Having BBC News as my home page provides me with daily bits of information. It is incredible what I can learn just by the headline, as I quickly change the page to check my email.
Today, however, a headline caught my eye and demanded further exploration. "Ancient papers reveal legacy of Timbuktu." They discovered, that in this dusty city (referred to by the West as "the middle of no-where") thousands upon thousands of ancient written records have been discovered, locked away in cellars. Check it out!
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/programmes/world_news_america/8387544.stm
Monday, November 30, 2009
Saturday, November 28, 2009
False Alarm.
It had been a long day. Too long.
Kevin Walters squinted at the reflective road signs as his blurry head lights cut through the night fog. 72nd Avenue. That's right.
The tuning of his tires crunched softly on the dirt road and Walters longed for a Big Mac and a Slurpee from the Admiral. Unfortunately, Walters had promised his sister Tina that he'd pick up the old Buick and bring it to the lot. He grunted and drummed his thick fingers on the steering wheel. Drifting into a fantasy about being in a metal band with long wild dreadlocks, beer, and babes, Kevin rolled passed his sister's house. At the stop-ahead sign, Kevin's stomach growled and jerked him into reality. He pulled into the nearest driveway to turn around, then cursed aloud when he remembered the long trailer attached to the hitch.
Rather than jack-knifing the trailer and becoming stuck, Kevin carefully backed out and rode the quarter mile to Tina's house, in reverse.
Little did he know, Walters caused quite a commotion. The driveway he had randomly selected belonged to a particular family that was hyper-sensitive about trailer pulling up to their house in the dead of night, on a Saturday.
Within the dimly glowing windows of the driveway's house, the youngest daughter shouted an alert to her three siblings. "Holy crap! They're at it again!"
Four pairs of eyes traced the headlights across the bay windows until the pricks of light disappeared behind the trees of the neighbors' property.
"They're moving backward--they're going to park!"
In 3.5 seconds, all four Pineiro kids bounded into the dark, aggressively tugging on jackets and hopping into shoes. "If they put a couch on our roof, I'm going to punch them in the face!" the nine year old chirped, boldly. He bounded down the driveway and dissapeared into the fog. "Weston--get back here!" Rachael hissed in a stage whisper. The glow of the truck's headlights was expanding.
"He's coming back! Everybody hide!" The four young Pineiros hid behind various shaped trees--the nine year old behind a shrub.
"Don't move! Be quiet!"
In the silence of his truck, Walters debated between a Micky D's and Taco Bell. He couldn't make up his mind. Because of his lusty fixation on greasy wrapped treats, Kevin failed to notice the three oddly shaped trees, and one oddly shaped shrub, watching intently as his truck went by.
"Are they going to put a Buick on our roof?"
As the trailer-hitched truck continued passed the house and made a left onto Filmore, the Pineiros turned to go inside, their aggression dissipating into the night.
Kevin Walters squinted at the reflective road signs as his blurry head lights cut through the night fog. 72nd Avenue. That's right.
The tuning of his tires crunched softly on the dirt road and Walters longed for a Big Mac and a Slurpee from the Admiral. Unfortunately, Walters had promised his sister Tina that he'd pick up the old Buick and bring it to the lot. He grunted and drummed his thick fingers on the steering wheel. Drifting into a fantasy about being in a metal band with long wild dreadlocks, beer, and babes, Kevin rolled passed his sister's house. At the stop-ahead sign, Kevin's stomach growled and jerked him into reality. He pulled into the nearest driveway to turn around, then cursed aloud when he remembered the long trailer attached to the hitch.
Rather than jack-knifing the trailer and becoming stuck, Kevin carefully backed out and rode the quarter mile to Tina's house, in reverse.
Little did he know, Walters caused quite a commotion. The driveway he had randomly selected belonged to a particular family that was hyper-sensitive about trailer pulling up to their house in the dead of night, on a Saturday.
Within the dimly glowing windows of the driveway's house, the youngest daughter shouted an alert to her three siblings. "Holy crap! They're at it again!"
Four pairs of eyes traced the headlights across the bay windows until the pricks of light disappeared behind the trees of the neighbors' property.
"They're moving backward--they're going to park!"
In 3.5 seconds, all four Pineiro kids bounded into the dark, aggressively tugging on jackets and hopping into shoes. "If they put a couch on our roof, I'm going to punch them in the face!" the nine year old chirped, boldly. He bounded down the driveway and dissapeared into the fog. "Weston--get back here!" Rachael hissed in a stage whisper. The glow of the truck's headlights was expanding.
"He's coming back! Everybody hide!" The four young Pineiros hid behind various shaped trees--the nine year old behind a shrub.
"Don't move! Be quiet!"
In the silence of his truck, Walters debated between a Micky D's and Taco Bell. He couldn't make up his mind. Because of his lusty fixation on greasy wrapped treats, Kevin failed to notice the three oddly shaped trees, and one oddly shaped shrub, watching intently as his truck went by.
"Are they going to put a Buick on our roof?"
As the trailer-hitched truck continued passed the house and made a left onto Filmore, the Pineiros turned to go inside, their aggression dissipating into the night.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
There's No Place Like Rome...
Every now and then I feel as if reality warps and blends into the fabric of another quality. Perhaps it is dream. Or perhaps it is the recognition of a possible higher reality. Last Wednesday, I experience this warp, so to speak, during a presentation about studying abroad. I had been paying attention to the Director of the International program in a plane somewhere between mild interest and scoffing cynicism. I am a junior with a newly declared double major with English and Theatre, and I expect to graduate on time. My disposition was that I had passed up the opportunity to partake in the financially-crippling-over-seas program long ago. But as the speaker went on, I felt the floor beneath me lift and the ceiling above me plunge. In a dizzying lurch, I experienced a paradigm shift.
It was the program about Rome that caught my interest and shook the foundation of my career goals. Attached to the program was the opportunity to intern with Vatican media. This concept of being able to write or perform (in a sense) on the radio, in association with Papal news, infiltrated my imagination and mixed—almost chemically—into my bloodstream. My perception of its affect on me started as a dull questioning, but as the minutes went by, I felt it exponentially. Now I'm on fire. It's almost obsessive. Why not me? I could live and study in Rome—the home of the Catholic Church—a cradle to the art of theatre—I could be there next year at this time.
Living, studying, and interning in Italy, a mere five miles from the Vatican, would incredible on so many levels--as a Catholic, as a student--as a human being. The program is a semester long and operates as a partnership with the Thomas More College. We would be staying at the Villa Serenella monastery and I would be taking at least thirteen credit hours of Humanities, Theology, Poetry, and Art and Architecture.
As I do not yet have an articulate career plan, I am still dreaming up possibilities. The idea of working in conjunction with Catholic Media is an intoxicating prospectus—especially if it's in Rome. As a devout Catholic, a study abroad trip so steeped in the faith would help me develop on a personal level—inspiring me to further connect my degree with my faith—and hopefully shaping me into a powerful asset to the church. I want this trip to help direct me toward my destined vocation.
Unfortunately, there are many things that may stop me. I have estimated that it would cost me $15,500 in all--in which I would have to sell both of my kidneys, a lot of plasma, everything I own, and I'd probably have to rob a bank or two.
There are a number of other reasons that I shan't bother you with, but my advisor advised me not to go, and my father is convinced that the delay of my graduation for the sake of electives is not an intelligent decision.
In light of stark reality, my infatuation with the idea of Rome has paled to a wan heart-break. It is possible to go, but when I narrow my sight to financial and economic reality, I realize that it is not exactly the best thing, strategically speaking, to go.
It was the program about Rome that caught my interest and shook the foundation of my career goals. Attached to the program was the opportunity to intern with Vatican media. This concept of being able to write or perform (in a sense) on the radio, in association with Papal news, infiltrated my imagination and mixed—almost chemically—into my bloodstream. My perception of its affect on me started as a dull questioning, but as the minutes went by, I felt it exponentially. Now I'm on fire. It's almost obsessive. Why not me? I could live and study in Rome—the home of the Catholic Church—a cradle to the art of theatre—I could be there next year at this time.
Living, studying, and interning in Italy, a mere five miles from the Vatican, would incredible on so many levels--as a Catholic, as a student--as a human being. The program is a semester long and operates as a partnership with the Thomas More College. We would be staying at the Villa Serenella monastery and I would be taking at least thirteen credit hours of Humanities, Theology, Poetry, and Art and Architecture.
As I do not yet have an articulate career plan, I am still dreaming up possibilities. The idea of working in conjunction with Catholic Media is an intoxicating prospectus—especially if it's in Rome. As a devout Catholic, a study abroad trip so steeped in the faith would help me develop on a personal level—inspiring me to further connect my degree with my faith—and hopefully shaping me into a powerful asset to the church. I want this trip to help direct me toward my destined vocation.
Unfortunately, there are many things that may stop me. I have estimated that it would cost me $15,500 in all--in which I would have to sell both of my kidneys, a lot of plasma, everything I own, and I'd probably have to rob a bank or two.
There are a number of other reasons that I shan't bother you with, but my advisor advised me not to go, and my father is convinced that the delay of my graduation for the sake of electives is not an intelligent decision.
In light of stark reality, my infatuation with the idea of Rome has paled to a wan heart-break. It is possible to go, but when I narrow my sight to financial and economic reality, I realize that it is not exactly the best thing, strategically speaking, to go.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Seventh Year,-- Dizzy.
"You're my only friend, Pidgeoto."
The little girl kissed the young chicken on its head and placed it on her lap. She gently kicked her legs, making the swing drift back and forth as she hummed a tune.
The sky was blue and clear--a blanket of silk over the Texas horizon. Haystacks and stubby trees dotted her sight, turning shades darker as the sun melted in the west and the vapor moon condensated on the glass shell of the atmosphere.
The sky dimmed and shimmered; less of a blue, now, and more of an azul--or an azúcar. Sugar. The sky must taste like sugar, thought the little girl aloud to her feathery companion. What do you think? Pidgeoto fluffed himself and cocked his head to the side.
Between the gravitational pull of the moon and the swing, the little girl imagined herself flying in the air--soaring with Pidgeoto nearby. Higher and higher into the sugar sky until the swing set and the haystack and the trees turned into specks--tiny chocolate chips on the cookie of Texas as the earth swallowed the sun and the icicle moon glowed brighter.
The little girl kissed the young chicken on its head and placed it on her lap. She gently kicked her legs, making the swing drift back and forth as she hummed a tune.
The sky was blue and clear--a blanket of silk over the Texas horizon. Haystacks and stubby trees dotted her sight, turning shades darker as the sun melted in the west and the vapor moon condensated on the glass shell of the atmosphere.
The sky dimmed and shimmered; less of a blue, now, and more of an azul--or an azúcar. Sugar. The sky must taste like sugar, thought the little girl aloud to her feathery companion. What do you think? Pidgeoto fluffed himself and cocked his head to the side.
Between the gravitational pull of the moon and the swing, the little girl imagined herself flying in the air--soaring with Pidgeoto nearby. Higher and higher into the sugar sky until the swing set and the haystack and the trees turned into specks--tiny chocolate chips on the cookie of Texas as the earth swallowed the sun and the icicle moon glowed brighter.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Oops, I'm a kid again
I'd like to think that I am not as disconnected with family life as I probably am. Or perhaps I just have unrealistic expectations of myself.
I knew I was going home this Sunday evening, and I thought I could accomplish a couple simple things within the familiar walls of my Allendale house. My goal to finish the lingering page and conclusion of my Transcendental term paper might have been a bit steep. I also wanted to prepare my directing rehearsal for tomorrow afternoon and perhaps write 2 or 3 journal entries. Ha.
With thoroughly scholarly intentions, I peregrinated away from my college roommates to my family home. 45 minutes later, I found myself giving my nine year old brother a piggy back ride while he pressed his hands over my eyes and mischievously shouted directions for me to stumble to. I ran into the refrigerator, my parent's bed, the stairs, and a closet door--to his utter amusement.
Somehow, I was even recorded for my sister's video blog with my hair brushed in front of my face with goggles over my "eyes," acting like an alien.
What's wrong with me? One moment I'm an adult, and the next moment, I'm inside of a closet, held captive by my kid brother (singing a Mario song), trying to manipulate my freedom with a tickly duster.
I have responsibilities! I'm a junior in college and I'm supposed to have a novel read by tomorrow and I need to contemplate my thoroughly passionate and culturally riveting senior project. Also, my exams are in three short weeks...
Will I be able to make significant strides surrounded by my family, if I live at home next year--where I will probably find myself with underwear on my head, scooping out bowls of ice cream singing the "Bert and Ernie" song from Sesame Street? Can I say that my family brings out the best in me?
...
I might have an incomplete paper for tomorrow's class, and I might not be completely on top of tomorrow's rehearsal, but at least I shared a couple hours with my family (and some silly memories with my rapidly growing baby brother).
When I look back on my life as a young adult--what will be more important?
I knew I was going home this Sunday evening, and I thought I could accomplish a couple simple things within the familiar walls of my Allendale house. My goal to finish the lingering page and conclusion of my Transcendental term paper might have been a bit steep. I also wanted to prepare my directing rehearsal for tomorrow afternoon and perhaps write 2 or 3 journal entries. Ha.
With thoroughly scholarly intentions, I peregrinated away from my college roommates to my family home. 45 minutes later, I found myself giving my nine year old brother a piggy back ride while he pressed his hands over my eyes and mischievously shouted directions for me to stumble to. I ran into the refrigerator, my parent's bed, the stairs, and a closet door--to his utter amusement.
Somehow, I was even recorded for my sister's video blog with my hair brushed in front of my face with goggles over my "eyes," acting like an alien.
What's wrong with me? One moment I'm an adult, and the next moment, I'm inside of a closet, held captive by my kid brother (singing a Mario song), trying to manipulate my freedom with a tickly duster.
I have responsibilities! I'm a junior in college and I'm supposed to have a novel read by tomorrow and I need to contemplate my thoroughly passionate and culturally riveting senior project. Also, my exams are in three short weeks...
Will I be able to make significant strides surrounded by my family, if I live at home next year--where I will probably find myself with underwear on my head, scooping out bowls of ice cream singing the "Bert and Ernie" song from Sesame Street? Can I say that my family brings out the best in me?
...
I might have an incomplete paper for tomorrow's class, and I might not be completely on top of tomorrow's rehearsal, but at least I shared a couple hours with my family (and some silly memories with my rapidly growing baby brother).
When I look back on my life as a young adult--what will be more important?
Saturday, November 21, 2009
A Graphic Genesis?! Oh my.
I just listened to an audio news bit on BBC.com about the publication of a graphic illustrated book of Genesis; I found it disturbing.
The book is explicit and has an "adult supervision" label (which shouldn't really come as a shock to those who have read the Old Testament). Listening to the artist's comments from the audio bit, it was really apparent that he didn't have actual Christian intentions. He said something like "The thought that people actually took this stuff seriously for thousands of years...I find it so crazy."
He sounded like a complete idiot, but I will give him props for something.
The graphic novel will illuminate some truths about the book of Genesis that may be typically ignored. The Old Testament is incredibly violent--the text doesn't seek to hide anything--it's all kind of out there.
I find the Old Testament a bit hard to understand, and thusly, I enjoy discussion on the topic. I think the worst thing to do with information--especially scripture--is to just blindly accept it if you don't understand it. Granted, there are things we just can't wrap our finite human minds around, but we can always ask questions and seek truth.
St. Thomas Aquinas would support seeking the truth.
The book is explicit and has an "adult supervision" label (which shouldn't really come as a shock to those who have read the Old Testament). Listening to the artist's comments from the audio bit, it was really apparent that he didn't have actual Christian intentions. He said something like "The thought that people actually took this stuff seriously for thousands of years...I find it so crazy."
He sounded like a complete idiot, but I will give him props for something.
The graphic novel will illuminate some truths about the book of Genesis that may be typically ignored. The Old Testament is incredibly violent--the text doesn't seek to hide anything--it's all kind of out there.
I find the Old Testament a bit hard to understand, and thusly, I enjoy discussion on the topic. I think the worst thing to do with information--especially scripture--is to just blindly accept it if you don't understand it. Granted, there are things we just can't wrap our finite human minds around, but we can always ask questions and seek truth.
St. Thomas Aquinas would support seeking the truth.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
The Dramatic Rendition of My Belated Return
Tossing and turning, seven hours later, I awoke with a start.
I forgot my water bottle!!!
How could I forget him? I mentally chastised myself then fell back asleep. My dreams were full of water containers of every sort: water towers, crock pots, flasks, tea kettles, cactus... There was no way to escape the guilt I felt in abandoning my friend that had been so faithful to me, throughout the past several weeks.
When I awoke, my throat was dry and my thirst unquenchable. Hurriedly, I dashed off to class and tried to think of my studies...
Theatre History.
Stage Movement.
Intro to Literature.
Work.
Around 6 O'clock in the evening, with the sun waning in its celestial arch, I snuck to the place where the brook babbles and the leaves are crunchy. My heart was racing--I experienced a wave of terror--IT WASN'T THERE!
"No! It has to be!"
I tried to imagine life without my water bottle--(I would have to get a new one!) The thought of my very own water bottle (which I typically keep by my side in waking and sleeping) being in the hands of some stranger with ill intentions, or worse yet--! In a garbage dump...oh no...the thought was too horrible to comprehend.
Just then--perhaps out of hopeful thinking, I thought--I spied a corner of maroon peeking out through nature's debris. On my hands and knees, I splashed about the crinkling cornflakes and discovered my bottle! It had burrowed under the pile of leaves for warmth!
"Ha! Ahaha!" My choked-up laughter echoed off Hruby hall and a nearby student cocked an eye brow. It didn't matter to me--I was reunited with my bottle of water!!
Joyously, I hugged the thing close to my body and promised never to leave it again.
I forgot my water bottle!!!
How could I forget him? I mentally chastised myself then fell back asleep. My dreams were full of water containers of every sort: water towers, crock pots, flasks, tea kettles, cactus... There was no way to escape the guilt I felt in abandoning my friend that had been so faithful to me, throughout the past several weeks.
When I awoke, my throat was dry and my thirst unquenchable. Hurriedly, I dashed off to class and tried to think of my studies...
Theatre History.
Stage Movement.
Intro to Literature.
Work.
Around 6 O'clock in the evening, with the sun waning in its celestial arch, I snuck to the place where the brook babbles and the leaves are crunchy. My heart was racing--I experienced a wave of terror--IT WASN'T THERE!
"No! It has to be!"
I tried to imagine life without my water bottle--(I would have to get a new one!) The thought of my very own water bottle (which I typically keep by my side in waking and sleeping) being in the hands of some stranger with ill intentions, or worse yet--! In a garbage dump...oh no...the thought was too horrible to comprehend.
Just then--perhaps out of hopeful thinking, I thought--I spied a corner of maroon peeking out through nature's debris. On my hands and knees, I splashed about the crinkling cornflakes and discovered my bottle! It had burrowed under the pile of leaves for warmth!
"Ha! Ahaha!" My choked-up laughter echoed off Hruby hall and a nearby student cocked an eye brow. It didn't matter to me--I was reunited with my bottle of water!!
Joyously, I hugged the thing close to my body and promised never to leave it again.
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