Some Questions

Why don't I feel like doing anything except lying down in the sun and sleeping for a long, long time?

What if Handel had written music for the Heidelberg Confession?

When did my brain decide to shut down for 50 minutes out of every hour?

How do you balance the importance of orthodoxy and realizing that God is much, much bigger than having the right theology?

Where can I find a good recipe for sugar-free fried pies?

What if I shut myself up in the ivory tower of academia for the rest of my life? Could I still come down and visit sometimes?

Will the bamboo shoot lodged under my left finger get infected?

How do you go from being childish to childlike?

And lastly: What kind of ice cream is in the caf today?
At least I can find out the answer to that one.

Continuing Adventures of the Folklore Five and J. Brown

Current location: basement of the library. Wild storm brewing outside. Just returned from somewhere near Collinsville, AL, a shape note singin'.

Yes. This weekend has been rather - intense. I knew it would be when I went to sketch my poplar bud, and in gently grasping the branch it shook tulip poplar nectar on me. Just like Mott said. Mott taught J. Brown how to snare the elusive Cahaba redhorse, and the time is right when poplar buds spill their nectar . . .

Day 1 - the Little Cahaba; or, Don't Put All the Lunches in One Canoe
Yesterday, see, 23 students, of varying levels of skill, canoed 7 miles down the Cahaba. Dr. Brown in the lead (of course). Some guy named Randy in the back. The trip was not for the faint-hearted. An experienced canoeist even took a dunking early in the journey. We waded around in muddy Chacos and munched soggy trail mix and gazed in wonder at the unbelievable beauty of the river. Do you know how peace-full it is when the river is clear and cool and grey and the freshly-green trees and vines grow down to the banks and the only sounds are water-noises and the occasional bird cries?
And do you know how tired your arms get when you sit in the front the whole dang time?

We rode with our same happy group of five, and laughed and talked in the comfortableness of knowing we enjoy each other and appreciate nerdy stuff like dogtrot houses and the redhorse snaring. Ellen and Jordan survived their unexpected dip in the water, Drew and Josh took the river by storm (or tried to - they encountered some, um, difficulties) and I enjoyed just sitting in the front being the little engine that could with an experienced canoeist steering in the back. We came back tired, hungry, covered with rock-and-thorn battle wounds, and very happy.

Day 2 - Shape Note Singing and Dinner on the Grounds, i.e. I ate like a starving lumberjack
Our happy band united this morning with slightly more sleep than when we parted, and set out for "Collinsville." That was all we knew. We argued over whether it was in Georgia, Alabama or Tennessee (Dr. Brown loves to keep us guessing). It ended up being in Alabama, up a dirt road on a mountain.
It felt like a scene from a movie: the haunting music swelling from inside the tiny concrete building, marching single-file in a line of Sunday dressed kids, and entering the embrace of the explosive singing in the one room church. Ellen and I sat with a very nice lady in the treble section, and I would've been even more lost without her leading me through the labyrinth of notes. And she sang on the Cold Mtn. album(!). And the girl who sang "Lady Margret" sat right in front of me with her precious two year old(!). And I felt like I was surrounded by celebrities.

And then. Oh, then. Dinner on the Grounds. It deserves the capitals. Icy well water lemonade, and more food than I have ever seen in my life in one place, and I committed the sin of gluttony about three times over. On my first time through I loaded up a plate that could have served for two and half meals any other time, and inhaled it like a ravenous little street orphan. And then, against all better judgment, I went back for more and made another meal off the desserts. And promptly felt very sick. Even now, five hours later, I'm not sure I ever want to eat again. Food. Why do people eat food?
On the drive back through the lovely green fields, we played the "I Have Never" game to keep from falling asleep, and boy but I'm going to miss this class when it's over.

Just call me Nostradamus

In the 29 minutes between now and my Latin American culture test, I will hold forth on: the benefits of a drowsy quad afternoon, the horrors of the Urban Gothic novel, the Orwellian nightmare that is Barack Obama, and the life of a professional cane stripper.

Or I could just tell you about the dream I had night before last.

But then I should start with the POW-like injury I sustained yesterday. I was weaving my darned basket, and no I did not have gloves on because you can't wear gloves and weave a delicate basket, when a small cane-bamboo shoot just jammed straight under my left pointer fingernail. I stared at it for a moment in fascinated horror. Slash shock. Slash this basket thing has put me beyond caring so I just got up and pulled the splinter out. But then I remembered.
See, the night before I'd had this horrible dream about slicing open my left pointer finger. I had to wander around trying to keep a piece of kleenex wrapped around it and a bone was poking out and people were oblivious and I was like, "Guys? Um, can we do something about my hand?"

And then I hurt the same finger. The Very. Next. Day. I was a little bit creeped out. Was this a physical Freudian slip, where I unconsciously acted on some desire to harm myself? [To that: No. My subconscious prefers to let me knock against things and get abuse-worthy bruises. Even my subconscious is too cowardly for the searing pain of bamboo shoots under the fingernails.] Or was I subject to some kind of second sight? [An even freakier option.]

Then I remembered my Mom has predicting dreams. And I was comforted. If it's hereditary, it can't be bad. Right?

***
In other news, I am writing a paper on the theology of the urban gothic-sensational literature of mid-19th century America (low anguished groan). I realized last night I'm reading lots of books by/about Jews (Judaism is fascinating. And I really want to do that chair-dance thing at my wedding). I almost let myself sleep in this morning and skip the boring pointless class, but remembered in time that we have a test today.

A test, as in, 11 minutes. Bye.

From the North Country

Back from Minnesota, and glad. Highlights:

-I loved the girls on the trip! It was so much fun to hang out with them for five days and get to know some other English major girls better. The three I roomed with had me laughing all the time - it was wonderful.

-The landscape, which was like Lars and the Real Girl. I love that movie. L.O.V.E. And better stop before I give in to the urge and watch it again for the fourth time since December.

-The hordes of nerds there who made me feel just a little bit less nerdy (let me state now that I am not, nor ever will be, a Battle Star Galactica fan. Thank you Lord). I felt pretty normal right up until I went to the poetry session, and loved hearing other people read their stuff and got way too excited about reading mine. In my session: a slight Korean Buddhist boy, an emo gay guy, a plump-ish, smiley, bohemian skirts girl, and a 53 year old man from a coal mining Kentucky town. They all had really good stuff.

-Finding the Mississippi river and devouring Thai food with Christine and Liz.

-The Minnesotan people. They are so nice. Like, really really nice. Like, people-helping-you-on-the-bus kind of nice. And I love their accents.

***

Now I'm back to spring in the South, spring in Alabama, spring at Samford. Which is certainly one of the loveliest things in the world. I'm much more an autumn than springtime person, but this right now is so beautiful I can't help but rejoice in all the alive and warm and soft of it all.

I took a walk yesterday in the neighborhood behind Samford, and found all sorts of lacey white and fuschia and purple and yellow loveliness, and even a pink dogwood.

And I went to the little park and laid myself down on a rock for a while, and it was good.

See the marketplace in old Algiers

send me photographs and souvenirs

Just remember when a dream appears

you belong to me

-Kate Rusby

Tomorrow, at the ungodly hour of 4:20 a.m., I will leave Samford and go to the Birmingham airport. From there I will fly to Chicago, and then to the jewel of the Mid-West: Minneapolis. What brings seven lowly Alabama English majors to the great state of Minnesota? Why, nothing less than the illustrious (cough) Sigma Tau Delta (or, STD - snicker) convention. There, along with other poor abstract souls, we will read papers on such highly relevant topics as "Renaissance Poetry: Gender and Class Identification in The Faerie Queen," and "Necrophilia and Neo-Capitalism in Poe's Early Short Stories."

Yes, we are nothing if not relevant. That's why they confine us to a convention center in Minneapolis once a year. 

On the upside: All I have to do is read some poems that I submitted at the last moment. 

On the downside: I  . . . I can't remember what poems I did submit. I mean, I know SOME of them for sure, but like I said it was last minute and I really didn't think they'd get accepted, sooo . . . this is where I can pull the "constant revision" card. Who are they to say if "Novemb

er Morning" could not be revised and evolve into "Tulips and Motorcyle Drag"?

Is it sad that my younger brother is the one who reminded me about the Mall of America when I was whining to him about what to do there? All I'd found was an art gallery (actually . . . I probably will go) and some museum on the mill industry (gag blah I'm zoning out as I type it). So, shopping and art. And reading The Education of Little Tree. All in all I'm still bitter about having to miss Dr. Brown's Amazing Folklore Class tomorrow, but who am I to refuse a University Excused Absence for three whole days? 

***

In other news, here is the best I can do as far a haircut photos go. Mac Photo Booth pictures always end up looking emo and self-conscious. 

I hope I can find some sort of internet connection up there in the wilds of Minnesota, and fill you all in on my Mid-Western adventures. Until then - peace, children. 

Scenes from Spring Break: Act One

Yesterday, I scheduled a haircut. I went with a speech prepared. The speech went something like this:

"I am ready for something new; something professional that doesn't take a lot of time . . . nothing too drastic, but I'm willing to experiment."

I recited my speech very well. Except for the one clause I left out. Guess which clause? Yes. The one that includes "drastic." 

A note of explanation. My sweet mother always kept my hair bobbed when I was growing up, so when I got older I rebelled by growing it long(er). I even made it to the tops of my shoulder blades for a while. And every year when the weather gets warm, I resist the urge to chop it off to a chin-length bob, and the urge passes, and I go back to my long-hair happiness, and resolve to let it get even longer. 

Until yesterday. My hair has not been this short in eleven years. The resolution and dedication of eleven years, gone in a few swift shears.

 And I love it. I feel older. And my hair does not look like an animal sleeps there anymore. And it's bouncy and cute and makes me want to wear a sundress all the time. And I will post photos as soon as I'm near a camera when I haven't woken up from a nap and don't look like some creepy puffy-eyed emo kid. 

***

In other news, life at home = beautifully relaxing. As a good friend pointed out, I find it hard to just stop and rest. Even my rest time has to be productive somehow: I must catch up on all those issues of Cooking Light, and organize my room, and bake all those things I can't at school, and walk the land - so that soon even relaxing becomes a to-do list, and I'm still wound up in a tight little ball. 

So I've been trying to take this friend's advice. Like today, when I dragged a quilt onto the back porch with some books and paper and pen, and wrote a poem for a while, and then just rested. Lay face down on the sun-warmed quilt and dozed. And came inside to crash on the couch and doze some more. 

Or last night when I put away my book and actually watched a movie with my family instead of glancing up every so often. And I found out that I really love High Noon and that haunting song that runs all the way through it and all future boyfriends must live up to the GCS (Gary Cooper Standard). 

Yes. Work and rest. A balance between the two. Not a constant mix of both. 

***

Also, my family has eaten dinner together every night so far. That never happens, because Jim the social butterfly is doing something every night with high school friends. [And I don't blame him - if my friends lived close, I'd be with them all the time during breaks. But my friend group comes from college. This is because I was anti-social in high school, and didn't figure out how to be anything but shy until my senior year. So by the time I found out that the kids in my class were actually pretty cool, there wasn't time for anything but a casual friendship. And this has been a really long side note.]

So it's been nice in the evenings, to sit and have supper while the sun sets and Dad and Jim quote There Will Be Blood and I laugh hysterically and Mom serves us really good food. And then we all hang out in the keeping room after dinner and watch old movies and I have the feeling this week will be one of those memories you come back to rest in later.

Do not forsake me, oh my darling

Wait, wait along

I do not know what fate awaits me

I only know I must be brave

M, I, Crooked letter, Crooked letter, I . . .

 . . . Crooked letter, Crooked letter, I, Humpback, Humpback, I. 

That's right. I spent the day in the great state of Mississippi. A land whose welcome centers flow with free Coke and root beer samples. 

Today, you see, was the first of Dr. Brown's Folklore Fieldtrips. To Freeney, MS. Where is Freeney, you ask? Well. For those ignorant of the geography of backwoods Mississippi (like . . . me), Freeney is on the Choctaw Indian Reservation, near the Silver Star Casino.  We spent 4 hours driving to a bona fide general store. And I do mean general. Everything from Choctaw rivercane baskets to screwdrivers to Moonpies to chipped crockery. It was wonderful. 

After watching a Choctaw woman (and a random non-Choctaw woman) weave and drinking Coke from a glass bottle and wandering around the store for about an hour, we left for the casino. (Oh yes, and there was a weird old man with guns in the back of his car who kept blasting this hand-held horn and telling us the origin of the phrase "honky white man." That was fun too.) And the casino was just sad. 

We didn't actually do that much. Most of the time was - well, driving. And actually, that was just fine. The best part, even. Because I was crammed in a car with four witty and delightful people, so thank you to Ellen, Josh, Jordan, and Drew for making me laugh until my stomach hurt. 

It was one of those days where you're not concerned with much besides whether to eat at Popeye's or Wendy's, where you make fun of Howitzers in front of Assembly of God churches, a gentle and lazy sort of day where you let everything happen without trying to control it too much. I like those days. I am naturally introspective, you see, and while that's not a bad thing, it makes me love the days when my mind quits its feverish churning and I look Out instead of In. 

Good company + spring weather + driving in the country = perfect way to spend a Saturday. And now I can't wait til the canoe trip in April. 

***

On the way back we were all tired and hungry like little kids after a long day at the park. I got back to my room and ate black beans with rice and salsa and whipped cream cheese (college cooking lends itself to creativity) and took a relaxing walk in the warm spring night and typed up my Folklore notes. 

And now I am ready to sleep. For a good long while. 

Go to sleep, little baby

Everybody's gone in the cotton and the corn,

didn't leave nobody but the baby