I just saw Superman Returns. I liked it very much. It was visually stunning. All the actors looked right for their parts, and they did an excellent job as well. I'm not sure the movie says anything about marriage one way or the other; I suspect the unmarried status of two of the characters was mainly for the sake of plot. I think I like the Messianic bit. I was uncertain about it at first, but it seems to be saying, "Everyone does need a savior." It just leaves it to us to realize that we don't have a Superman in the real world, and yet we still do need a Savior.

In criticism, parts at the beginning were a bit slow. And Lex... I haven't decided about him. He was just teetering on the edge of believable. I think this particular "take" on him fit the movie, but his motivation for hating Superman wasn't too clear in this one. I think I probably need to see the previous Superman movies.

I want a Superman of my very own. I think when I find him he will look and seem just like a regular guy... but I will know he is really and truly Superman. ;)  ¶ 11:15 PM (3) comments

  At end of day, looking back.
No regrets.
What could be better?
Today's warm sun has settled in my heart.

No guilt in life, no fear in death

My smile I thought lost was not.
I wear it on my face for all to see.

Amazing love, how can it be?

My sin is ever with me, but I don't doubt God.
His light covers my darkness.
His strength is mine.

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound...

At this moment I am not me.
And I am all me.
Someday this moment will be forever.

And when from death I'm free
I'll sing on.  ¶ 8:35 PM (0) comments

 

Realizing imperfection

'Round about 5:00 I was feeling on top of the world. I had mailed off five graphic novels sold via Amazon, finished the story I've been working on for a week and a half, and exercised at the gym for an hour. The day was bright and beautiful, and I was overflowing with gratefulness to God and with a feeling of success.

But feelings quickly dissipate. I read my story out loud to my siblings twice, and I realize it is flawed. It is a bit too wordy and philosophical in the middle, but at the same time it fits the idea in my mind. My idea itself is not mature enough to create a great story. I'm not mature enough.

I used to think it was enough just to finish a story. I'm so glad that I can do that, but now it is not enough. Now I want to finish better stories. Each story is better than the one before, and each one displays flashes of brilliance. Still, I haven't yet written a great story. That's probably good. I wouldn't know what to do with it if I did.

Patience...  ¶ 7:03 PM (0) comments

  Me writing an article about Internet safety and ethics:

Mom: "This week you're going to write me an article about Internet safety and ethics."
Me: "I can't! I don't know anything about it!"
Mom: "Everything's in the folder on the server. I have confidence in you."
I go away. Later:
Me: "Everything in the folder is press releases and stuff from this one company with a really lame kiddie website. I have to do some more research."
Mom: "Sounds great!"
I go away and research peer-to-peer software, current issues with child porn, the condition of Napster, and parental control software. Later:
Me: "This is way too broad an area. How do you want me to focus the article? Do you want me to talk about Internet safety and ethics myself, or do you want me to point readers to helpful resources? What specific topics do you want covered?"
Mom: "Use your best judgment!"
I go away. Next day:
Me: "Here's the article. It's about 900 words."
Mom: "This won't cover three pages of magazine."
Me: "Three pages? I thought you only wanted one!"
Mom: "No, three. Didn't you look at the thumbnails? You'll have to pad it out. Get some screenshots of those websites and make a sidebar or two."
Me: "There's no way I can pad one page into three. That's cheesy. I guess I'll just have to write more."
I go away and research copyright law, finding several helpful websites and adding PHC anecdotes to the article. Later:
Me: "I wasn't sure what you wanted, so I'm adding a section on copyright law and a few anecdotes."
Mom: "Sounds good!"
Me: "But it's still only 1500 words. What do I do now?"
Mom: "Use your best judgment!"

My job has such demanding, strict guidelines, with no freedom of operation whatsoever, as you can see! lol.  ¶ 5:11 PM (3) comments

  My sister Lillie and I wrote a story this evening. It is one of those where each person writes a bit and then folds it over so the next writer can only see the last sentence. I think it came out pretty well, so I reproduce it here for you. My parts are in regular text, and Lillie's are in italics.

Once upon a time there lived a beautiful girl that lived in a beautiful house. She loved all of her brothers and sisters, who were all good-looking in their own ways. Her name was Samantha.
"I like to swim, read, and sing!" said Samantha excitedly. She then jumped into the pool that was right beside her.
Samantha didn't like the pool. It smelled funny. So she climbed out again and began to walk along the side of the road near the pool. To her surprise, a man in a pickup truck pulled up alongside her as she walked.
"Wow! You're big!" she said out loud (by accident of course, for she was very polite). He grunted and said, "Are you Samantha, the little princess?" At the word 'princess,' he made a weird croaky noise that sounded like glass breaking.
"I'm not a princess!" said Samantha. "Get away!" And she ran down the street away from him. He laughed scarily after her, but he didn't follow. "Well, that was bizarre," she thought.
By bizarre, she meant something really strange. Like, suppose a weird hairy man walked up to you and started scratching his tummy. THAT'S what she meant by weird. She looked around and realized someone had appeared right next to her and was doing this very thing!
They began to dance. It was an elegant waltz, and he was a handsome young man. Samantha enjoyed it very much, and she began to feel strange and dreamy. "Who are you, wonderful young man?" she whispered in his ear.
"I am Ferdinand, the plumber," he answered. Samantha smiled.
"Why, it must be very nice being a plumber!"
She imagined having a nice, clean toilet plunger by her side. Oh, what friends the toilet plunger and Samantha would become!
Unfortunately, Samantha never got to find out, for just then the terrible earthquake of '02 hit. As the first tremors arrived, she grabbed the handsome plumber for support. "Ferdinand, save me!" she screamed.
"No dice, lady," he replied. "That sewer's going to blow, and I'll be needed." He stalked off, plunger over his shoulder. Once again, Samantha was left alone.  ¶ 7:53 PM (0) comments

  I can't believe that nobody commented about yesterday's "End Women's Suffrage" link. Go watch the little movie if you haven't already. It's pretty hilarious.

In today's shocking news, I received my first proposal last night. *snicker*  ¶ 9:16 AM (2) comments

  End Women's Suffrage! The following link will show you why: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JUP9Jm9SqvY.

I had to share that. Mostly, however, this post is about Frisbee. My summer league team had its first loss last night, making us 4-1, and so I am compulsively playing scenes from the game over and over in my head. I think I'm getting the hang of this method of play, so much so that I can often be where I need to be. I'm also beginning to see the patterns. One thing that really got me thinking was last Monday after gameplay, when everyone dropped their normal disciplined stacks and ran around in a loose style similar to playing at PHC. Nobody knew what to do. They were like me learning to play league style.

I think that most people get so locked into their forms of play that they just can't see the patterns when they change. Wouldn't it be fun if I were a team captain one day and could experiment? I think PHC should do intramural Frisbee again this fall. Sure, I'll be helping Christy with her play. But a girl has to exercise, hasn't she?

The actual gameplay isn't the only reason I've been thinking about my Frisbee team, however. It's a different experience for me, coming together for the sake of sports with a widely divergent group of people. I cheer loudly for my team, and I think they all like me and respect me. Nonetheless, I sometimes have to be silent during the group cheers because they contain sexual content or foul words.

Every week on the drive to the park, I pray that God will use me for a witness. I don't know how He is using me, and I'm not trying to push myself forward unnecessarily, but I cannot say something that would make God unhappy. Not if I believe He really exists. So maybe this is my witness. I don't know; it's hard, because I say (loudly sometimes) I don't want to do those cheers, but they do them anyway.

Still, I love Frisbee. I can throw both forehand and backhand with consistency now. My play is in general much better.  ¶ 12:41 PM (1) comments

  Re: the post below - if you were at PHC during the NCFCA tournament, I would greatly appreciate any anecdotes about the way campus looked, how busy it was, the kids, etc. I want to make my article more personal. Thanks!  ¶ 11:53 AM (0) comments

  I get to write at least two articles this week for Practical Homeschooling. One is on the recent NCFA tournament held at PHC, and the other is on tools parents can use to help teach their children about Internet safety and ethics. My mom has all the stuff together in folders, and all I have to do is read it all, do a little research on my own, and slap the things together. Last issue I also wrote two features as well as two spotlight reviews.

Altogether I like writing articles much better than researching the contact and pricing information for thousands of product reviews. Still, it never seems quite real to me. It's part of a job; I write what I'm commissioned to write, and then it disappears. I have a vague notion that people will probably read it, but it doesn't mean much to me. They read it because it is in my mother's magazine, not because of any inherent merit of my own. I'm not complaining. It's a wonderful opportunity to be able to be published at my age. I guess I'm just ambitious.

I want to publish my history project as an actual book, but so far I've been lethargic about it. Still, yes, that's what I need to do.

I also want to publish some of my stories, but I'm not sure who would want them. I'm paralyzed internally because I know how I need to look, but I don't know where. I'm sure this is the paralysis that marks the gap between "writer" and "wannabe." Therefore, I need to bridge it.

This is me being both bored and intimidated. Yet I am facing two things I know I must do. I suppose this builds character. ;)  ¶ 10:39 AM (0) comments

 

Emotional rollercoasters

So long as I must spend a headachy, sore-throaty Saturday, there are worse ways to do it than sitting wrapped up in my threadbare basement armchair with a laptop connected to the Internet. This seems an ideal time to give a brief chronicle of the last few weeks.

Two and a half weeks ago I was extremely depressed. It's hardly possible for me to recollect how I felt, because it is so different from the way I feel now. I had found what looked like the perfect grad school opportunity, and I felt like I was ready to go this upcoming fall. I'd adapted to adult life with a job, independent study, and self-government. But instead of grad school, I was heading back to PHC. I developed a bad attitude about PHC and could only see its negative aspects. What did the coming school year hold that would be pleasant? I couldn't see anything. After a few days of this, reluctantly I asked God to show me.

Shortly after I took my break from blogging, Christy called me up with an astonishing, wonderful, humbling offer. Did I want to help her by being her producer as she directed the Eden Troupe play this fall? Oh boy, did I! We had several long telephone conversations, which were like water to a thirsty soul (thanks Christy!). I was so grateful to God for opening up this opportunity.

That's when the blow hit. I emailed PHC to check on my scholarship, since I had received nothing about it, and I found that the Accounting department didn't even know I was coming back in the fall. They told me that my scholarship funds were just about gone. Now, Dr. F. had verbally promised me a scholarship for my fifth year, which is the only reason we went ahead with my double major. So I emailed him personally. After a few days, I still had heard no reply. I had to tell my parents.

Now ensued a week of uncertainty and misery. We were looking at over $21,000 for my final year. For a family in which five children are taking undergraduate classes and one father is working for a Ph.D., that is impossible. I would have to raise it all myself, in two and a half months. Without a scholarship, my possibilities were few and unpleasant: (1) Take another year off, thus delaying my life even more; (2) Take out loans, thus putting myself into debt; (3) Attend part-time and work simultaneously, which seemed far-fetched.

When my parents told me that, I hit rock-bottom. It's been hard enough for me, someone who loves people and friendships, to be in limbo here at home the last six months. I have missed you all at PHC so much, and this has been coupled with the uneasy, insecure feeling that everyone can get along just swimmingly without missing me at all in return. What could happen in another year? It didn't seem right for me to be at home another year. It didn't fit. I found myself struggling with demons of bitterness and doubt, two things that have never had much power over me before. I needed God. Boy, did I need God!

(Let me say right here that when I called you for scholarship advice, Nate, I so appreciate it that the first thing you did was stop to pray. That was just what I hoped for from you.)

In my helplessness, I gave in and laid some of my problems not only on God but also on the people around me. I burst out sobbing in front of my parents. As soon as she saw me crying, my mom shot off like a raging wildebeast to track down my promised scholarship. In the meanwhile, she suggested that I sell some of her books from our packed basement shelves - and keep the money. Christy called me with troubles of her own, and yet she was still willing to listen to my woe. Nate dropped everything to help me with scholasrhip ideas for an hour. I was incredibly encouraged and humbled. What could I possibly have done to deserve such a family and friends? Absolutely nothing. This was their grace at work, just when I needed it most. And I needed it. I was a drowning woman grasping, and the hand was there.

So I began to sell books on amazon.com, including my mom's tremendous collection of graphic novels. And after several very long days, my mom at last managed to talk personally with Dr. Farris. He returned her call during his lunch break from judging the NCFCA tournament and personally assured me a scholarship for my last year. He sent an email saying the same thing. Further, he is going to talk to the family that gave me my larger scholarship the last four years and see if they will extend it! !! !! !! !! I'm coming back this year after all!

So I can only conclude that God has a need for a hopeful, happy, grateful me at PHC during the upcoming year instead of a gloomy, pessimistic toad of a person someplace else. I never knew how much I wanted to be at PHC this fall until I almost wasn't going to be.

That was a bit rambly, but what else do you expect from someone with a head that feels as though it is pressurized to twice its normal size?  ¶ 12:02 PM (3) comments

 

Pics from graduation

All you out in the virtual world are pretty boring right now. If you stop by, drop me a comment, 'k?

Waiting for graduates


Looking impressive

In the lefthand portion of this one you can see a young lady of whom I am quite fond, but who would prefer not to have her name spread about online. :) I told her to turn and smile, and she did, but her tassel got in the way. I think it's cute! :D

Lyonesse


A graduating Deborah and myself


The Dark Forest
  ¶ 7:01 AM (2) comments

 

Giants and More

I'm back from my two (one)-week break! Man, that was hard. This last week it was easier, but the first week I kept constantly composing posts in my head when unusual thoughts occurred.
My mental outlook on life has changed a lot in a very short time. Let me say now that I can't wait to get back to PHC this fall! I have swooped down through fog and depression, reached my lowest point, and zoomed back up and out again. God is good, and I hope I don't find myself down there again any time soon. It is not a happy place. More about that later.

Meanwhile, I am posting excerpts from the new story that I am writing. Its working title is "Giants and More," and that may well end up as its final title too. I scarcely ever know about titles.

----

Once there was a professor of philosophy named Scoffins. He was a tweedy sort of man, dry and very responsible. Every morning, he arrived at his campus office at precisely 9:00, glasses tucked neatly in his right jacket pocket and a handkerchief in his left. At 5:00 each evening, he closed and locked his office door and trudged down the wide brick path that led to the parking lot. Nobody knew what passed between the parking lot and 9:00 the next morning. Dr. Scoffins’s carefully ironed face did not inspire speculation. . . .

It was quite hot inside his tweedy coat. Dr. Scoffins pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his face. “What now?” he wondered out loud.
“You’re lost, aren’t you?” queried a little voice from Dr. Scoffins’s right shoulder. He turned and let out a sharp yip of surprise. The faerie was back. “I thought you weren’t real!” uttered Dr. Scoffins.
“Oh, I’m definitely real. You just decided not to believe in me. Those are two quite different concepts,” replied the faerie. “My name is Festus, and I suppose I should say I am pleased to meet you.”
Dr. Scoffins said nothing, so Festus continued.
“The giant’s name is Gregory. He’s really a good creature, but you annoyed him. Giants annoy easily, you know, because there aren’t very many of them, and they get lonely.”
Dr. Scoffins found his tongue. “He wouldn’t disappear like you did when I said I didn’t believe in you.”
“Of course not. You can only ignore things that are smaller than you.” Festus sighed and shook his head. “You really don’t know anything, do you?”
This was a bizarre hallucination. Freud would have had fascinating things to say about it, no doubt. . . .

Dr. Benson’s eyes narrowed and flicked up and down him, from his scuffed shoes to his perspiring face. “Oho, a Learned Man,” she said, so that Dr. Scoffins could clearly hear the capital letters. It was his turn to give her a close look, but she stared right back. He had to drop his gaze to the ground, where he scuffed the toe of his shoe like an awkward schoolboy instead of a fifty-seven-year-old professor. “At least I don’t waste time studying things that don’t exist,” he muttered.
Dr. Benson was speechless for a second, and then she leaned in. “If the paranormal doesn’t exist, what do you call this?” she hissed, gesturing at the world around them.
Dr. Scoffins became even stuffier. “A hallucination that includes many fundamental archetypes as well as certain images from my childhood.”
“But that’s impossible!” cried Dr. Benson. “This can’t be a hallucination, because I’m here as well.”
“Ah,” announced Dr. Scoffins. Now he felt himself on solid ground. “How do I know that? I could just be imagining you.”
“But—” began Dr. Benson. She stopped and put her hands on her hips. “I see your point,” she mused. Then she stepped forward and slapped Dr. Scoffins very hard on his left cheek.
“Ow!” he shouted, clutching his face. “Why did you do that?”
“Just testing,” she explained. “Did that seem like a hallucination to you?”
“I have no idea, since I have never had one before!” he shouted. He glared at her. Then he realized how ridiculous it was to glare at a hallucination. He smiled a hard little smile instead and forced himself to remove his hand from his throbbing cheek. “All right then, suppose you tell me your theory. What is this place?” . . .

“Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve believed that there is a glittering land far away in which there is no pain and no sorrow. Religious people all seem to have some idea of the place, don’t they? I think such concepts are echoes of an ancient memory dating from the first humans, who were a supernatural race much wiser and more advanced than us. Some of us Searchers have found prehistoric documents that speak sorrowfully of a lost land from which all humanity was expelled long ago for some terrible, unnamed act. Since then, we humans have descended through several planes of existence over an enormous age until we emerged where most of us live, on Earth. The Way is lost to us. But—” she paused for dramatic effect, “—not irretrievably. Through meditation and purification, we can ascend again!
“I believe that is what has happened to me. One day, in the middle of a sacred meditation, I was wandering the paths near my house with my eyes closed. I became lost in reverie and walked for I know not how long. When I opened my eyes, everything looked the same at first. But then a celestial being, a Faerie arrived at my left elbow and spoke. Then I knew that I had succeeded in some small measure. Although this new land was obviously not Paradise, still, I had climbed up to the next plane of existence!” She beamed a beatific smile.
Dr. Scoffins stared at her, not sure what to say. Almost, he believed her. She seemed sort of—ethereal—at that moment. But then he remembered the extremely corporeal slap and his still-stinging cheek, and he frowned. “That could explain you, if your theory is true,” he said, “but what about me? I wasn’t meditating when I arrived here. I was walking to my car.”
Dr. Benson frowned too, and scratched her head. “Yes, that does puzzle me,” she said. “You don’t seem the sort to find your way onto a higher plane—no offense,” she quickly added.
“And let’s face it, I couldn’t possibly imagine a far-fetched story like the one you just told, even in an extraordinarily vivid hallucination—no offense,” replied Dr. Scoffins dryly.
“None taken,” she enunciated, sitting up straight and looking down her nose. Dr. Scoffins pretended not to notice. “So, what now?” he asked.
Dr. Benson deflated. “I don’t know,” she sighed. “I’ve been living in a little house on the top of the hill back that way—” she pointed back toward where Dr. Scoffins had first arrived “—and meditating, mostly. To be honest, the Faerie turned out to be more of a pest than a Celestial Being. He keeps fluttering by and razzing me whenever I am deep in concentration. I think his name is Festus. And there’s also a giant named Gregory.”
“I’ve met them,” said Dr. Scoffins.  ¶ 6:15 AM (2) comments

  I am breaking my self-imposed vow of silence to say that it was not a great idea to start analyzing the PHC conflict on my blog. In fact, it was a bad idea - the lesser of two bad ideas. The worse idea would have been to not post about the PHC conflict.

I think this is part of what has made me feel so strange for the past month. Ideals diffract in this world's fallen atmosphere so that even the best choice is never perfect. Sometimes the right choices are less perfect than other times. Sometimes you have to stop holding out for the last bit of data that will make your case irrefutable and just put yourself out there for criticism you know is well-founded.

This is the real world, little Sarah; time to grow up. You've been wrong about some things you believed in more thoroughly than you ought. You really do need God's mercy and grace, and now you can feel your need. Isn't that grand?

See everyone next Friday.  ¶ 1:35 PM (5) comments

  I talk too much. So as of now I am taking a two-week hiatus from blogging. See ya then!  ¶ 7:26 AM (0) comments