Grendel

"All order, I've come to understand, is theoretical, unreal - a harmless, sensible, smiling mask men slide between the two great, dark realities, the self and the world - two snake-pits.

This comes near the end of John Gardner's Grendel. Reviews of the book claim that it will enter the canon of high school English classes, among Lord of the Flies and The Catcher in the Rye. And I can see how Grendel's reflection on order fits in with Ralph and Holden.

It does not, however, fit in with the prominent "Out of chaos comes order" banner stapled to the bulletin board in my 9th grade English classroom. The teacher told us that it came from the ancient Greeks. It has stayed with me, since then, as I have wrestled with this perennial idea.

Chaos vs. order is one of many questions that frustrates Grendel while he seeks meaning as a self-conscious creature - not the mechanical evil that Beowulf portrays. He eventually finds that his relationship with the humans, the Danes, defines them both. And in the end, he can't resist the urge to raid the mead hall where Beowulf waits.

Though 1,200 years apart, the reality of the two stories, Grendel and Beowulf, is the same. All order and chaos come from narration - perception - be it Ancient Greek, Middle Ages Anglo-Saxon, or Post-Modern American.

The Card Shop (Pt. 2)

I sat at the table with two fellow fifth-graders and one adult player who also helped part-time at the card shop. He summoned a Shivan dragon.

"Eric, take the kids into the other room and close the door." The owner looked out the window, across the street, as he said this. I then remembered my older sister talking about a big fight between rival groups at the high school: the freaks vs the gangsters.

High schoolers were the ones who ripped the metal grates off the radiators when they walked through the halls in our school. Some had spikes, others had baggy clothes, and they all had mean looks. We picked up our cards and went into the side room. Once Eric closed the door, I could hear a bunch of high schoolers enter the shop.

"Hello Gordon. Here to buy something?"
"Eh."
"If you're not gonna buy something, you need to go."
"Whatever."
"Now, I don't want anything going on across the street coming into my shop, so if you guys aren't gonna get anything then it's time to go."

They went on for a while, as we pretended to focus on the game. Eric started to sweat.

"Alright, you guys can come out." The high schoolers had left, and they hadn't touched the radiator grates. Eric looked at the owner and Bob. They both stood behind their respective glass counters, and I'd never seen adults so alert. Bob looked back at Eric, and said, in that rising-to-shrill voice that usually came out as he would explain how he was gonna win the game, "I had a hand on my shotgun the whole time."

Sophie's World

Through daily installments, I recently finished Sophie's World. It was satisfactory as a novel and worked well as a bathroom read. I liked the regular installments of philosophy, and that Jostein Gaarder presented them through a fictional narrative. Unfortunately, the narrative felt more contrived than many of the philosophies in the book.

That being said, I will now take issue with the plot in a spoiling way - though I argue that this is no real loss to the reader. It's a philosophical story about a girl who realizes that her world isn't really as it seems: not an original plot, nor is it necessarily trite. My issue is with Gaarder's execution of the story. Specifically, Hilde's reaction to Sophie's dilemma.

Hilde's father writes Sophie's World, the text-in-text, as a means of sharing the world of philosophy with his daughter. As such, the text focuses primarily on the lessons that Sophie receives. Characters and plot serve more as medium than substance. So why does Gaarder make Hilde care so much about her father's manipulation of Sophie, and make it a central issue in the book? I, the reader, certainly don't care about the manipulation, nor do I believe that Hilde would react that way. Then again, I only read it while sitting on the toilet

The Card Shop (Pt. 1)

When I was ten I used to go to the local card shop as often as possible. I remember the owner as a somewhat crotchety but altogether benevolent old man with white hair, though I realize now that I've blended his figure in my memory with that of my first boss. As if their type overlapped enough that my mind consolidated them. The owner essentially ran an unofficial after-school program, since so many of us would gather at his shop to buy and trade cards to build up our decks. Of course, most of our time there was for battling those decks against each other.

I remember all of this through a child's view, when adults tower and have a default position of respect. Rebellion hadn't crossed my mind yet. But I did enjoy a chance to beat an adult opponent at the shop, especially because of their reaction to losing a game to some kid. I remember, probably selectively, defeating many adults.

Bob, an assistant at the shop who specialized in comic books, could not be beat. He had a ripe smell, and greasy hair that would touch the shoulders of the perennial flannel that strained on his round torso. I thought he was awesome. He'd make witty remarks during the game, and tell his opponents how he would beat them. You knew you were in trouble when his words got shrill and rapid in excitement. If he were a card, it'd be Wall of Flannel: "Target Thirtysomething Always Wins."

Event Horizon

I used to look at the stars in the night sky and feel a romantic awe. Now I think of how cold and empty it is out there. Maybe the change came with the move from Disney movies to science fiction - Aladdin to Aliens; however, I don't think facehuggers were a necessary part of my shift in perspective. And though the transition sounds dreary, I don't find it melodramatic or symptomatic of some negative experience. Rather, I think it's scientific.

In The Irrational Man, William Barrett outlines our shift from religious reverence of nature to scientific observation (overlooking Wicca and black metal, of course). As a result, we no longer see in nature any symbolic representation of the universe's deeper meaning, specifically our place in that deeper meaning. Instead, we discover a complex system that is essentially indifferent to the human experience.

Now, I prefer the romantic, spiritual perspective because it makes me feel better. But I can no longer see through that lens as I used to. It's as though the scientific perspective constantly pulls at me, like a black hole. And once you cross the event horizon, you can never return to the other side. Just ask Sam Neill and Laurence Fishburne.

Last Geekend

I played Dungeons & Dragons for the first time. The other players called it "fast and easy D&D" because, apparently, it wasn't the full-on version. It only took about two hours. I had some beginners luck: rolled a 1 for the monster, and a 20 for my hero. Twice.

Before D&D, we played Magic the Gathering. I hadn't had a game with four people since fourth grade. It took longer than D&D, and it made me wish I'd brought my own, old deck. They've come out with some new, unfamiliar cards since 1994.

So yesterday I broke into my old deck. Tightened up my mana-to-spell-to-creature ratio. It's a fast red deck, so I'm ready to do some damage as soon as the next gathering happens.

Pull the Rug from Under

I recently read My Sister's Keeper by Jodi Picoult. There's a chance that I'll teach it as part of an ethics unit, so I wanted to give it a non-academic first read. The story compelled me enough to finish it in two days. I imagine that students will have plenty to say about its central issue, of a child conceived through genetic screening and artificial conception in order to provide as a medical donor to her sick sibling. But for now I'm thinking more about the story's title.

It's not an obscure phrase, as far as biblical reference goes. I remember, though, a facebook post in which someone wrote how he though "it [was] ironic that Cain said 'I am my brother's keeper'." Someone else then replied that the line is actually "Am I my brother's keeper?" (Genesis 4:9), putting an end to any illusions of clever insight that the original post-er had.

Considering my relationship with this person, I got a disproportionate amount of satisfaction from his stuffed attempt at a profound facebook post. And I think it's because I see in him something that I dislike or fear in myself. Then again, I might just enjoy it when someone gets knocked down from a foolish position.

Freedom Fighters

I wrote this while in France, with the intention of including it in a travelogue:

“Impressionnante.” We mostly kept a solemn silence, supported by brief observations. It was the home states on the graves that got me. Like I’d just met the soldiers and asked where they were from. People I could know. Young men like me.

He was from Brittany, but she grew up in Normandy, so when we left the beach for food she called her parents for a dining recommendation. Her mother began proposing meals we could have at their house. “How do galettes sound?”

“Yes. I remember my father telling me about the GIs – how they gave him chocolate as they passed by his yard.” The scene played, black and white, in my mind, a soup of all the old WWII movies I’d seen. I wanted to know everything about my grandfather’s soldier experience, to show that I fit into this real thing told in personal stories, not just studied in school or watched in films. “Have you had macaroons before? Roquefort?”

Kurt Snarfield Vonnegut, Jr.

In his graduating class of 1940, Kurt Vonnegut is listed as "Kurt Snarfield Vonnegut, Jr." His classmates called him snarf because they once noticed him sniffing his armpits. Vonnegut points out, however, that technically "a snarf was a person who went around sniffing girls' bicycle saddles. I didn't do that."

Later, in the same interview from The Paris Review, Vonnegut specifies that a "twerp" is "a person who inserts a set of false teeth between the cheeks of his ass." This baffles the interviewer. Thankfully Vonnegut elaborates that twerps do it "In order to bite the buttons off the backseats of taxicabs. That's the only reason twerps do it. It's all that turns them on."

At this point, the interviewer decides to change the subject. He tries to shift to a more serious tone by asking if Vonnegut "went to Cornell University after Shortbridge." The reply: "I imagine." Pages later, to close the interview, Vonnegut suggests a way to maintain a reading public. He proposes "that every person out of work be required to submit a book report before he or she gets his or her welfare check."

Christian Compassion

I am a confirmed Catholic. It happened early in high school, the culmination of Sunday evenings dedicated to CCD (the Confraternity of Christian Doctrine). My memories of CCD are mostly a swirl of jokes with friends, attempts to talk with girls, and adults' complaints about missed football games on TV. Not much Father, Son, or Holy Ghost.

In the final year, my group's instructor was the father of a classmate. He focused on making the lessons relevant to our pre-teen and teen lives. Since Everlast's "Put Your Lights On" played on the radio all the time, he decided to analyze how the lyrics related to Christianity. I wasn't a fan of Everlast, but I appreciated the gesture.

Back then, three friends and I had our own band, Conformity Crisis. I thought the name was awesome, even though I didn't come up with it. During one Sunday, the teacher went around the table to ask what we thought about confirmation. When my turn arrived, I said something like: "I think it's stupid because it's just the church trying to get us all to think and act the same. Like, look at the word 'confirmation.' It even means conformity!" That was the crux of my rebellious rant - my false belief that the two words meant the same thing.

This argument fit right into my angsty thinking and made me feel cool. I even remember the other group members thinking I was cool for saying it, and then getting behind me. Now, if I were that teacher I would have found a dictionary and figuratively smashed that kid's smug face. But looking back, my ego and social identity had a lot riding on that argument. And though the teacher didn't agree with me, he didn't squash me either. I remember he told me, softly, that I should look those two words up; they may not mean what I think they do. Then we moved on to the next person.