I spent so much time this week writing a post about the MTC president scandal, revising it every day as new information kept coming out, and finally I figured I have to just shelve it for the time being and hope that soon all the facts will be known and I can fairly evaluate them. There just seems to be little point in publishing a post that will be obsolete by tomorrow at the latest. I will say for now that this scandal has been very depressing for me. For most of this week my heart has felt like it was encased in lead. I don't know what else to day.
Since I spent so much time on that post and had so little to spare in the first place, I don't feel like writing a lot more to replace it. So I'm going to repost something from Facebook, sorry not sorry. On Thursday as I was leaving the Ray B. West building, a female voice behind me said, "Crees?"
And I responded. Because I used to have a Ghanaian roommate who pronounced my name like that. And he was friends with benefits with a white girl who came over sometimes, and she thought that was actually my name. Not only did she pronounce it like that too, she once wrote "Crees" on a note that she left for me with some pizza in the fridge.
But this was not the same white girl. I don't know how I could have forgotten someone so terribly attractive, but I didn't recognize her at all. She recognized me, though. She smiled and her next words were, "You still go here??"
I was like "Uh, yeah."
She had been heading up the stairs, but now backtracked closer to me and continued, "I thought you were going to transfer to another school!"
Maybe? I don't remember anything about that. But I didn't want to burst her happy bubble. "No, I couldn't leave, I love it here too much."
She was like, "Haha! Are you still taking Spanish classes?"
I only took Spanish classes in high school. I've only taken German and Latin in college. "No, unfortunately I'm too busy, I'm just taking English classes. For creative writing..."
"Haha! How was your summer?"
"Uh... it was good."
"Did you do the Bryce Canyon thing again? St. George?"
I don't think I've ever been to St. George. "Uh... I don't remember that. I'm sorry, I have a bad memory..."
"Haha, it's fine! Well, it was good to see you!"
"You too." That was entirely true. "Have a good day." That was also entirely true.
"Thanks, you too!"
So, I'm very confused.
The other day one of my professors, who has children himself, said something to the effect of, "As you get older there comes a point where you suddenly realize your parents weren't perfect and didn't know everything."
I knew that before I knew how to read. Yes, they expected me to believe they were always right because they were grown-ups, but I'm mentally ill, not handicapped. As I've grown older I've realized that yes, they actually were wrong about most of the things I thought they were wrong about. I deleted the original rant I had here because I wouldn't want anyone to think I don't love my parents. I'll save that for my memoir. Anyway...
I also had the opportunity in another class to portray Anne Page while acting out a scene from "The Merry Wives of Windsor". Just typing the name of a Shakespeare play makes me feel pretentious. This wasn't anything fancy, just dividing the class into four groups and each acting out the scene in our own way and commenting on each other's methods. It was the scene where Shallow tries to get his nephew Slender to woo Anne Page but Slender is awkward and not really invested in it. Ours was set at a barbecue in a singles' ward. I used the same falsetto Southern belle voice I used for Titania in a "Let's Play" of Fire Emblem that remains unfinished and may never see the light of day - The Southern-ness just makes it sound more feminine, somehow - and fluttered my eyelashes a lot. My classmates loved that. Shallow and Slender were played by the same person, who talked to herself and put her finger under her nose to indicate when she was Shallow, so the two or three of us stole the show. I wish it had been recorded.
In my high and mightiness, I regarded the Puritans as thoroughly unpleasant and unlikeable people. The poetry of Anne Bradstreet, discovered through yet another class, has given me a different perspective. It turns out she was actually a human. Her poem "Verses Upon the Burning of Our House", has really resonated with me after losing perhaps forever the vast majority of music that I spent four years accumulating. And I like her Yoda-speak.
In silent night when rest I took,
For sorrow near I did not look,
I wakened was with thund’ring noise
And piteous shrieks of dreadful voice.
That fearful sound of "fire" and "fire,"
Let no man know is my Desire.
I, starting up, the light did spy,
And to my God my heart did cry
To straighten me in my Distress
And not to leave me succourless.
Then, coming out, behold a space
The flame consume my dwelling place.
And when I could no longer look,
I blest His name that gave and took,
That laid my goods now in the dust.
Yea, so it was, and so ‘twas just.
It was his own, it was not mine,
Far be it that I should repine;
He might of all justly bereft
But yet sufficient for us left.
When by the ruins oft I past
My sorrowing eyes aside did cast
And here and there the places spy
Where oft I sate and long did lie.
Here stood that trunk, and there that chest,
There lay that store I counted best.
My pleasant things in ashes lie
And them behold no more shall I.
Under thy roof no guest shall sit,
Nor at thy Table eat a bit.
No pleasant talk shall ‘ere be told
Nor things recounted done of old.
No Candle e'er shall shine in Thee,
Nor bridegroom‘s voice e'er heard shall be.
In silence ever shalt thou lie,
Adieu, Adieu, all’s vanity.
Then straight I ‘gin my heart to chide,
And did thy wealth on earth abide?
Didst fix thy hope on mould'ring dust?
The arm of flesh didst make thy trust?
Raise up thy thoughts above the sky
That dunghill mists away may fly.
Thou hast a house on high erect
Frameed by that mighty Architect,
With glory richly furnished,
Stands permanent though this be fled.
It‘s purchased and paid for too
By Him who hath enough to do.
A price so vast as is unknown,
Yet by His gift is made thine own;
There‘s wealth enough, I need no more,
Farewell, my pelf, farewell, my store.
The world no longer let me love,
My hope and treasure lies above.
Why is being fed up with the rate at which American children are being slaughtered in their schools considered a political issue? Why do gun fetish activists have an aneurysm if you even mention it without saying a word about guns or legislation? Why is their first reaction to yet another shooting not "How can we prevent this from happening again?" but "Don't you dare take my guns!"? I'm not qualified to pontificate on specific legislative solutions but I'm sick of Americans playing stupid and pretending there's nothing we can do about this just because scores of other countries have successfully done something about this. While Americans are regurgitating hypothetical logic about how criminals will do whatever they want, other countries are stopping criminals. Not to say that they're free of problems, of course, but by and large their children aren't being slaughtered in their schools. Anyway, I wish I could have made it to the Capitol for the march today but this paragraph will have to suffice as my contribution for now. I mean, it's at least as effective as being in a march, right?
Icehouse - Electric Blue
I bestow ten billion points for the mullet, and another ten billion points for not rhyming "on my knees" with "begging you please".
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- Amelia Whitlock
"I don't know how well you know Christopher Randall Nicholson, but... he's trolling. You should read his blog. It's delightful."
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About the Author
C. Randall Nicholson is a white cisgender Christian male, so you can hate him without guilt, but he's also autistic and asexual, so you can't, unless you're an anti-vaxxer, in which case the feeling is mutual. This blog is where he periodically rants about life, the universe, and/or everything.