This post is unfortunately going to be aesthetically bare; I have no pictures to post, or anything fun to write about, but I do have a story that I simply have to share.
There is an older woman who comes in to the library regularly; she is quite a talker, so occasionally the conversations can be rather lengthy (the shortest one I have ever been participatory in was around 20 minutes, if that gives you any idea), and, developing ADD characteristics.....(what was I saying? No, just kidding; anyway.....) as I've gotten older, my attention sometimes wanders. I have learned about her family, her teaching career, her political views, her views on social concerns, in short, everything that could possibly be covered with a near stranger has been covered. Over time, I learned that she has one son who married rather late in life, and he and his wife were not planning to have children. About this time last year, she (the library patron) came in and announced that the son and daughter-in-law were having a baby. She said that, yes, they were excited, even though they had not planned on this. But, she said, they just recently found out that, since the daughter-in-law was past a certain age, and the risk of complications after that age increase drastically, the baby would have certain mental handicaps. After coming home from the doctor's appointment, the wife began to cry. Not that she did not want the child now, but you can understand the shock of a discovery such as that, especially after so many recent shocks. The husband (being a typical man, bless their hearts), asked her why she was crying (I know, I know, but he redeems himself, trust me). She told him that, everyone else always carries on, after the birth of their child, about how perfect the baby is, and our baby won't be perfect. The husband replied, "It will be perfect for us." (I told you he redeemed himself.) Now that, if I may say so, is the kind of man they should all be. (At least, the kind of man he was at that exact moment...) To realize the worth of an as yet unborn child, on whom they had not planned, and who was to come into the world carrying with it an inherent set of difficulties other parents would not experience, and love the child unconditionally, considering this baby the perfect one for them, takes a real man. So, keep your diamonds, roses, poetry, and otherwise useless superfluities, ladies, I'll take a man like that.
I'm sorry, this may be an uninteresting story to tell, but I just had to share it, because I just thought it so lovely, and I couldn't help but think of it, as this was the time of year I heard it. Hope everyone has a good Christmas and a wonderful start to the new year!

So, I was tagged for the photo thing (a long time ago, but among the distractions of things such as exams, visiting family, and work, I haven't had time to focus on priorities, like my blog. Ah, excuses, excuses.....); I didn't like the photo in the fourth folder (I just need to delete that whole folder anyway...), so I chose one I did like. I know it is cheating in the most low manner, but I think we have already established the fact that my character is hopelessly, irretrievably flawed, so we'll move on and do the best we can with what we have to work with....Anyway, photo-I went with my grandfather and other World War II veterans on a trip to D.C. to visit the WWII memorial. I was the "chaperone" for a group of men, of whom the youngest was 80-plus; at first I scoffed at the idea that they needed a chaperone, but after sitting at the back of the bus as they reminisced about their days in the service, I was brought to the conclusion that perhaps the organizers were not as out of touch with reality as I at first assumed. The good news is, our capital still stands. While we were there we visited the other memorials; I had never seen the Vietnam memorial (that I remembered, anyway, which means it very possibly could have happened and trickled straight through the sieve which is euphemistically called my "memory.") It was quite an experience. Although there were crowds of tourists milling about, and a busy road ran by in close proximity, as you rounded the curve which led up to the memorial, all the sounds became muted, and everyone instinctively began to talk in near-whispers. I was walking down the Wall, looking at all the names, of all these lives that were forfeited, and I have to admit, my eyes did water a bit. No matter your political stance or opinion on anything, I think it would be impossible to be presented with a palpable form of lives given for something other than themselves, to view something such as this which was an entirely separate entity from the maelstrom which is politics, something which exists entirely as a reminder of the voluntary immolation of some on the behalf of the whole, and walk away unaffected. If you can, it is as in King Lear, "you are men of stones." (5.3.259-sorry, all my term-paper training demands that I cite it, just for future reference...). Alas, I digress terribly...the photo. I was walking along, and although there were many small wreaths and such, propped at various points along the Wall, this one item just caught my attention, for some reason. I suppose amidst the larger, more elaborate things, the simplicity of this one was just very poignant. I'm not sure if it will be too small to read, in the post, but it says that this man asked the girl he loved to marry him; she agreed, the day after she got his letter, he was killed in Vietnam. I don't know, it just brings everything down to a much more personal, individual, human level. So, I'm sure that is much more of an explanation than anyone ever wanted, but there it is.

I survived Thanksgiving!!! It was touch and go there for a while, things existed in a very precarious state during various moments throughout the day, but all in all, I am whole, even if not unscathed. One down, one more to go....However, it was a beautiful day, and my family and I were up near Lake Gaston. (There were even hills!!!! I love North Carolina, truly, but the area we live in just looks like it has been leveled out with a wood-planer. If it weren't for the trees it would be, "Look, honey! Guests! Hurry, clean the house; they'll be here in three days!" Anyway...) So, true to form, I took my camera and ran. (Well, maybe not "ran;" I'd just eaten two platefuls of food and two helpings of dessert, so it was more like "mosey and hope no one sees you before your exit strategy can be effectively cut off...") The fresh, crisp, not to mention dead silent air was very refreshing, and my "equilibrium" (definition: mental stability) was soon (somewhat) restored. (I began the day at a deficit, so this was as much as I could feasibly ask for.)
Everyone is probably sick of photos of random things like trees, leaves, old rusty falling apart junk, and the...well, junk...I usually take photos of, but hey, my blog, right? Anyway, here are a few from my time on the front-lines. As you can see, I took my life in my own hands...

The house in the reflection is my uncle's. If Emily Dickinson lived in a house with a view like this, I can see why she never went out in public for the last years of her life. (And yes, I do know she was agoraphobic and never really left her room, and so my comparison doesn't really hold up...but, again, my blog...I can be as inaccurate as I want. It is a bit too late to worry about making myself sound ignorant, so...)

I came across the next one on my (prolonged) walk. I just thought it was so interesting looking, with the perfectly defined shadow of the smaller leaf on the larger one.

And this was just too wonderful a color combination to simply walk by....My favorite is the last, though. We stopped at a gas station just outside Greenville, and I saw it in the field behind the station, begging to be photographed.

So, that was my Thanksgiving, such as it was....Hope everyone else had a wonderful one, with lots of fun, love, and good food!

So, the holidays are upon us; during this time of year I am inevitably plunged into the depths of a disconcerting state of ambivalence for about two months. I love some aspects of the seasonal transition: the crisp air, the way the sky seems such a clear blue at times that it could shatter like a fragile piece of china, the profound silence that settles over things, making it seem as if you are standing in the middle of a vast expanse of your own, completely alone (I know that sounds horrendous to some, but I love it), wrapping up warm and spending a few hours with a book, the anticipation of giving someone a gift you know they'll love, I love all of that...Yet, there is always the bitter to contrast the sweet. For me, the bitter gall is having to face the relatives eeeevery year, and explain, yet again, that no, I am not dating anyone, and that yes, I am still in school, and no, I won't be teaching...I need a sandwich board.... Now, I know their intentions are good (well, generally speaking), and so I try to bear it as gracefully as possible. But, we all know that grace does not hold a prominent place in my vocabulary, either physically or socially speaking. Therefore, I generally end up locating any stray children I can spot and begging to be allowed to join them. Last year was actually quite entertaining; I spent an hour and a half at the family Christmas "thing" spinning a plastic bottle cap on a wood floor with five spell-bound children. You just can't beat that. Anyway...memory lane is currently under construction, so we'll have to take a detour... Rather than arriving empty-handed, with nothing but a well-rehearsed set of "under-the-radar" sarcasms, I have decided to come prepared. Instead of reciting my scripted part to blank stares and the occasional "Uhh-huuhhh" that tells you that you will be answering these same questions entirely too soon, I have a set of explanatory clips to display...The first explains why I am not dating. (Now, everyone keep in mind that this is entirely for fun, don't take it seriously. Seriously...) I have just never been adept at the "group thing." Therefore, my "strike-up-a-conversation" skills are as underdeveloped as my coordination skills...This proves a hindrance. That is why Paris, a character from the show "The Gilmore Girls" is sooooo my hero. This is a clip of Paris at a "speed-dating" session at Yale. My favorite part is "I'm a drama major..." "ding-ding-ding!!!" (Nothing against drama majors; I can't get through a conversation without some random movie quote coming up...Just as far as personalities go, mine is the complete antithesis of everything represented by drama as a subject for study...)


So, that takes care of the opening question... For the "Are you going to teach?" that is posed when they hear "History" I have this clip. This clip explains why it would be better for the high-school aged children if I don't teach. Some have the gift, some of us don't...

(My favorite? "Frankly, the stupid is easier. I can scare the stupid out of you, but the lazy runs deep." Come on, you have to admit it's funny...)

This clip explains why it would be better for me not to teach. Let's just say I made it as far as doing the required observations at a local high-school and this clip came to mind....



So, "ta-da!" There is my explanation for everything. (Again, I have to reassert this disclaimer: Don't take this too seriously; reference the quote from 11/17/08, by Oscar Wilde.)

So, right about now I should really be working on term papers (yes, plural-paperssss. "Should," of course, being the operative word. I feel kind of like Jack Nicholson at the end of "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" by the end of the semester. The inmates have taken over the asylum and Nurse Ratched finally succeeded in getting that lobotomy....) But, there is a bright spot of hope in the midst of this deluge of misery. (It isn't really that bad, but what is life if you can't use a little hyperbole every now and then?) There are others like me....this could potentially go any number of directions, horrifying and cataclysmic, or 'there is safety in numbers.' As the saying goes, "Everyone is insane except me and thee...and sometimes I worry about thee." And then...I remembered this...This, in a nutshell, is my college experience. The massive control panel with innumerable identical choices reminds me of trying to navigate at the beginning of the semester...finding the right classes, the right time to get everything worked out with your work schedule, etc. When the one being evaluated so confidently places his finger on one switch and throws that look of triumph as if to say, "Ha! This is it! I know what I'm doing!" The complete lack of expression on the evaluator's face...it all seems so familiar. I am currently in the throes of trying to graduate next semester, so I am at the point when they suddenly reveal to you all of the things you "should have done your first semester..." All the while, I am sifting through my bag, vainly attempting to find my ever-handy brown paper bag to breathe into. (You learn to deal with these hyperventilation-inducing moments because the argument "If I had only known ..." has been worn to the bone and has yet to receive any sympathy...You eventually catch on and come prepared.) Then, as there is no indication of discouragement or encouragement, the poor thing vainly points to numerous other random switches, with no hope of any direction being provided...Again, that sounds very familiar... You can see his confidence visibly deflate. Finally, his utter frustration at the futility of his efforts overwhelming him, he slams his head into the control panel, running over every switch...If you know you're most likely going to go down, go down in a blaze of glory, with style...Then, miraculously, there is salvation...He succeeds!!! He is nearly there, when he releases the switch too soon... Yet again, how familiar...You think you have finally, inadvertently done something right...then...you still screw it up. So, Pixar has succinctly summed up the last four years of my life...I hope you enjoy it more than I have...

I know it has been a mere three (? who knows; "not very many" there, we'll make it simple) days since my last post. I doubt anyone has even read it as of yet; if I hadn't written it, I probably wouldn't have read it myself. In fact, the only thing I've read, thought, or mulled over for the past...however long...is British history to 1688. To be more specific, the fall of Anne Boleyn, the political and personal events that culminated in the unfortunate separation of head and shoulders. And yet, no matter how much I read, how many different reasons are given for this rather unpleasant episode, the fact still remains that she was beheaded. It may just be an unintellectual and/or naive view of things to take, but it does seem to me that the "whys" and "wherefores" are rather superfluous. She had her head lopped off, I mean, seriously, does it really matter why? I don't think it would have given her any comfort to know that historians are still debating the exact reasons for her downfall. Personally, I wouldn't care. "Okay, wonderful, you know why I'm in the Tower of London. But, regardless of the reasons, I'm in the Tower of London. Now, if you had a file, or a blueprint, then you might actually be useful..." I suppose it is like Mark Twain once said, "Things ne'er do go smoothly in weddings, suicides, or courtships."

Enough of my self-pitying whining, though. Now that we are officially in the second week of November, I feel justified in thinking about Christmas. I started playing Christmas music a month ago (my Dad just shakes his head as he walks by). One of the great things about Christmas is that no one cares how puerilely you behave (within reason), if it is in the spirit of the season, and can be categorized as a "tradition." Our traditions seem to revolve around *surprise* movies. There are many classic Christmas moments. What would Christmas be without "I triple dog-dare you!", a cold flag pole, and a playground full of children, waiting with bated breath for the challenge to work its magic?
One I always liked to watch at Christmas was an animated version of Oscar Wilde's "The Selfish Giant." Wilde had his issues, bless his heart, but you have to admit that he wrote wonderfully. (It is interesting to note that he fell in love with a woman and was completely devastated when she turned around and married Bram Stoker (author of Dracula). Personally, I don't think it says much for her, that she took up with those who led lives of such complete dissipation, and then married someone who could write so prolifically about a Transylvanian count who was infamous for his cruelty, even if said author did turn him into a fictional character. Like I said, doesn't say much for her, does it? Anyway...)
All that aside, Wilde's "The Selfish Giant" is a beautiful children's story that isn't just for children. If you have never heard it, you should look up a copy and read it, it will be worth your while. It is about a giant who owned a beautiful garden at the top of the hill above a small town. The giant had been away, living by the sea for years, and so the children of the town had become accustomed to playing in his garden. One day, the giant suddenly returns and throws them all from the garden, building a wall to keep "trespassers" out, leaving the children wandering forsaken out in the cold, windy streets. It is always a heart-wrenching thing to me, when the narrator tells how the children would wander around outside the giant's wall and say to each other, "How happy we were there!" So, the giant gets his wish, he is left alone, no one passes his gates, not even fall, who laments his selfishness and therefore does not offer her bounty and beauty to his garden. The spring refuses to come, for it misses the children. Winter, frost, and the cold North wind come to live in the giant's garden, for it is their ideal. All day long the wind howls, winter spreads her mantle, and frost breathes on all living things. One day, the giant hears something he can't place. He opens his window and sees a bird, swaying on a barren branch and chirping cheerfully. The giant becomes excited, wondering how the bird has come to be there when he spies a corner of the garden which has bloomed. Rushing downstairs, he sees that a small aperture has opened in his wall, through which the children have come in. The giant sees his error and begins to tumble the wall he so selfishly constructed to his own detriment. The garden becomes a beautiful abundance of blooms and children's laughter. As they see the giant's approach, they become frightened and run away, and the garden once more withdraws itself. I won't give anymore away, but the clip is an abbreviated version, so I thought I would explain a little more of what led up to the ending. I just always think of this one at Christmas, because of what it ends up being about.



The next one is funny (at least to me). "Carol of the Bells" has always been one of my family's Christmas favorites, and so Heather and I used to love watching this one when we were young, and it seems to be one of those things that, if it strikes you funny once, it is just always going to be funny. I just think it is hilarious, when you listen to the "announcer" at the beginning, that he says that he "has a hunch" that it is going to be a wonderful performance. I know, I know, I'm a dork; but hey, it is still funny.



The next one needs neither introduction nor explanation, but I will say this: they cut a small hole in the flagpole and created a vacuum inside. Without telling the child actor what they had done, they waited for him to lean into the flagpole and then switched on the suction. In other words, the reaction you see on film is authentic, he isn't acting at all. Poor kid, they'd never get away with it nowadays. But sometimes you just have to take one for the team, don't you? (I always have an uncomfortable, sneaking suspicion, every time I watch this, though, that I am looking at my own (hypothetical) children in the form of the short, scrawny, sarcastic know-it-all in the striped cap who orchestrates the whole fiasco. (Or success, whichever viewpoint you choose to see it from, I suppose).)



(I have to add a similar story of my own. Well, not mine, but my Dad's. When he was a fairly young (but old enough to know better) child, he had been outdoors, playing, when he decided he needed a drink of water. When he went to the freezer to get ice for his glass, he realized there was no ice. So, the next logical thing, he decides, is to lick the metal lever that operates the ice-maker, as it is covered in a thin layer of ice itself...Yeah...'nough said.)

I also had to put in a list of some of my favorite Christmas music. Yes, it does have a lot of the same songs, but they are all different versions, so hopefully there will be something for everyone. I included "Sabbath Prayer" from "Fiddler on the Roof" because I remember the first time I ever watched it as a child, was during the winter, close to Christmas. Plus, it seems as if many of the most poignant moments of the movie occur during the winter; when the second eldest daughter is leaving, as they sit on the train platform, or when the youngest daughter marries the Russian soldier, or the very end, when the Jews are being expelled. I go through multiple boxes of Kleenex watching that movie.

Exciting news!!!! They have made what appears to be a very good film version of "The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas." I have put in a link to the movie trailer (hopefully it works). If it looks depressing, I have to admit that, yes, in a way (okay, alright, in a number of ways), it is. BUT... before you dismiss it entirely, just take a look. It is a wonderful work that has innumerable points of inestimable worth. It is ultimately about humanity. Not necessarily humanity in noun form, as in, the human race itself, but humanity in the sense of what makes us human. The book is about what we do with this knowledge, for it is a form of knowledge. It illustrates how it can be taken and twisted, tortured into an unrecognizable, hideous derivative of what it was meant to be, but also, how, in the same circumstances which breed these monstrous echoes of what we were designed to become, there is hope. There is always a chance to learn compassion, to feel empathy, to show mercy. It is what we decide to become, not what we are told to become that matters. It makes you think heavily on just how far your own depth of character runs, how you view the people on the other side of fences, whatever fences there may be for us. Are those fences self-constructed? Does it matter which side of the fence you view the world from? How do our actions and decisions resound in the lives of those around us? How can you judge someone, when there is no way of understanding motives, circumstances, history, etc.? (See the quote, in my quote section, from "A Tale of Two Cities.") What makes us human, and how far are we from forfeiting that humanity? Would we forfeit that humanity? We all say we wouldn't, but one never knows what one will do in unforeseeable circumstances. Anyway, enough of the heavy, brain-picking stuff. To lighten things up a bit, I also posted the link for a clip I have to watch every once in a while when I'm getting a bit too stressed or irritable (or grinding my nose in depressing, unanswerable questions, which, as you can see is unfortunately my wont occasionally). I don't know if it will really be funny to anyone else, but it is just too funny to me. It isn't what happens, really, but the newscasters' reactions. Be sure you have the sound on, to be able to fully appreciate it.


http://www.imdb.com/video/imdb/vi751566873/

I absolutely cannot believe I forgot to add this little Oliver Twist. Seriously, look at the kid, he would be a perfect Oliver Twist. He could possibly scrape by as David Copperfield...but he just "is" Oliver Twist; you can just picture him being taken under the wing of the "Artful Dodger," being tutored by Fagin, the forlorn orphan (kind of redundant, are there any orphans who aren't forlorn?) who has an amazing capacity to create a profound sense of pathos, can't you? (Okay, I can see now that I seriously need to read something besides C.S. Lewis and Charles Dickens.....) Either way, isn't he just the cutest? Not cuter than Curtis, of course, but at least as cute. He looks like his puppy just ran away, or he dropped his candy in the sand, or, you know, something really, truly tragic like that...These other ones were cute, too. For some reason they make me think of the "Lost Boys" in "Peter Pan," or Huck Finn, Tom Sawyer, Ben Rogers, and Joe Harper in "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer." (See, I do read something besides Lewis and Dickens!) I don't think there has ever been a set of happier children. They got to sleep outside, cook over an open fire, go without bathing for...long enough. The simple pleasures in life....

After taking this one, I had "Little Drummer Boy" stuck in my head all day. It was a loooooooong afternoon. "It's a Christmas classic!", you argue. Yes, I understand, but, in its own way, "It's a Small World," is a classic in its own right. See, I've got that stuck on replay in your head now, don't I? It's not fun, is it? That's what I thought. Well, to get rid of it, just hum "Little Drummer Boy," that ought to cure it.

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Emily assisted me in writing this post. I think I may have discovered the next Harper Lee, Winner of the Nobel for Literature.

Well, I have a confession. I have fought, all my life (and apparently in vain) to prevail against the stereotypical "Southern" behaviour (or at least the less admirable facets of its composite). Alas, "Nature vs. Nurture?" Are rednecks born, or are they made? Apparently, they are born and simply compounded upon. Now, give this said Southern History major individual a camera, a beautiful fall day, and a re-enactment of the failure which still rankles inhabitants of the vast lands south of the Mason-Dixon line, and you have Frankenstein's monster, released upon the unsuspecting world. Yes, my friends, I not only "ran across," I sought out a re-enactment today. A small place, called Fort Branch, near Hamilton, has a yearly re-enactment of a battle which was waged there. Maybe it is just me, an anomaly among the 'typical' Southerner, but it does seem a bit unhealthy that there is a fascination with re-creating the Pyhrric victories of something (a civil war) which nearly every other country on the face of the earth struggles to forget and move away from. And we still lose the war...every time. Let's continually underscore that fact "welostwelostwelostwelostwelost." Just give me a paper-cut and pour lemon juice on it. It is a good thing, however, that we did lose. Can you imagine "Dueling Banjos" being the new national anthem? (I can say that because I'm southern. It's kind of a "Bless your heart...." thing.)

I have to admit, this was ridiculously fun. They had the two camps set up, furnished with tents, which housed cots covered with handmade quilts, tin utensils, camp-stools, tallow candles, etc. There was even a "calvary." Kid you not. These people take their fun very seriously. I wandered around for nearly three and a half hours, snapping like a mad-man. The most "excitement" occurred when I inadvertently made some new "friends." I was wandering around, trying to catch the re-enactors at ease, un-posed, and wandered into one area of the "Confederate" side of camp. I incorrectly assumed that everyone would be ready for wanderers such as myself, but, quite regrettably, I was wroooooong. I wandered into one camp area, and was stunned into a state of utmost alarm by the shriek "LADY IN CAMP!!!!!!" in a tone which could suitably be followed by a revolving red light and a shrill siren blaring "ah-wuhhaahh, ah-wuhhaahh." I don't know who was the most surprised, them or me ("And we have a tie!"). Apparently, I'd caught them in the midst of their morning toilet (a.k.a-"getting ready," not...well, you know...something else...). How do you gracefully get out of a situation like that? Answer: you don't. You suck it up, ask permission to snap a few shots (when they get ready), and run like a jack-rabbit. I posted a couple or three examples of the, no exaggeration, three hundred, shots I took (heaven bless digital). The child in the top, "Curtis," has been the salvation of my parents' grandchildren from my side. I like children, love them, really, but after the summer reading program ends at work each year, I am thoroughly convinced they belong behind a strong plexiglass wall. Like monkeys at the zoo. We are protected from them, and they are protected from us. It is win-win. So, in the hypothetical situation that I hypothetically have hypothetical children, they are replaced at the end of those three months by hypothetical goldfish. Twenty-five cents and you feed them once a week. However, Curtis saved my hypothetical children. Curtis was the cutest freakin' dang thing I have ever seen. I was seriously considering beginning my kidnapping career, he was that cute. Then there were the "sentries" on the bridge who demanded a password. A password, which I was informed, began with "V" and sounded like "Virginia." Imagine my shock when my first guess, "Virginia," proved to be correct. That college education is proving to be worth every penny. I have to say, I loved this one, with the back-lighting and everything. The weather was absolutely beautiful today, and the lighting was (almost) perfect. I know it sound s a bit unbalanced to get so excited over light particles, but lighting can make or break the best of shots; so, good lighting is always a blessing. Anyway, if these samples are well-received, I might post some more, but right now, it is late, and you get serious jet-lag with time travel.

I have been informed that I was "picture-tagged." At first, I was a bit wary, wondering if it was some new, "you-can-run-but-you-can't-hide," type of personal identification. (Again, that Orwell-ian paranoia...I'm telling you, you never really get over it. It is like seeing the old, original "Psycho" for the first time and having to take baths instead of showers for about a year. Maybe that was just me, but, seriously..."Mother's not herself today"? I've known a lot of Mama's boys, but that is just bordering on..., well, psycho...Hmmm, now that I've reached that intellectual height, we'll move on...) I was told I had to go to the fourth folder in my pictures, and post the fourth picture (along with an explanation). This is the result, for better or worse. It is my young cousin Drayton, standing in the back yard of what is affectionately called the "White House." This would be the home-place of great-grandparents, which was bought and restored, and where our family get-togethers (commonly called "reunions," but that seems to have acquired a bad connotation, and we have way too much fun, so it is a get-together), weddings, wedding receptions, etc. occur. We were preparing for another cousin's reception (there are masses of cousins), and so I had politely removed myself to the yard to get out of the way, and take some pre-guest photos of the decorations. Drayton was outside, fascinated by the bubble machine strategically placed in an inconspicuous corner, which he (of course) immediately located. As all children are drawn to stagnant, possibly malarial water, he was drawn by the magnetic forcefield of this stone fountain. He and I were the only two occupants of the yard at the time, so we enjoyed a brief water-fight (until his mother stuck her head out the back door and screamed "Drayton Robert, if you don't get out of that water this minute...!!!" And, as there is nothing more petrifying than an open ended threat, the fight ended abruptly in a stalemate. Even though I was seventeen or eighteen at the time, I didn't volunteer the information that I was the instigator. "Think fast enough, and you might live to lie about it...") and then he suddenly became transfixed by the airborne bubbles. You can see a few clinging to the surface of the water. It was fortunate that I got this shot; the fountain was under a thick stand of trees, and so was quite dark, but there was an instant when the wind shifted the leaves just enough to allow a shaft of sunlight to fall directly on him. I have to say, this is one of my favorites. The serenity of the little face, and the setting, all seem to be of another place. There is an element of imagination-bred landscape to it. (All of which had nothing to do with me, by the way. I'm not taking any credit, I just happened to be in an opportune spot at the right moment.) I even had a copy matted and framed, I enjoy this one so much; it has a calming effect to me. So, that is my story...not very entertaining, but it has good memories for me.

Hooray! I finally figured out how to add people to the side of my blog. Now, I know this is not exactly a triumph which warrants a whole piece of architecture set in the middle of a country's capital devoted solely to the grandeur of it, but still, a triumph nonetheless. For some reason, I could figure out all of the confusing "sh-tuff" that was really only superfluous to the whole reason for this, but the "easy," more vital things were a bit of a difficulty. I can finally leave comments now, as well. The few occasions before, when I tried this, something wasn't recognizing my existence. It was kind of that "Mr. Wordsworth, you are obsolete" feeling. (If you don't know what I'm alluding to, just hang around and watch the New Year's Day marathon of the old (natch: good) Twilight Zone. The Rod Serling, standing in a corner, narrating while ensuring his premature death with a continual stream of half-burned cigarettes Twilight Zone. They just don't make t.v. like they used to.) So, now it will be even easier for me to be increasingly annoying.
Anyway, there actually is (well, in a way) a reason for this post. Here's the thing. I had a thought (more than one, but this was the only one to come near being interesting), and so I have a question to pose. I am currently reading a study on "A Tale of Two Cities." (I know this sounds unbearably insipid, but it is really quite interesting, truly. There are so many aspects I had never really scrutinized, which is something you must do in order to really come to appreciate Dickens. So, all these years I've been missing some of the most interesting points of the whole book. Like: consider that Carton and Darnay are not only remarkably physically similar, but are actually an antiphonal (something sung alternately in two parts; sorry, I get carried away sometimes) expression of the two halves of one man; a man which could have been an only slightly ambiguous representation of Dickens's perception of himself. Incredible, isn't it? It is actually insanely interesting. Anyway, I digress...I'm coming to the question presently, I promise). Reading this has only intensified something I decided the first time I ever read that novel. It sounds ridiculous, but at twelve or thirteen, I fell completely and unequivocally in love with the fictional character of Sydney Carton. I know, I know, it sounds idiotic; but, if you haven't read it, do, and trust me, you'll understand exactly what I mean. It isn't just the immolation Carton voluntarily serves as, twice, actually, for someone he loves, there is more to him than that. It is only in these instances that he is able to show his true nature. He seems to have always been caught in the throes of the "looking glass effect." This is when you subconsciously tell others what you think of yourself, they subconsciously read these messages, take your word for it, and treat you accordingly, you read this as their own self-determined perception of you (when it is actually your perception of yourself, projected outward) and it reinforces your perception of yourself. This can be both beneficial and detrimental. Anyway...Carton is a good guy, a really good guy, but never seems to be given, or indeed, give himself, credit. So, this brings me to my question. I have always had a HUGE crush on the character of Sydney Carton, and wished that I could find a real Sydney Carton. The question is this, what characters (movies, books, any characters or real people) do you all have a thing for? It can be an amalgam of different people. Mine would be an amalgamation of (of course) Sydney Carton, Atticus Finch (from "To Kill a Mockingbird), C.S. Lewis (his imagination, insight, and creative abilities), Nicholas II of Russia (if you care to ask, I'll explain, but it would take too long in writing. He just seemed like a genuinely good man.) Edmund (from The Chronicles of Narnia. After he is grown up, at the end of the books, of course. Which is, incidentally, the character Lewis most identified with). The musical abilities of Thomas Newman and Yann Tiersen (listen to their stuff on my playlist; you'll develop a crush, too), and Mr. Darcy (what girl in her right mind doesn't love him?). Those are the only ones I can think of at the moment. There are plenty more, I just can't remember them right now.
So, what is everyone else's "ideal?" It was just a thought I had; figured it would be fun and interesting to see what everyone else had to say. (Note as of 10/24/08: I read the comments (which were wonderful, by the way) and had an epiphany. I realized that, "Brother of Pete!" I forgot to add Mr. Knightley (from "Emma). How can you forget Mr. Knightley (especially after he is played by Jeremy Northam)?! He adds to the 'ideal' for a lot of reasons: his kindness, his astuteness, his honor, his compassion, his humor, his patience, not to mention the age difference (in his favor) of sixteen years. This is an attribute, trust me.)