A Holiday

Tonight is New Year's Eve, which is my absolute LEAST favorite holiday, because it's all about SOCIALIZING and having a "great" time, when really, there's nothing all that great about talking to shallow strangers at drinking parties in expensive hotel rooms, which is what most people think they need to do to have a great time on New Year's. There's also nothing great about being suckered into attending a drinking party at a near-stranger's house, which has been the story of my New Year's Eve for the last three years or so. All I remember doing at one of these parties is staring like a zombie at re-runs of "I Love the Eighties" on VH1 while drinking warm Coors Lights. At another, I fell asleep. At another, I became irrationally angry when our friend Ashley repeatedly and loudly insisted that we play charades, my absolute LEAST favorite game--so angry, in fact, that I yelled at her. When we finally wound up playing anyway, despite (or because of?) my evident hatred of the game, I became overly and embarrassingly competitive as an outlet for my aggression. I wrote down obscure, oddly worded book and film titles for the other team to act out; in revenge, someone gave me The Silmarillion. Luckily, Darren Belajac (another overly competitive player) was on my team and guessed it.

This year, I'll be going back to a near-stranger's (friend-of-a-friend's) house for a drinking party where games will be played. Seems like a cruel repetition of past New Year's nightmares, but this time, there are two differences: we're bringing our own supply of Jagermeister and Goldschlager, and I've changed my mind about games. They're pretty fun, especially when you have nothing more to talk about, which happens quite frequently to socially awkward people like myself. During my Mom and Grandma's five-day stay in Pittsburgh over Christmas, for instance, we played Skip-bo and Monopoly, thereby avoiding hours of awkward and meaningless chatter. Because who wants to discuss real-life with your family when you could be talking about purchasing the Pennsylvania Railroad or Park Place? Certainly not me.

Unfortunately, the dreaded real-life discussions do come up eventually. My mom started missing my dad when we sat down to eat Christmas dinner, and I spent a large part of the evening counseling her while trying to subvert my own emotions on the subject. Well, "emotions" probably isn't the right word; "chasm" might be better, because at this point "my dad" as a concept seems like a black hole that a large part of my life has gotten sucked into. But that is something that I can't exactly share with her, so instead I said "brave" and "upbeat" things that seemed to make her feel better--until she ran to the bathroom and projectile vomitted all over the wall. Really, that happened. My mom puked all over her in-laws' sterile, flower-papered bathroom on Christmas day. It was horrible...and totally awesome.

When I said good-bye to my mom and grandma, the closest remaining members of my family, a few days later, I felt guilty about being relieved. Even though I love them, and they are the only family I've got, my inner and outer life is very different than theirs, and I can refrain from impatience and even outright hostility for only so long. I know that most adults feel this way about their close family members, but I wish I could avoid it, given my peculiar family circumstances (being an only child and grandchild, and most of the family dead). This is why I've started liking games.

I'm going to go put on my "game face" for New Year's Eve now--and tuck a precious bottle of tasty liqueur under each arm. Here's hoping for even just a little bit of fun.

I'm...speechless...

If you'd like to know why, read this: http://www.talk2action.org/story/2006/12/12/4227/2458/Front_Page/_quot_When_Faith_Gets_Dangerous_quot_

More comments later, after I collect my thoughts...

A Sufjan Stevens Christmas

The bed that isn't made
The broken window shade
The radiator's on
I loved you all along
But I can see it now
You always tell me how
I could do so much better
You said it in your letter

Did I make you cry on Christmas day?
Did I let you down like every other day?

from "Did I make you cry on Christmas? (Well, you deserved it!)"

I like Christmas music, but in recent years, the "magic" behind it has been pretty much gone. This is, of course, my fault: as I've grown more and more cynical, the "holiday spirit" has been more and more difficult for me to access. Recently, I've been pretty pissed about this. The few weeks before Christmas used to be my second-favorite time of year (harvest being my favorite), but now that those weeks are here, I find that I'm already in the post-holiday, "I'm fat from too much eating and drinking; oh yeah, and winter sucks" mindset. This does not bode well for the ENTIRE WEEK that I must spend with my mom and grandma soon: instead of losing my temper at the end of the week, I'll probably say something regretable as soon as they get out of the car.

Luckily, Sufjan Stevens has saved the day--and the holiday--for me. Mike and I were able to locate what was probably the last copy of Songs for Christmas left in Pittsburgh, and I've been listening to it all afternoon. What Sufjan provides in this collection of holiday eps can best be described as reprieve from played-out notions of holiday cheer--both religious and secular--that seem to permeate everyday life. He accomplishes this through a mixture of parody, nostalgia, humor, and the hidden moments of clarity that have become his trademark. Including original songs, new takes on old favorites, and instrumental pieces, the collection provides a way for the cynical to re-define "holiday spirit."

In fact, Songs has given me such relief from pre-holiday depression that listening to it has become a sort of therapy. The collection is beginning to play the same role that Illinoise played after my dads unexpected death. Sometimes I would listen to Illinoise searchingly, to find answers; sometimes for the comforting knowledge that another person was just as confused about matters of life and death as I was; and sometimes just to fill the silence. While my current disillusionment with Christmas is not nearly as serious as the existential crisis I struggled with at that time, I appreciate the salve that Songs has provided for my post-adolescent holiday angst.

All of this to say, Songs for Christmas is worth finding and spending $22 on. Go get it, and perhaps your Christmas will be salvaged as well.

On "ripping a new asshole"

There have been very few times in my life when I have actually been "ripped a new asshole," as the saying goes. When it has happened, mostly in response to my relational misconduct, the person doing the ripping has always been a "loved one," or at least, someone who claimed to be.

Given this backgound, I shouldn't be hurt or discouraged after today's ripping; instead, I should view it as a compliment: obviously, the people who did it care enough to go to the trouble. However, this was the first time I have been criticized so honestly as an academic, and due to the fact that the ripping has taken place in new territory, it stings more than a little bit.

Here's the story: I am in the process of applying to PhD programs, and an integral component of the PhD application is a horrible little essay entitled the "statement of purpose." In this essay, you must "sell yourself," i.e., make yourself attractive to the schools you want to attend, by "setting yourself apart" as a student and future scholar. This seems simple enough, but it's actually very complex given that everyone has a different idea of how it should be done. Oh, and it's often considered a "decisive factor" in whether or not you get into a program.

This is a nightmarish situation, especially for me, because I don't "sell" myself well. I've been told in the past that I either come across too matter-of-factly or too naively. So, to confront the current situation head-on, I enlisted the help of two professors who have written recommendations for me and who have been helpfully candid in the past. Yesterday, I sent them a rough draft of the statement of purpose I'd been obsessing over for a few days. Today, after reading it, they both ripped me a new asshole.

To quote one of them: "It's OK, but your capable of much, MUCH better work." To quote the other: "This sort of thing is just not going to cut it." And it went on and on.

Did I think the essay was great? No. Was I expecting them to be critical? Yes. But somehow, it felt a lot worse than I thought it was going to. Why? Well, quite frankly, academia has been pretty good to me in the past. I got a 4.0 in grad school, and received mostly praise and very little criticism on my oral and written work. My profs liked me as a person, and I won't say it was all fun and games, but it went pretty smoothly for me. But now, I'm approaching the top of the academic ladder, and suddenly things aren't as easy as they used to be.

My friend Amy, a PhD student, told me to get used to having a lot of new assholes ripped on a regular basis, and while I'll have to in order to survive, I'm certainly not used to it now. In fact, my new asshole is very tender, and it hurts a lot to sit down. But very soon (probably after a few long discussions with friends and maybe a few glasses of wine) the tenderness will be gone, and I'll sit down and redo the damned statement. And it'll be good. Or at least, it'll be better than just "OK."

And if it's not, well, then I won't be going back to school. But I'm not going to think about that at the moment; I'm going to go over to Joseph-Beth and anesthetize myself with some trashy magazines.

An Advent reflection: There's mystery in waiting.

O come, Desire of nations, bind
In one the hearts of all mankind;
Bid Thou our sad divisions cease,
And be Thyself our King of Peace.

Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

Waiting isn't something I do well. Impatience has been a prominent personality trait of mine from the time I was very young, and even though it often leads to near-disatrous results in my personal life, I persist in being impatient. The realities of life are beginning to wear impatience down a bit, but for the most part, I'd still rather go without that have to wait for something I badly--even desperately--want. This makes me a terrible Black Friday shopper (even if waiting in line for a few hours outside of Best Buy at 5 am guaranteed me a $20 ipod, I'd probably still be at home in bed); coincidentally, it also makes me a terrible Christian.

Christianity is all about waiting. Christians continually wait for a redeemed world: for God's kingdom to come, for the lion to lie down with the lamb, for the bridegroom to come for the bride, for Jesus to make sense of this mess. I've never liked this about my religion, and recently I've revolted against it: I've chosen to embrace the present world as an important part of the faraway idyll that first existed in Eden and (we believe) will exist again. I'm not totally convinced that the world as we know it will cease to exist, which is why I think we should care for it the best we can and try to work toward the ideals we associate with a redeemed earth.

But, undeniably, the world sucks right now. When I look around, and when I look inside, it becomes painfully obvious just how broken everything is. Much of the time I ignore this (I'm not sure I could stay sane if I didn't); then, suddenly and randomly, it takes my breath away. And again, I'm stuck with the waiting I deplore.

It's Advent, and in church every Sunday, we've been learning about waiting. Advent is, symbolically, the season of waiting for the Christ child, even though I've never really thought of it that way. (Being raised in a Baptist church, I wasn't well schooled in symbolism.) As I sang the well-known hymn quoted above, which is all about the simultaneous ache and joy of waiting, I was reminded of the symbolic role of Isreal in the Christian faith: just as Israel endured periods of exile and had to wait for redemption, we experience moments of brokenness during which we wait, desperately, for Christ's presence. But, as the song argues eloquently, the periods of waiting should also be times of celebration, as difficult as that may seem, because of God's promise.

This is how I've decided to view the world: it's sagging under the weight of our burdens, but I'll "rejoice"--i.e., work toward and pray for redemption--as I wait for Christ to return. And maybe mysteriously, miraculously, waiting will be transformative.