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The Planet Sardon: A Travelogue

May 18, 2012 in Uncategorized | No comments

This is taken from the travel guide to the Planet on the fourth elliptical plane, right after Pardon, although the visual rhyme happens to be a coincidence because both planetary names are jokes:

Sardon is one of the least lovely of the planets in the Bruno Solar System, due to a lack of water, comfortable hotels, and restaurants that sell meals that rise above the level of edible. All that being true, the Sardonians have a long and illustrious history as Classicists, and most who travel there do so in order to add citations to their scholarly papers.

In the academic realm, you will discover labyrinthine library corridors that have confused more than one of Earth’s elite intellectuals, although it has been said that the intellectuals who never return remain on Sardon because they have finally found their own particular idea of heaven. Those who escape usually do so with a few hastily scrawled citations; the exact citations in most cases don’t matter at all, even if the dissertation asserts to understand the morphing properties of Platonic Celluform, while the citation is taken from the encyclopedia of plant genetics. Any citation culled from the libraries of Sardon will pass muster with Earthly peer-reviewed journals.

The climate is dry and hot, and most residents live in underground caves. The Sardonians’ passably edible diet consists of root vegetables grown in mist houses. One restaurant boasts a “rainbow of marrows”, but reviews of such have claimed that the “rainbow” is simply another Sardonicism, otherwise known as the peoples’ idea of a joke.

Summer is the worst time to visit, and not because the weather changes perceptibly on Sardon. Rather, summer is when the Academics are on vacation and, therefore, on their annual pilgrimages to their many and massive underground cathedrals, which are not as aesthetic as an Earthling might hope, being little better than enormous dirt hollows lit by bare bulbs that swing over glass cases. However, the glass cases are filled with ancient religious texts. These annual pilgrimages leave any and all less-than-proficient hotels empty of proprietors.

If the traveler is a religious scholar, the massive cathedrals provide the necessary root vegetables in two varieties, mashed with salt or mashed sans salt, as well as cots that can be purchased by the hour. In fact, religious scholars from numerous solar systems have attempted studying the Sardonica, or the religious tomes under glass, but few have come away with any understanding into the divine, or even what is moral or not among the Sardonian people. The texts seem to be filled with pithy expressions advising various courses of action that the people never follow or, if they do, they do so under the auspices of a rigorous social understanding. The Sardonians understand what nobody else can: that is, why the advice must be or, conversely, not be taken seriously, and outsiders are likely to suffer ridicule when they fail to comprehend the difference.

Many of Earth’s religious pilgrims have returned from Sardon with startling testimonies of the planet’s popular entertainment sector, which involves the self-flagellation of foreigners. Through this venue, pilgrims have come to see the light–literally–as they emerge from the underground cathedrals followed by Sardonian mockers. Most foreign pilgrims are brought to their knees, crying for pardon–Pardon me for my crimes against knowledge! Pardon me for my crimes against beauty!–thereby giving the Sardonians the opportunity to yell their oft repeated punchline: For Pardon, take a left through the atmosphere, you’ll arrive in no time at all, while knowing full well that their tourists will burn up before they ascend to 10,000 feet.

In short, the planet Sardon is your destination if you’re looking to be the entertainment or your own lost tour guide, or if muddying the waters of enlightenment is your idea of clarity. In other words, this is the place for do-it-yourself intellectuals who have a talent for misunderstanding the finest Earthly logic.

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In Which the Cocks are Still Displaying their Plumage

April 2, 2012 in Uncategorized | 2 comments

“Yes, I too think there is lots to be said for being no longer young; and I do most heartily agree that it is just as well to be past the age when one expects or desires to attract the other sex. It’s natural enough in our species, as in others, that the young birds should show off their plumage — in the mating season. But the trouble in the modern world is that there’s a tendency to rush all the birds on to that age as soon as possible and then keep them there as late as possible, thus losing all the real value of the other parts of life in a senseless, pitiful attempt to prolong what, after all, is neither its wisest, its happiest, or most innocent period.

I suspect merely commercial motives are behind it all: for it is at the showing-off stage that birds of both sexes have least sales-resistance” (C.S. Lewis, Letters to an American Lady Aug. 1, 1953)!

Very little time elapses before I’m regaled yet again with the notion that Christian women ought to keep themselves up so their husbands won’t stray. I’ve heard it from pastors. I’ve read it in Christian marital advice books. When I was a newly-married wife, I can’t tell you how often I heard this: “If the barn needs painting, paint it.” This is an actual quote from a mega Christian pastor, or multiple ones supposedly, though I’ve never heard it from the horses’ mouths [if women are barns, then, by deduction. . .], just the perpetual repetition of it.

I can no longer abide this doctrine. Don’t take me wrong–I was never okay with it, but I’ve finally reached the saturation point. Demanding that a woman maintain her looks is a burden that God never meant for her to carry. This preaching is a sign that American Christianity is immature, and I’m brought to frustrated tears by the kinds of comments I read on blog discussions of this topic, comments that are so hateful toward women who–gasp!–put on weight over the years that I want to vomit. I want to vomit at the image these Christians are thrusting at us of disrespectful, overweight wives shoveling donuts in their gaping maws, then swallowing all the fat and carbs down to their distended gullets.

That’s right–didn’t you know this? According to many Christians, wives who gain weight or who wear ragged clothes or whose skin isn’t forever glowing with youth and health are DISRESPECTFUL to their husbands.

Let me be honest. When I was in my twenties, I cared far too much about my appearance. I cared because I was immature, not because I was a respectful wife. Now I’ve passed on to a better stage of my life in which I’ve stopped caring with such fervency. I’m nearly forty, for heaven’s sake. Why should beauty be my primary concern? I have a husband to love, four children to feed and clothe, friends who need my hospitality, books to write. I’ve moved on to better and bigger issues–the ones God always wanted me to care about primarily.

Did you read the C.S. Lewis quote above? I’m far from thinking that Lewis is a prophet or the arbiter of the gospel, but when he wrote that letter, he was a few years away from death, and he expressed the wisdom of age in his words. In fact, he was wise in a way that I wish the church would be. It’s time American Christians moved past the stage of displaying its adolescent plumage. We have many more important concerns. Oh, wait, we always have had more important concerns.

Women aren’t barns. They’re living, breathing human beings. If you want to paint a barn, head on over to your neighbors’ farm. Then, you might actually fulfill the commandment to love your neighbor as yourself, rather than the nonexistent one about loathing your wife [or if you are a wife, yourself] because her [your] skin isn’t as dewy as a newborn babe’s.

***I’m editing in to add some of the real reasons women are prone to putting on weight that have nothing to do with disrespecting their husbands:

1. Women have more estrogen than men. Estrogen attracts fat cells.

2. We are bombarded with chemical estrogen and estrogen mimickers through pesticides and packaging and birth control, and that’s in addition to what women already have naturally.

3. Many women have broken metabolisms for many reasons, including thyroid issues. Fluoride may strengthen teeth, but it destroys the thyroid. Women have much bigger thyroids than men have.

4. Women put on weight for childbearing, and many women don’t lose it. This wasn’t a crime in the past. It was expected, as it should be now.

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It’s Friday! And a Few Tidbits About Me!

March 30, 2012 in Uncategorized | 7 comments

My Fave Music:

My favorite song in the whole world is It’s Friday by Rebecca Black! Her voice sends me in a tailspin of confusion, while the lyrics keep me glued to my seat in awe. The first time I heard the song, I was so taken aback by its rave sound that I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

My Fashion Sense:

I’ve always had one, and a very strong one, at that. I’m pretty much known by my friends as the fashion goddess. They’ve long taken my lead in the loose-look hairstyle and what color of western shirt matches best with flip-flops. For the last twenty years, I’ve also been a leader in colorful pen and chopstick accessories for the hair. In fact, I’ve even designed a line of gorgeous pens and pencils that can be worn in the hair while sleeping!

Since wearing these hair pieces, I’ve accomplished amazing acts in the bedroom! Often, I wake up to find haiku scribbled on my pillowcase! Here is the one I found this morning:

It’s Friday, Friday!
Tomorrow is Saturday!
Yesterday was Thurs.–

My Poetry:

This goes without saying! I’m an award-winning writer of avant-garde haiku!

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The Major and Minor Notes of Sentences

March 29, 2012 in Uncategorized | 2 comments

My life is full of language as a helium balloon is full of helium. I almost said, “. . .the way a balloon is filled with hot air.” But regardless of what light, airy simile I choose to use, the law of buoyancy still implies that I rise like a cork in a basin of water when I immerse myself in language.

The other day, I shared what might happen if students aren’t allowed to write their essays in heroic couplets. They might never turn into hunchbacked little men who are able to translate ancient Greek documents into English (see Alexander Pope). Alas, I discovered another consequence of leaning too heavily on the five-paragraph essay format. Students might never understand how to write in complete sentences. I learned this while researching samples of full-point SAT essays, all of which used perfect five-paragraph (or four-paragraph) essay format, and many of which used fragmented and run-on sentences for the sake of bad communication.

Let’s study sentences for a moment. At essence, a sentence is a group of words. A group of words could contain any type thereof. Jellyfish, sword, and beanie-baby. is a group of nouns followed by a period and, therefore, a sentence. One verb might also do, just to destroy the idea of group mentality [who needs groups, anyway? I'm a loner!]: “Swim?” Or, perhaps, a nominal group [a group in name, only, of course] would fit the bill: “Swimmingly happy jellyfish.” Some sentences involve best friends: “Lucy and Jane.”

Sentences are, more essentially, expressions of verbal or written language. They don’t even have to be composed of words. Who’s to say that

“A little learning is a dangerous thing.
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian Spring;
There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
and drinking largely sobers us again” (from A. Pope’s Essay on Criticism)

is better than

“when faces called flowers float out of the ground
and breathing is wishing and wishing is having-
but keeping is downward and doubting and never
-it’s april(yes,april;my darling)it’s spring” (from ee cumming’s 67)

is better than

“Skit skat skoodle doot, flip flop flee” (from Martin and Archambault’s Chicka Chicka Boom Boom).

If the words or sounds give you that squeaky, helium, lighter-than-air feeling, then what’s the problem? The problem is a lack of communication. Now, I understand that Chicka Chicka Boom Boom is a child’s book, a picture tome, and its purpose is to be silly and create slapdash rhythm. In the silliness sense, Chicka Chicka Boom Boom achieves its intended purpose. But it achieves no other. Who could possibly learn the alphabet from it, or understand why letters climb coconut trees? And why do lowercase letters sneak out at night, thereby disobeying the capital ones? And why do I have to read this drivel to my young children? Why? Why?

The ultimate purpose of the sentence is communication of some kind [Yes, I figured that out all on my own]. In the case of the banal five-paragraph essay, it should intend to simplify complex ideas into readable points. If the writer fails to pen major sentences, the writer has failed at the primary, intended purpose of the condensed essay form. What is a major sentence? Since I’ve broken down sentences into their most basic forms, now we must differentiate between grammatical sentences and ungrammatical ones.

While you could call my examples above sentences, even the one verb–Swim?–you couldn’t call them major sentences. They are sentences that hit minor notes, sentences that adhere to the barest of definitions. Begin with a capital and end with punctuation, and you will create a sentence. Wow! (This is a minor sentence.) That’s neat! (This is a major sentence because it also contains a noun and a verb.)

Swim! Why? The swimmingly happy jellyfish are headed this way! What a relief that we finally graduated to the majors. I wouldn’t have liked to suffer a jellyfish sting. Remember–my goal is to float like a cork to the top, not sink like a punctured balloon.

The jellyfish will sting you on the toes,
So–swim!–my child, away from language woes!

Thank you, but Pope would have despised my not-so-heroic couplet.

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Loosed From the Ties that Bind

March 3, 2012 in Uncategorized | No comments

When I arrived home from Los Alamos late last week, I didn’t have the energy for blogging. However, I wanted to somehow improve my blog. In the days when I was using blogger, I ran my site through a grading system and was able to raise my grade from a 23% to a 90% in five days. I was unlikely to ever score higher because I hadn’t purchased my own domain name. Yet, still, my hits were regular, if not high, and I had some repeat visitors, as well as visitors who remained for longer than a minute. Comments and followers were another story–I didn’t ever have many of those. But I wasn’t a complete failure.

For the sake of trying, I ran this site through the same grading system and received a 56%. Sadly, my low score is mainly based on on my lack of engaging content. The analysis was based on titles–mine are neither unique nor compelling–and the fact that I have 1.5 repeat visitors a month, and those non-repeat visitors stick around for less than a minute.

This struck a blow to me, the type of blow that affirms my worst suspicions–that I’m an unengaging person who doesn’t connect well with others. If I’m very passionate and excited about something–a concept, a story, whatever–nobody else will care (just for the record, I’m not blaming this on anybody. Clearly, I’ve failed to make anybody care). And in the interest of a last ditch attempt to connect with the world, I’m going to let you in on who I am emotionally. I’m going to spill it all for you right now.

At about age three, according to my mother, I ceased to be the type of person who wanted to be touched and loved by others. I don’t know what happened, but I lost my human connection. To all outward appearances, I lost the ability to be human. However, even though I didn’t feel quite human, I remember studying people around me to find a group or a tribe I could connect to, the way others did. My eyes fell time and again on the special kids, the ones who were in wheelchairs drooling or didn’t quite have muscle control or spoke in slurred syllables because they were mentally slow.

That was my group, my tribe. I couldn’t succeed academically, socially, or in sports. I suddenly felt an overwhelming compassion for these people–my people–because the other children were cruel and abusive to them, yet I knew their lack of mental acuity didn’t change their emotional perceptions. They knew when others mocked them. They knew when they didn’t fit in. I knew this because I felt the same way. I felt just as deeply as anybody because, as it turns out, I was and am human.

But somehow, I’m a human for whom the regular rules don’t apply. You can’t begin to guess how I longed to be treated as others, how I longed for anything–a nickname, maybe. Other kids had nicknames, and they played the game of pretending to despise their nicknames, but I knew they couldn’t really despise terms of endearment. Who could despise being endearing to others?

Yes, I realize I’m beginning to sound pathetic, and I don’t want you to leave in disgust or, worse, pity the poor, wee non-human human-me. As a child, God gave me the gift of loving Christian parents, which saved me a lot of pain. So let’s fast forward to the present. God also blessed me with a loving husband. I’ve come to accept physical and emotional love, even though I’m not altogether comfortable with it. Birthing children is an overtly physical process, and I’ve felt a renewed connection to the world through all four of my pregnancies.

Throughout my adult life, though, I’ve gone through cycles of attachment and detachment. And, frankly, I’m sick of it. I’m sick of feeling the need every other day to crawl into a cave where I can shut off all my overactive senses–my olfactory nerves that work a little too well, my taste buds that can pick up on trace amounts of undesirable spices in foods, my eardrums that vibrate at the slightest whisper, and my skin that crawls at caresses or touches.

Mostly, I no longer want to shut out love. I want to be human because humans forge connections with others, and that’s what I desire more than anything else. I don’t care about engaging others. I don’t care. My books, my writing may never be successful, or quite as compelling as authors who are naturals at being human. And I still don’t care. I want connection.

But how does that happen? I still don’t have a clue. Maybe you do.

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