors seemed to like me (hooray for charm!), I like writing, and read unusually quickly. I wasn't terribly concerned about starting a grad program until I had a conversation with a friend who's a year ahead of me in the exact same program. We chatted about professors, books, standard reading, and what the grade scale was like. He groaned and said: "I didn't get As in any of my classes." Have I mentioned that THIS IS ONE OF THE SMARTEST PEOPLE I KNOW? The guy runs intellectual circles around me and is struggling in his classes (albeit, loves them, but isn't getting the grades he's used to.) In addition to never working very hard in college, I also had a fit whenever I was graded lower than an A (I know, I'm that girl and cringing a little bit) and on one very memorable occasion, cried after getting a B. I had every intention of graduating from the SOT wearing one of those obnoxious red robes that signifies high honors and I'm slowly watching that spin out of sight.

4. I love fundraising.

I mean, I really love fundraising. I began work in Anna Marie's development office and I'm so excited it should be criminal. I love chatting with donors. I love networking. I love writing appeal and thank you letters. I'm excited to dive into grant writing and I can't believe I'm working for a small non profit loaded with radical feminists. I can't believe I don't have to justify things to my health insurance company because I work for the archdiocese (I mean. . .). I love the staff's dedication (many of them have been there 10+ years) to women's issues in central Minnesota.

Pffffft.

5. Stucco Sucks

The new chapel. Stucco, in CENTRAL MINNESOTA? What were they smoking when they decided that one?

In other news, the Brewers are still behind the Cubs and I'm really into the band Big Star lately.

Ch-ch-changes

My life's trajectory has changed drastically since April. Resulting, of course, in a list of changes.

1. I quit my job.
1. Actually. In all fairness, I quit my job close to three months ago.
2. I'm still working at my job
1. In classic Kelly fashion, shortly after quitting I was hit by a tidal wave of Catholic guilt. And the realization that temping is not an option this summer. Between needing a paycheck and guilt about foisting tons of extra work on my already over-worked and wonderful co-workers, I agreed to say on until they found a replacement. Or until I left for grad school.
   
3. I'm going to grad school
1. In April, I dropped the dean of admissions at the SOT an email saying that I would be interested in returning. He called me ten minutes later and invited me to apply for the fall of 2008. I asked if I needed to worry about admission or financial aid and was assured that with my transcripts, and GRE scores, I shouldn't be terribly apprehensive. This conversation occurred two weeks before quitting my job, so while I hadn't been formally accepted, I rested relatively secure in the knowledge that I had a plan for the future.
4. I have a new job.
1. Last week I interviewed for a development position with a non-profit feminist organization in St. Cloud. The interview went well, and on Monday I was offered the job. I'll be the development wench, more or less, but I'll have the opportunity to solicit donors, coordinate a direct mail campaign, and possibly run a special event or two. GREAT experience, particularly for someone so new to the non-profit fundraising world. Major *pfffffffft*
5. MILWAUKEE'S ONE GAME OUT OF FIRST PLACE!
1. Not really a personal change, but I'm rooting for another win against the Cards and praying that Arizona trounces the Cubs.
   

Nine Stories

New creative project. Nine very short stories, vignettes, I guess. Each based in a specific moment in the past nine months that brought me to the decision to leave the city.

Tonight's edition:

"A-t-o-n-e-m-e-n-t"

"Sieben and Gross, how can I help you?"
"It's me."

He imagined her fingers falling from the switchboard She'd shoot furtive looks at the customers before turning her back to them and lowering her head. He continued.

"I thought I'd call now as the office was closing. I thought you'd be less busy."
"How did you get this number?"
"I would have called your cell if you hadn't ripped the page out of my address book."
"Serves you right for being so out of touch with the 21st century."
"Yes, well. You did make it more difficult."
"That was the point."

He could almost see her nervously pushing her short bangs out of her eyes and chewing her bottom lip, the way she did when she was excited. Or terrified.

"When I stopped seeing you at the library sales, I figured you were offered the job."
"Still picking up women at the library?"
"You picked me up, if I remember correctly."

She blushed on the other end of the phone. He could tell. A few months distance and she was already ashamed of her brashness. She cleared her throat.

"What do you want?"
"I'll be in the city next week for business." He paused and collected himself. "I want to see you again."
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why?"
"Because I'm not. . ." it was her turn to trail off.
"Not?"
"A floozy," she murmured.
He smiled at the antiquated word. "You're not. And, incidentally, that would have been at least a sixteen point Scrabble play."
"Don't."
"What?"
"You don't get to bring up Scrabble. And don't try to be funny."
"I didn't think I had to try. I would still like to see you. I'll leave my board at home, I promise."
"You can't."
"Leave my board or see you?"
"See me."

He dug the heels of his hands deeply into his eyes. This wasn't going as he had planned earlier in the day.

"Why not?"
"My parents will be in town."
"I'd love to meet them."
"I'm sure you would."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Oh nothing, I'm sure you all would have tons to talk about. You know, you could sit around and have a few beers and talk about the Carter administration."
"That WAS a good administration."
"My parents are Republican. And the first president I can ever remember is George Bush Sr."
"That's unfortunate."
"In more ways than one."

They paused again. She was trying to think of the fastest way to end the conversation without hanging up outright. He was trying to keep her on the phone for a few more minutes, convinced her could let her persuade herself again to do what they both wanted.

Finally he asked, "Did you make a mistake?"
"No." Her voice softened a little now, and to someone else she may have sounded like she was pleading. "I need to run. Please don't call me anymore." But they both knew that she didn't plead.

"Yes. Yes. You're right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done this in the first place." Then, lamely, "I didn't mean to upset you."

"It's fine. Just never again."
"Sure."

He could hear her moving to hang up and just before she did she said:

"And floozy is at least at a seventeen point play. Remember, the y is always worth more than you think."


Which she followed with a sharp click and a dial tone.

She was right.

Here I Come

Courses for Fall '08

Theological Aesthetics
A seminar course on the theological tradition as it intersects with philosophical aesthetics. Focused readings in philosophical aesthetics (analysis, interpretation of human perception in and through various artistic media) and the larger theological tradition.
Case studies and readings focused around poetry, visual arts, music, liturgical prayer, and fine arts performances.


THY 402 Introduction to the Christian Tradition
An introductory survey of theology employing representative texts from major theological
figures (e.g. Augustine, Luther) that address major theological questions (e.g. nature and
grace, faith and works). Figures and issues selected from various historical periods.


DOCT 406 Christology
Understandings of the person, presence and mission of Christ in scripture, in doctrine and
dogma, and in contemporary theology.

I'm super pumped for the Christology and Theological Aesthetics courses. They sound like they're going to be great. I think Intro is something I'll just have to slog on through.

42 days. . .

LOVE/hate

Have you seen this commercial?

I love the New Balance LOVE/hate commericals. I like the cleverness of describing running as a relationship, and it is an extremely apt description.

In November of 2007, I started training for the Gary Bjorklund half marathon. It seemed like an impossibly distant goal, I doubted that I would even win the lottery and be able to run, but I set the goal anyway. The following eight months were some of the most intense of my life. I found myself dragging my exhausted body out of bed at unimaginable hours in order to don four layers and venture out into sub-zero temperatures. I remember certain markers. Two miles in November was a huge one. The same goes for five in February, and at the end of my eight miles in April, I felt like I had finished a bottle of champagne.

I also remember (vividly) a lot of bad runs. I could finish eight miles on a Sunday without blinking, and when Tuesday rolled around I'd find myself limping home after two miles.

Not to mention all of the skipped runs. I dismissed speed workouts (dumb), skipped long training runs (idiotic), and didn't take care of myself (suicidal). I spent a good portion of the spring laid up alternately with shin splints, the flu, and shin splints again.

Despite all of this, I found myself packing my car early Friday morning to head to Duluth. I spent Friday afternoon with my cousin and his family, chasing his four year old around the backyard and playing matchbox cars. Friday night found me in the fetal position on a cot in the basement, four alarms set so that I wouldn't oversleep.

Speaking of ungodly hours, Gary begins at 6:30 am. I understand the reasoning behind it, but standing in a dark kitchen eating peanut butter toast at 4:00 am, I began to doubt my own sanity. It took most of my strength to force down the toast and slam some Gatorade before barrelling out the door to catch my ride.

I rode the bus out to the starting point with an eight-time Gary finisher. One of the things that struck me most about the entire weekend was the incredible amount of camaraderie among most of the runners there. That and the crazies along the course. There was one bag-piper, several squeeze-box players, tons of frat boys trying to encourage us to do a beer bong, and a guy dressed up as Shrek along the course. Anyway, my bus friend pep-talked me for the entire half hour bus ride, and found me after the race to inquire about how it had gone.

I'll spare you the blow by blow analysis of the entire race. Suffice it to say that I ran too hard on my first seven miles, crashed on mile nine, and hobbled across the finish line. My only goal was that finish line, and I made it. Barely. I'm not sure what shock feels like, but I think I may have had a mild case of it. I limped around looking for water, my sweat bag, and my father. I eventually found all three, and my pep-talker from the morning. We swapped notes on the race and then went to watch the marathon-ers come through. I spent the next nine hours comparing race notes, stretching my aching muscles, and trying to re-balance my electrolyte levels.

For the past two days I've been laying low, dealing with some sore muscles, and recouping. My roommates have practically had to lock me into my house. The weather is perfect, and from my position on the couch I can see people running past. I'm desperate to go out again, but my muscles, better judgement, and roommates are holding me back. For the time being I'll have to content myself with planning my next races.

music

No real post.



Just a list of songs that have been on my Itunes repeat lately.



Gotta Have You: The Weepies

O Valencia!: The Decemberists

The Crane Wife 3: The Decemberists

Number 1: Goldfrappe

Black Panther: Mason Jennings

Delicate: Damien Rice

Jurassic 5: Quality Control

Lloyd, I'm Ready to be Heartbroken: Camera Obscura

Sweet Carolina: Ryan Adams

In My Time of Need: Ryan Adams

Eve, Apple of My Eye: Bell X1

Twilight: Elliott Smith

The Sea & The Rhythm: Iron and Wine

California: Mason Jennings

Your Smile is a Drug: Patrick Park

Starfish and Coffee: Prince

I have an unhealthy love for writing lists.

Additionally, I'm not sure if it's sad, slightly disturbing, or awesome that I can see the final panel of this comic as something I say in the near future. I hope the response is the same as it is here.