So, I am still in lab. I am very tired. I cut my left index finger open on a razor blade. I am dumb.
Work is good. I enjoy working. I hate work. But, I enjoy sleeping. To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream! I don't like dreams. There may be Harry Potter in my future. My bed hurts my back.
The last four working days I have worked very hard which is good but it also drains me and sustains me. Ugh. Yay.
I am worried right now. I am worried that I may need stitches and how this will affect my banjo playing. I suck at playing the banjo anyway. Why am I worried?
I am worried right now about later. Where will I live in the fall? Who will I marry? What will I do with my life? Though the fig tree may not blossom and I become a bum and let everyone down, yet I will rejoice in the Lord; I will take joy in the God of my salvation.
I am sad. I don't know why. I do. I am sad that the fall happened. I am sad that there is pain, silence, and death. But, I am saddest that there is nothing I can do to fix it. In fact, I just make it worse.
My PI talked for our program today. I was proud. It was like showing off a new toy: yep, this one is mine. He is a doctor. My dad is a doctor. He is not my dad. I think all men are my dad.
I have a pimple coming up on my chin. I find myself picking at it when I try to think of what to write. An outline? I do not do "outlines."
This week I climbed to the roof of my building. I stared off the ledge for a few hours. Ten stories. I thought of a story for each floor. I had my cell phone and called a person for each floor and hit ten floor voicemails. People sound very different on their voicemails. I wonder if I sound different on mine.
The sky is cloudy like my mind. I used to think I could control the weather. I cried; it rained. Now I think the weather controls me.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Fenway
Hey. What's up? We are going to the Sox game. Wanna come? Cool. Lobby, five minutes.
Fenway is about a mile from where I live. Like any stadium, it is big and crowded when there is a game going on: scalpers, buskers, beggers, hot dog-ers, all come like mosquitoes to where all the people are.
Our seats Bleacher 41, row 21--they were cheap--look out over the grass. The players, so adorable in their costumes, take the field. The dance is on.
I could poetically describe the rather uneventful 1-0 Sox victory, but I bet most of you would tune out. No, instead, I am going to tell you how going to a Sox game at Fenway is the perfect analogy for my summer.
I cheered. I drank an overly priced beer. I helped start the wave that circled the stadium four times. I laughed with my friends who came. I sang "Take me out to the ball game," "Sweet Carolina," and "Shipping up to Boston." I chanted "Bullshit! Bullshit!" at a sketchy homeplate call. I also heartily cheered "Yankees suck. Yankees suck." (We were playing the Royals). The weather was great. It was probably the best night of my summer.
Yet, there were three twinges. The first was remembering my other friends. While my SHURP friends are awesome, they don't have history with me. They don't know my quirks. The friendship curve is steep here, but the deeper friendship curve takes time. I cannot wait till I can quote hymn lines and my friends finish them.
The second was my brother Daniel. He got me into baseball. There is something epic when a 16 yr old and 13 yr old drive 5 hours in a mommy van to go see the Cardinals at Busch. After the adrenaline rush of a fledgling driver egged on by her brother with ears that poked awkwardly after his worn Cardinals cap, all other baseball experiences seem superfluous. I learned to score games at Daniel's little league ones. I cried when he came out in the bottom of the nine during the championship game, two outs, bases loaded, down by one. I cried not because he was going to lose it for the team, but because I knew that my brother knew what was at stake and he would be dying inside as he stood waiting for pitches for hours.
But, third, it was a Sox game. I still haven't quite gotten over the 2004 World Series. I am not a Sox fan. They are my favorite AL team, yeah, but they aren't mine. I am a Cardinal fan. That is who I am. I can tell you the players and their current hitting/pitching slumps. When I go to Busch stadium, I am a proud. The cheering the camaraderie: they're mine. At the Sox game, I enjoyed myself, but I felt dirty as if I was cheating on someone. In a sense, I was: I was rooting for someone not on my team.
This summer I am not where I need to be. Locationally, spiritually, ecumenically. Especially spiritually. I am lost. I am at Fenway. It is great, the people are great, the baseball's great. But it is not my home. I know this is not right. It is not me. I will continue to cheer and go on. I will have fun, but I will not ever be a Sox fan.
I need to go to Busch.
Fenway is about a mile from where I live. Like any stadium, it is big and crowded when there is a game going on: scalpers, buskers, beggers, hot dog-ers, all come like mosquitoes to where all the people are.
Our seats Bleacher 41, row 21--they were cheap--look out over the grass. The players, so adorable in their costumes, take the field. The dance is on.
I could poetically describe the rather uneventful 1-0 Sox victory, but I bet most of you would tune out. No, instead, I am going to tell you how going to a Sox game at Fenway is the perfect analogy for my summer.
I cheered. I drank an overly priced beer. I helped start the wave that circled the stadium four times. I laughed with my friends who came. I sang "Take me out to the ball game," "Sweet Carolina," and "Shipping up to Boston." I chanted "Bullshit! Bullshit!" at a sketchy homeplate call. I also heartily cheered "Yankees suck. Yankees suck." (We were playing the Royals). The weather was great. It was probably the best night of my summer.
Yet, there were three twinges. The first was remembering my other friends. While my SHURP friends are awesome, they don't have history with me. They don't know my quirks. The friendship curve is steep here, but the deeper friendship curve takes time. I cannot wait till I can quote hymn lines and my friends finish them.
The second was my brother Daniel. He got me into baseball. There is something epic when a 16 yr old and 13 yr old drive 5 hours in a mommy van to go see the Cardinals at Busch. After the adrenaline rush of a fledgling driver egged on by her brother with ears that poked awkwardly after his worn Cardinals cap, all other baseball experiences seem superfluous. I learned to score games at Daniel's little league ones. I cried when he came out in the bottom of the nine during the championship game, two outs, bases loaded, down by one. I cried not because he was going to lose it for the team, but because I knew that my brother knew what was at stake and he would be dying inside as he stood waiting for pitches for hours.
But, third, it was a Sox game. I still haven't quite gotten over the 2004 World Series. I am not a Sox fan. They are my favorite AL team, yeah, but they aren't mine. I am a Cardinal fan. That is who I am. I can tell you the players and their current hitting/pitching slumps. When I go to Busch stadium, I am a proud. The cheering the camaraderie: they're mine. At the Sox game, I enjoyed myself, but I felt dirty as if I was cheating on someone. In a sense, I was: I was rooting for someone not on my team.
This summer I am not where I need to be. Locationally, spiritually, ecumenically. Especially spiritually. I am lost. I am at Fenway. It is great, the people are great, the baseball's great. But it is not my home. I know this is not right. It is not me. I will continue to cheer and go on. I will have fun, but I will not ever be a Sox fan.
I need to go to Busch.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
To the Right, to the right, to the right. To the left, to the left, to the left.
You all know that you have two halves of your brain. You should know that the left brain controls math, language, and most motor function where as the right brain controls artistic skills, the idea of beauty, and feeling. Your left brain tells you who you are where as the right brain tells you how you feel about that.
There was a study done a decade or so ago where they studied adults who had witnessed terrible things (murder, rape, etc) in pre-cognitive stages, i.e. before the left brain understood language. They had more social problems that were unresponsive to therapy. They studied another group, adults who had witnessed terrible things post-cognitive, i.e. when they understood language and could speak albeit poorly (I can't find this article. My mom read it to me eons ago). The pre-cogs had much more issues and psychological problems likes schizophrenia than the post-cogs had. The theory was that stuff that happened to you before you could talk was remembered without a left-brain imprint. Think of it like a file with no name. You can search for that file as much as you want, but you won't be able to find it. You won't ever be able to put your finger on the issue.
What if that happens because instead of being cataloged by your calculating left brain, it imprints into your right? There have been crazy studies done on people with Alien hand syndrome (when your right hand literally doesn't know what your left is doing) and with people with split hemispheres that are just crazy! In our age, the age of the left brain, is our right going unheeded? Perchance, in some of our population, we are taught only to understand our left brain; our right brain is sorely neglected. Maybe that is why we have nervous breakdowns and depression. Because we don't take time to listen to our right brains and do irrational things.
That isn't to say we should just "do what we feel" cause that can be wrong and sinful and by thinking about it, we make it a left brain thing. See, we think using language most of the time. When I am self-evaluating or criticizing or writing this very blog, I am thinking words in language (left brain). But, when I wake up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, I don't think "get keys, open door, lock door, walk down hall, open door, go to stall, etc." I am really just thinking "uuuuuuhhhhh," which I am pretty sure is background noise for my right brain.
I have been taught (and I am sure some of you can corroborate) that feelings are sinful and bad, trust only reason. But that is dumb cause reason can get you into so much trouble too and is always influence by your emotions. Just if you deny them, then you are in denial. I mean, a recent studied showed that it takes around 7 choices in your rational brain to overwhelm it. Wimpy rational. Weak.
Another study was also fascinating. They measured brain waves of people and told them that at some point in the next 15 minutes to wiggle their fingers. So, there was a spike from the brain pre-wiggle, but there also was a tiny spike before the brain spike. What?! Yep, there was something that pre-cognitively said to wiggle. Now, on radiolab (the uber awesome radio show where they talked about this very experiment) the two hosts talked about free will: does this mean there is no free will? (I already, of course, knew that there wasn't). But, that made me think. Maybe that first spike was right brain saying, "Hey left brain, I feel like wiggling." Then the left brain nodded and said, "Okay, fingers do your thang!" And then the fingers danced. Perchance we are governed more by our right brain then we think.
In a House episode I saw a while back, a case presented with Alien Hand Syndrome. Somehow the right hand knew that this guys deodorant was causing his problems so he would throw it or slap the person handing it to him, etc. I think that is a bit of an exaggeration, but what if your right brain could see that something you were doing--excessive work, train of thought, etc--was bad for you and could stimulate excretions that made me you feel terrible. We know that when you get stressed out your body starts producing chemicals. What if depression is just your right brain reeking havoc on your neurological biochemistry for something you are not dealing with? That would be crazy!!
What makes me think this is that I am happy. Giddy, almost. Nothing has happened. I have not met a boy. I have not had any good results. Heck, if anything, I am worse. My stupid ankle decided that it was a good time to die and my knee is trying to compensate. I keep having really bad stomach aches and head pains. Furthermore, I am sicking lower and lower into the pit which is becoming a slacker: for the last two days, I have gotten back from work, ate dinner, watched tv, called a few people, and slept. Whoa. No practicing music, reading, drawing, rubick's cubing, or anything that I really enjoy doing. I dislike tv for the most part. But, maybe that is what my right brain is needing. My left brain has worked really hard. It has gotten to the point where I struggle to know what reality is sometimes cause my left brain is trying to sugar coat things (luckily, I have friends who tell me my life sucks). Maybe, it is because I am turning my left brain off for a few minutes and allowing myself to feel.
That sounds wishy washy. Hmm...more thought must be put into this. Later...
There was a study done a decade or so ago where they studied adults who had witnessed terrible things (murder, rape, etc) in pre-cognitive stages, i.e. before the left brain understood language. They had more social problems that were unresponsive to therapy. They studied another group, adults who had witnessed terrible things post-cognitive, i.e. when they understood language and could speak albeit poorly (I can't find this article. My mom read it to me eons ago). The pre-cogs had much more issues and psychological problems likes schizophrenia than the post-cogs had. The theory was that stuff that happened to you before you could talk was remembered without a left-brain imprint. Think of it like a file with no name. You can search for that file as much as you want, but you won't be able to find it. You won't ever be able to put your finger on the issue.
What if that happens because instead of being cataloged by your calculating left brain, it imprints into your right? There have been crazy studies done on people with Alien hand syndrome (when your right hand literally doesn't know what your left is doing) and with people with split hemispheres that are just crazy! In our age, the age of the left brain, is our right going unheeded? Perchance, in some of our population, we are taught only to understand our left brain; our right brain is sorely neglected. Maybe that is why we have nervous breakdowns and depression. Because we don't take time to listen to our right brains and do irrational things.
That isn't to say we should just "do what we feel" cause that can be wrong and sinful and by thinking about it, we make it a left brain thing. See, we think using language most of the time. When I am self-evaluating or criticizing or writing this very blog, I am thinking words in language (left brain). But, when I wake up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, I don't think "get keys, open door, lock door, walk down hall, open door, go to stall, etc." I am really just thinking "uuuuuuhhhhh," which I am pretty sure is background noise for my right brain.
I have been taught (and I am sure some of you can corroborate) that feelings are sinful and bad, trust only reason. But that is dumb cause reason can get you into so much trouble too and is always influence by your emotions. Just if you deny them, then you are in denial. I mean, a recent studied showed that it takes around 7 choices in your rational brain to overwhelm it. Wimpy rational. Weak.
Another study was also fascinating. They measured brain waves of people and told them that at some point in the next 15 minutes to wiggle their fingers. So, there was a spike from the brain pre-wiggle, but there also was a tiny spike before the brain spike. What?! Yep, there was something that pre-cognitively said to wiggle. Now, on radiolab (the uber awesome radio show where they talked about this very experiment) the two hosts talked about free will: does this mean there is no free will? (I already, of course, knew that there wasn't). But, that made me think. Maybe that first spike was right brain saying, "Hey left brain, I feel like wiggling." Then the left brain nodded and said, "Okay, fingers do your thang!" And then the fingers danced. Perchance we are governed more by our right brain then we think.
In a House episode I saw a while back, a case presented with Alien Hand Syndrome. Somehow the right hand knew that this guys deodorant was causing his problems so he would throw it or slap the person handing it to him, etc. I think that is a bit of an exaggeration, but what if your right brain could see that something you were doing--excessive work, train of thought, etc--was bad for you and could stimulate excretions that made me you feel terrible. We know that when you get stressed out your body starts producing chemicals. What if depression is just your right brain reeking havoc on your neurological biochemistry for something you are not dealing with? That would be crazy!!
What makes me think this is that I am happy. Giddy, almost. Nothing has happened. I have not met a boy. I have not had any good results. Heck, if anything, I am worse. My stupid ankle decided that it was a good time to die and my knee is trying to compensate. I keep having really bad stomach aches and head pains. Furthermore, I am sicking lower and lower into the pit which is becoming a slacker: for the last two days, I have gotten back from work, ate dinner, watched tv, called a few people, and slept. Whoa. No practicing music, reading, drawing, rubick's cubing, or anything that I really enjoy doing. I dislike tv for the most part. But, maybe that is what my right brain is needing. My left brain has worked really hard. It has gotten to the point where I struggle to know what reality is sometimes cause my left brain is trying to sugar coat things (luckily, I have friends who tell me my life sucks). Maybe, it is because I am turning my left brain off for a few minutes and allowing myself to feel.
That sounds wishy washy. Hmm...more thought must be put into this. Later...
Sunday, July 5, 2009
The 7:10 to Schenectady
You need to take a bus ride.
Today, I set off at 5:15 am to catch the 7:10 am bus from South Station to Schenectady, residence of my dear Grandma Hershkowitz and current visiting place of the entire immediate Myers family save my eldest sister.
After taking the subway without any real interesting conversations, I entered South Station, Boston’s version of Grand Central Station. It is a pathetic replica like most of Boston, small, like your younger sister who is mimicking you whilst trying so, so hard to appear like she isn’t. Pathetic. To get to the bus terminal, you must walk outside on the Track 1 train platform. As I drug my backpack, banjo, and self across the terminal, I stared at the gray foreboding sky hopeful for a glimmer of light, a sliver of blue that would signify that this was actually 6:30 am, that time existed, that this was not my purgatory. But, alas, nothing but rain. Damn. This has been the gloomiest June in the recorded history of Boston. Seriously, it has made the record books. There have been three days of sunlight. Weird weather instigates a preponderance of small talk: everyone you meet will brainstorm with you reasons why it is the case. Global Warming? Pollution? Secret Russian plot? I alone know the reason. The sun doesn’t shine in Boston cause I am here.
Bemoaning my existence: that is what I am doing when I meet MJ. She is black, short, and thin. Missing all but two teeth which are huddled together in the bottom left corner of her mouth. She looks to be in her fifties, but her bulging belly indicates she must be younger. I keep hoping she had some stomach condition instead of another life inside her. Her hair sits on her head, matted, dirty, graying. She reeks of city which is impressive as Boston hides the smell furiously. She limps, right leg rigid in her maroon elastic pants. A huge green coat with large black buttons fastened all the way up her neck covers her torso; it would be all encompassing aside from her belly jutting out. While she talks she keeps pulling her left hand out from the enveloping sleeve.
Hello. I am MJ. I am the newly elected governor of Boston.
Hello. I reply. I am Becky. I am nothing to report.
Oh, I am also the minister too.
The minister of what?
Boston
She went on. She wanted equality for women and free dogs on Tuesdays. She refused to live in a house cause “real people don’t and I want to be real.”
I listened and asked questions. I asked if she needed help.
Damn. Look at you. She said laughing. You need help. I am the fucking newly elected governor of Boston. She started waving her packed of magazines around. Minister too! They were wet and looked ancient. In her other hand, she had a plastic CVS bag with God knows what in it.
I zoned out reflecting on the veracity of her last statement, but tuned back in as she exclaimed
Shit I haven’t eaten in three days and I am fine. Just fine. Great. Alive. Don’t need nobody.
Acting on impulse, I quipped, Oh you haven’t! Well, can I share my lunch with you?
I don’t take charity.
But you are the fucking governor of Boston. It is a gift. I continue babbling using words like nepotism and—if I remember correctly—referenced Ronald Reagan.
Don’t forget minister of Boston.
More reason for me to suck up to you.
Whattdaya got?
I had a sandwich and coke left over from last night’s lecture on transvection of actin-induced molecular something or other. She snatched them from me and scarfed them faster than I have seen anyone eat before. I offered to go get her more food, miss mayor.
That’s mister mayor to you.
I am very sorry.
No, I must go meet other people. I am the new elected mayor of Boston.
As she walked away, I went up to get my ticket, waited for my bus, and boarded. I cried intermittently.
On the bus, I wanted to sit and read. I had picked up a $1 book at the used book store. Sister’s Keeper by Jodi Picoult. My mom is slightly obsessed with that author and I thought I read it to see what she was like. I am a pretentious book snob. But, mostly, I wanted to be left alone in my gloomy world, bemoaning MJ and her child, bemoaning my inability to help her, bemoaning my desire not to.
Hi, I am Kevin.
Hi, Kevin.
You like to read?
Yes.
Do you want to see a baby skunk?
He shows me a baby skunk, dead, in a Tupperware encased in a plastic CVS bag that reminded me of MJ. Does CVS give away free bags?
This is my Frog Frank. Frank the Frog.
He digs out his living frog also in a Tupperware in the crinkling pastic.
I silently ask God if a peaceful ride would be too much to ask for.
Kevin smells really, really bad. The inside of a old port-a-potty bad. He is dirty and is wearing flip flops. But, when a pregnant lady boards the already full bus in Worcester, he gives her his seat and curls up on the luggage rack and falls asleep clutching his zoological CVS bag. MJ's similar bag was a mystery and I sort of wish that he hadn't divulged his contents. But while we were bus neighbors I found out that he was going to Albany to visit his girlfriend. My immediate thought was how come I can’t get a date and this guy has a girlfriend? I immediately felt guilty for that thought. He told me about his parents both dead now. D-did d-d-rugs all the time. S-so bad-d. But my aunt sh-she rais-ded-d me and sh-she’s the best. D-do you like my s-skunk?
I could have said that his skunk really repulsed me and was probably festering with disease. I could have said it with such words as to belittle him. In this case, I was the superior being. I was god. I could have crushed his happy little dead skunk world.
Instead, I sputtered. I am not much of a skunk person. I think they smell funny.
Oh, you play with them long nuff you don’t s-smell them t’all!
Oh.
It was then he began talking to his dead skunk and I turned up my headphones and dove headfirst into the novel seeking, as I always do, protection from the world betwixt the pages of a book.
Today, I set off at 5:15 am to catch the 7:10 am bus from South Station to Schenectady, residence of my dear Grandma Hershkowitz and current visiting place of the entire immediate Myers family save my eldest sister.
After taking the subway without any real interesting conversations, I entered South Station, Boston’s version of Grand Central Station. It is a pathetic replica like most of Boston, small, like your younger sister who is mimicking you whilst trying so, so hard to appear like she isn’t. Pathetic. To get to the bus terminal, you must walk outside on the Track 1 train platform. As I drug my backpack, banjo, and self across the terminal, I stared at the gray foreboding sky hopeful for a glimmer of light, a sliver of blue that would signify that this was actually 6:30 am, that time existed, that this was not my purgatory. But, alas, nothing but rain. Damn. This has been the gloomiest June in the recorded history of Boston. Seriously, it has made the record books. There have been three days of sunlight. Weird weather instigates a preponderance of small talk: everyone you meet will brainstorm with you reasons why it is the case. Global Warming? Pollution? Secret Russian plot? I alone know the reason. The sun doesn’t shine in Boston cause I am here.
Bemoaning my existence: that is what I am doing when I meet MJ. She is black, short, and thin. Missing all but two teeth which are huddled together in the bottom left corner of her mouth. She looks to be in her fifties, but her bulging belly indicates she must be younger. I keep hoping she had some stomach condition instead of another life inside her. Her hair sits on her head, matted, dirty, graying. She reeks of city which is impressive as Boston hides the smell furiously. She limps, right leg rigid in her maroon elastic pants. A huge green coat with large black buttons fastened all the way up her neck covers her torso; it would be all encompassing aside from her belly jutting out. While she talks she keeps pulling her left hand out from the enveloping sleeve.
Hello. I am MJ. I am the newly elected governor of Boston.
Hello. I reply. I am Becky. I am nothing to report.
Oh, I am also the minister too.
The minister of what?
Boston
She went on. She wanted equality for women and free dogs on Tuesdays. She refused to live in a house cause “real people don’t and I want to be real.”
I listened and asked questions. I asked if she needed help.
Damn. Look at you. She said laughing. You need help. I am the fucking newly elected governor of Boston. She started waving her packed of magazines around. Minister too! They were wet and looked ancient. In her other hand, she had a plastic CVS bag with God knows what in it.
I zoned out reflecting on the veracity of her last statement, but tuned back in as she exclaimed
Shit I haven’t eaten in three days and I am fine. Just fine. Great. Alive. Don’t need nobody.
Acting on impulse, I quipped, Oh you haven’t! Well, can I share my lunch with you?
I don’t take charity.
But you are the fucking governor of Boston. It is a gift. I continue babbling using words like nepotism and—if I remember correctly—referenced Ronald Reagan.
Don’t forget minister of Boston.
More reason for me to suck up to you.
Whattdaya got?
I had a sandwich and coke left over from last night’s lecture on transvection of actin-induced molecular something or other. She snatched them from me and scarfed them faster than I have seen anyone eat before. I offered to go get her more food, miss mayor.
That’s mister mayor to you.
I am very sorry.
No, I must go meet other people. I am the new elected mayor of Boston.
As she walked away, I went up to get my ticket, waited for my bus, and boarded. I cried intermittently.
On the bus, I wanted to sit and read. I had picked up a $1 book at the used book store. Sister’s Keeper by Jodi Picoult. My mom is slightly obsessed with that author and I thought I read it to see what she was like. I am a pretentious book snob. But, mostly, I wanted to be left alone in my gloomy world, bemoaning MJ and her child, bemoaning my inability to help her, bemoaning my desire not to.
Hi, I am Kevin.
Hi, Kevin.
You like to read?
Yes.
Do you want to see a baby skunk?
He shows me a baby skunk, dead, in a Tupperware encased in a plastic CVS bag that reminded me of MJ. Does CVS give away free bags?
This is my Frog Frank. Frank the Frog.
He digs out his living frog also in a Tupperware in the crinkling pastic.
I silently ask God if a peaceful ride would be too much to ask for.
Kevin smells really, really bad. The inside of a old port-a-potty bad. He is dirty and is wearing flip flops. But, when a pregnant lady boards the already full bus in Worcester, he gives her his seat and curls up on the luggage rack and falls asleep clutching his zoological CVS bag. MJ's similar bag was a mystery and I sort of wish that he hadn't divulged his contents. But while we were bus neighbors I found out that he was going to Albany to visit his girlfriend. My immediate thought was how come I can’t get a date and this guy has a girlfriend? I immediately felt guilty for that thought. He told me about his parents both dead now. D-did d-d-rugs all the time. S-so bad-d. But my aunt sh-she rais-ded-d me and sh-she’s the best. D-do you like my s-skunk?
I could have said that his skunk really repulsed me and was probably festering with disease. I could have said it with such words as to belittle him. In this case, I was the superior being. I was god. I could have crushed his happy little dead skunk world.
Instead, I sputtered. I am not much of a skunk person. I think they smell funny.
Oh, you play with them long nuff you don’t s-smell them t’all!
Oh.
It was then he began talking to his dead skunk and I turned up my headphones and dove headfirst into the novel seeking, as I always do, protection from the world betwixt the pages of a book.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Why You Should Come to RUF
I am excited cause today is halfway through this week and this week is halfway point of the summer which means I get to go back to Norman in less time than I did at the beginning of the summer.
One of the huge reasons I love Oklahoma University is my wonderful campus ministry RUF. Now I am not just saying it's awesome cause most of you reading this are RUF-related in some way. Oh no. In true reformed fashion, there are three alliterated reasons why I love RUF.
They are as follows:
1. Conformity
2. Competition
3. Community
I hate conforming. So much so that if something is popular I will do the opposite. That is not good cause that means I am finding my identity in a non-identity whereas biblically you are supposed to find your identity in Christ, which means that I should act not because I am pursuing atypicality but because I am pursuing truth. RUF is atypical. I initially started going BECAUSE it was atypical. But then I discovered that there were fraternity and sorority kids fully clad in Ugg boots. What? I thought, Why are they here? Through RUF, I learned that it was because they were seeking truth. Doug (our campus minister at OURUF) preaches from the gospel. The gospel is truth. Therefore, Doug preaches truth and that is invigorating to EVERYONE cause it is real and true. And hard. Many times Doug has said things that make me furious, make me almost want to punch him, but, since they are biblical, they are true and I need to stop living to my idol of uniqueness and live instead to the God of Truth.
Speaking of Doug, the second reason you should come to RUF is that Doug is one of the most competitive people I know. I mean, play Cornhole, Puerto Rico, Agricola, whatever, and you will see a man who gets frustrated, trash talks, etc. My favorite Doug story from last semester concerned a girl in RUF who fainted right after large group met. The next Sunday, in the middle of church, I notice Doug scribbling on his bulletin. Psst, he whispers across the aisle calling this girl out. He then flashes his bulletin: "Don't Faint" was scrawled in dark letters. Now, if you don't know Doug, this may seem strange. Doug really disconcerted me for a while. Pastors needed to be above the rest, walk with perfect posture, always have great hair, speak with a slight Southern twang and look a little like the Colonel from KFC. Okay, so I had/have a bad view of pastors. But, Doug is not a perfect person, and he will confess to that. He is real. He is weird. He is always there for you. After my freshman year, I came back early to work and had an unfortunate roommate experience. Knowing really no one (all my friends hadn't returned), I called Doug, with whom by this time I had had a handful one-on-one conversations. Tearfully, I explained my situation. He then told me that he was going on vacation that week, but I could have the keys to his house. What?? Yep, Doug left me his house. And, that is Doug Serven for you: competitive, quirky, but truly loving and willing to give you the house off his back.
So, with his quirkiness Doug reflects the love of Christ onto his students and that with God's grace is mimicked by the RUFers themselves and helps create "community." Now, I never had community and when I started coming to RUF, it was a bit of a buzzword. Everyone mentioned community and I was nonplussed. Having friends? Big deal. I was a loner. It was then God sent a slew of persecutions my way that made me realize I couldn't do it on my own. When I was freaking out, I had to call people I knew for help. And they helped me. More than that, we started to have conversations more than just "how are your classes?" or "strange weather, no?" I started to actually be a part of lives and other people meaning more to me than a good conversation or transactional friendship. Having people to lean on and trust, who screw you over sometimes but know they are sinners and are willing to hear your criticisms and apologize. Whoa. I didn't know this EXISTED! It is truly a family of friends who are there for you. My roommate has spent many hours with me as I cried and whimpered like a baby and I tell you I HATE DOING THAT. I hate it cause I want to be independent, but I am not. I am weak in need of help and I get that through community...
Which then points me to Christ! WHoa! She is pulling out her conclusion/fourth point (notice it still starts with a C). RUF is a ministry that is based on teaching the Bible and learning about Jesus. Through RUF, I learned that people are messed up and, nonconformist and everything, I am just as messed up. I realized through watching Doug screw up, apologize, and lead a godly life that the stringent bar of perfection I set up for myself was the gospel without Christ saving me. And without Christ, the gospel is nothing. As I began to see redemption--not in big ways, but in little things: making friends, fighting with them, and making up, sitting on the floor of apartments talking about life, drinking with friends and learning about limits, etc--I began to see the immensity of Christ's love. I can be very mean and yet my community still loves me. They are reflecting Christ. It is not any of the people really treating me kindly but Christ through them. And that motivates me to seek after God.
I struggle. I don't believe. I mess up. Yet Christ loves me. I have done some stupid things, so stupid that I would never think of posting them on a blog, but Christ, Christ loves me a sinner weak and vile. I am just seeing this again in learning about my own sinful self, seeing how Doug loves his students, and being part of a sinful, but loving community.
Rock on RUF.
One of the huge reasons I love Oklahoma University is my wonderful campus ministry RUF. Now I am not just saying it's awesome cause most of you reading this are RUF-related in some way. Oh no. In true reformed fashion, there are three alliterated reasons why I love RUF.
They are as follows:
1. Conformity
2. Competition
3. Community
I hate conforming. So much so that if something is popular I will do the opposite. That is not good cause that means I am finding my identity in a non-identity whereas biblically you are supposed to find your identity in Christ, which means that I should act not because I am pursuing atypicality but because I am pursuing truth. RUF is atypical. I initially started going BECAUSE it was atypical. But then I discovered that there were fraternity and sorority kids fully clad in Ugg boots. What? I thought, Why are they here? Through RUF, I learned that it was because they were seeking truth. Doug (our campus minister at OURUF) preaches from the gospel. The gospel is truth. Therefore, Doug preaches truth and that is invigorating to EVERYONE cause it is real and true. And hard. Many times Doug has said things that make me furious, make me almost want to punch him, but, since they are biblical, they are true and I need to stop living to my idol of uniqueness and live instead to the God of Truth.
Speaking of Doug, the second reason you should come to RUF is that Doug is one of the most competitive people I know. I mean, play Cornhole, Puerto Rico, Agricola, whatever, and you will see a man who gets frustrated, trash talks, etc. My favorite Doug story from last semester concerned a girl in RUF who fainted right after large group met. The next Sunday, in the middle of church, I notice Doug scribbling on his bulletin. Psst, he whispers across the aisle calling this girl out. He then flashes his bulletin: "Don't Faint" was scrawled in dark letters. Now, if you don't know Doug, this may seem strange. Doug really disconcerted me for a while. Pastors needed to be above the rest, walk with perfect posture, always have great hair, speak with a slight Southern twang and look a little like the Colonel from KFC. Okay, so I had/have a bad view of pastors. But, Doug is not a perfect person, and he will confess to that. He is real. He is weird. He is always there for you. After my freshman year, I came back early to work and had an unfortunate roommate experience. Knowing really no one (all my friends hadn't returned), I called Doug, with whom by this time I had had a handful one-on-one conversations. Tearfully, I explained my situation. He then told me that he was going on vacation that week, but I could have the keys to his house. What?? Yep, Doug left me his house. And, that is Doug Serven for you: competitive, quirky, but truly loving and willing to give you the house off his back.
So, with his quirkiness Doug reflects the love of Christ onto his students and that with God's grace is mimicked by the RUFers themselves and helps create "community." Now, I never had community and when I started coming to RUF, it was a bit of a buzzword. Everyone mentioned community and I was nonplussed. Having friends? Big deal. I was a loner. It was then God sent a slew of persecutions my way that made me realize I couldn't do it on my own. When I was freaking out, I had to call people I knew for help. And they helped me. More than that, we started to have conversations more than just "how are your classes?" or "strange weather, no?" I started to actually be a part of lives and other people meaning more to me than a good conversation or transactional friendship. Having people to lean on and trust, who screw you over sometimes but know they are sinners and are willing to hear your criticisms and apologize. Whoa. I didn't know this EXISTED! It is truly a family of friends who are there for you. My roommate has spent many hours with me as I cried and whimpered like a baby and I tell you I HATE DOING THAT. I hate it cause I want to be independent, but I am not. I am weak in need of help and I get that through community...
Which then points me to Christ! WHoa! She is pulling out her conclusion/fourth point (notice it still starts with a C). RUF is a ministry that is based on teaching the Bible and learning about Jesus. Through RUF, I learned that people are messed up and, nonconformist and everything, I am just as messed up. I realized through watching Doug screw up, apologize, and lead a godly life that the stringent bar of perfection I set up for myself was the gospel without Christ saving me. And without Christ, the gospel is nothing. As I began to see redemption--not in big ways, but in little things: making friends, fighting with them, and making up, sitting on the floor of apartments talking about life, drinking with friends and learning about limits, etc--I began to see the immensity of Christ's love. I can be very mean and yet my community still loves me. They are reflecting Christ. It is not any of the people really treating me kindly but Christ through them. And that motivates me to seek after God.
I struggle. I don't believe. I mess up. Yet Christ loves me. I have done some stupid things, so stupid that I would never think of posting them on a blog, but Christ, Christ loves me a sinner weak and vile. I am just seeing this again in learning about my own sinful self, seeing how Doug loves his students, and being part of a sinful, but loving community.
Rock on RUF.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Soccer
I apologize in advance to all the children/innocent people who read my blog.
I fucking fucked up my fucking ankle again playing fucking soccer.
Okay. I am sorry. But...aaahhh...it hurts and I am mad that I couldn't finish the game and it hurts. The worst part is that I would do it again. I would go and play just as hard and do just as many risky ankle maneuvers and be aggressive. I would. Cause it was so fun. I haven't been that happy in a long time. I forgot how much I love this sport. I love soccer. The grass, the ball, the teamwork. It is my favorite sport and...I AM A TOTAL IDIOT.
Fuck.
I fucking fucked up my fucking ankle again playing fucking soccer.
Okay. I am sorry. But...aaahhh...it hurts and I am mad that I couldn't finish the game and it hurts. The worst part is that I would do it again. I would go and play just as hard and do just as many risky ankle maneuvers and be aggressive. I would. Cause it was so fun. I haven't been that happy in a long time. I forgot how much I love this sport. I love soccer. The grass, the ball, the teamwork. It is my favorite sport and...I AM A TOTAL IDIOT.
Fuck.
Things I learned last night
Medical students drink more than college students drink.
When you are drinking with them, every guy is on the student admissions committee and can play killer guitar.
The two song lyrics that are reverberating in my sore cranium are "Stay away from jazz and liquor, and the men who play for fun " from Chicago and "Rye whiskey makes the band taste better, makes your baby cuter, makes the sound taste sweeter...Rye thoughts aren't good thoughts boys have I ever told you about the time" a Punch Brothers' song
When you are drinking with them, every guy is on the student admissions committee and can play killer guitar.
The two song lyrics that are reverberating in my sore cranium are "Stay away from jazz and liquor, and the men who play for fun " from Chicago and "Rye whiskey makes the band taste better, makes your baby cuter, makes the sound taste sweeter...Rye thoughts aren't good thoughts boys have I ever told you about the time" a Punch Brothers' song
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
