#244: Gingerbread House
Today CJ and I went to a Christmas party, and discovered our friend had made a village of gingerbread houses, with one for every single guest (he made them from scratch, too). Seriously awesome – and seriously fun.
Viktor Frankl, Garth Nix, and Yours Truly
Here’s a quote from Don Miller talking about Viktor Frankl: “Tested in the concentration camps, Frankl realized no amount of torture could keep a person from living a fulfilling life, if only they had three elements working for them: a project in which they could contribute, a person to love, and a worthy explanation for their suffering.”
Living a meaningful life is far more important to me than anything else. The year I finally gave up my twelve-year plan to go to Indonesia as a full-time aid worker was also the year my chocolate habit suddenly went from a cute foible to something that controlled my life. I’d never been out of the healthy weight range before then, and I’ve never stopped struggling with my weight since.
I am as certain as it’s possible to be that God doesn’t want me in Indonesia – I’d feel like Jonah disobeying God if I went there now (and I hear that didn’t work out). The other two main reasons for giving up Indonesia were that I love my writing more (when I’m in Indonesia I find I write non-fiction, which isn’t what I most love), and it was pretty clear that the main reason I wanted to go to Indonesia in the first place was to suffer.
One sure-fire way to feel special and close to God is by sacrificing a lot in a great cause. But throwing myself into increasingly painful situations in order to feel okay about myself isn’t the right way to go about it.
But I gotta tell you, switching destinies from, “Helping poor third-world children” to “sitting in my room typing up books that no-one reads” is crushing. Every day.
Writing books sort of counts as a “project in which I can contribute” except that I’m not contributing anything of worth – in my opinion.
If I suffer, it’s because I’m doing a whole lot of work that no-one cares about (which is where publishing comes in – and it’ll probably happen eventually, which’ll mean, since I definitely have someone to love, that I’ll be scoring at least 2 out of 3).
This interpretation of the meaningful life at least justifies how much lack of publication hurts. Writing meaningless books that are paid for (and read by the public) is obviously more life-affirming that writing meaningless books that I have to pay someone to read.
Which brings me to Garth Nix. You all know I adore “Sabriel” with a passion verging on that of an internet stalker. I’ve read it about four times this year alone. But in some ways I love “Lirael” and “Abhorsen” (books 2 and 3 in the trilogy, but they’re really one massive story) more.
I admire “Sabriel” because it’s brilliantly written, but my stalker-love stems from the fact that Sabriel is such a hero. She has a great cause, and she sacrifices everything for it. In short, she’s exactly who I’d like to be – and metaphorically, a close match to my Indonesia-travelling self. Too bad my Indonesia-travelling self is dead.
Lirael’s story is much closer to my own. Throughout the 600-word book, she wants one thing: The psychic gift that every single person in her community has. Without that gift, she can’t contribute to her society, and she is still considered a child. At the end of the book, she finds out that she has a different gift – a gift which was (in part) perfectly obvious, but which never seemed important to Lirael. She will never get the destiny she wanted – but she does have another that no-one else in any of the three books possesses.
It’s not a triumphant ending. In some ways, Lirael’s discovery comes as a relief. In other ways, it’s devastating – the final realisation that she will never be what she’s wanted to be all her life. (It parallels a discovery by the other main character, Sameth.)
In the final book, “Abhorsen”, both of the main characters go through all kinds of pain – except one: they know and accept their real destinies. The whole book is infused with a sense of purpose, and reading it (especially after the long pain of “Lirael”) fills me with hope.
Like Lirael, I have a longed-for destiny shut off from me, and another one waiting for me to fully embrace it. I hope that one day I can believe that my second destiny really does matter as much as the first.
In the meantime, stuck as an unpublished writer, I am still a child – dependent on others, and unable to contribute something of worth to the wider society. That’s never going to stop hurting – but one day it’ll stop.
#243: Record the Snore
CJ has many excellent qualities, among them his ability to sleep well. Very, very well. This led to one of those Conversations newlyweds have:
Me: Darling, you know that you snore.
CJ: Oh no, I’m sorry. Did I keep you awake?
Me: Well. . . you kept me entertained.
CJ [looking slightly trapped and not knowing why]: Um. . .
Me: I didn’t mind. It’s just. . .
CJ [increasingly paranoid]: Just?
Me: Well. . . you’re not normal.
CJ [utterly relieved for some reason]: Was I very loud?
Me: Not exactly. Well, sometimes. I think maybe you should see a doctor.
CJ [giving me an, “Aren’t women peculiar?” look]: Riiight.
Me: Really. I’m not annoyed.
CJ [alt/del/wifemustbeannoyed_retreat] I’m sorry.
Me [feeling more insane by the moment]: No – you – I – breathing!
CJ: I’m breathing now.
Me: Yes. Excellent point. Well. . . I guess that means you’re fine.
CJ [cautiously]: Good.
And so it was that CJ put an app on his phone that lets me record him snoring. After a few feeble recordings, I was finally able to prove that he’s. . . well, Not Normal.
WHO’S THE CRAZY ONE NOW, HMMM?
This is the recording, along with pics of the family sleeping – do stick with it to the end (you can hear me desperately trying not to laugh and wake him up):
And this is CJ’s face as he listened to it for the first time:
In other breathing-related news, sadly the zombie walk for 5 February has been re-cancelled. We’re back to the backup plan of myself and a relatively small number doing our thing in January. Details later.
The good news?
I don’t cancel stuff unless I’m dead – an excuse which won’t work this time, now will it?
“Meg the Egg” story so far
4
Mum walked in on Hugh and I kissing. “Sex ed clearly isn’t enough,” she said, and gave each of us an egg with a drawn-on face to look after.
She said it was the latest technology, and it would teach us about parenthood. Hugh freaked out and went home. My egg began to cry.
Mum made me walk up and down with the egg cupped in my hand until it finally shut up. I named it Meg, and decided never to have kids.
5
Stupid Meg is stupid crying and it won’t shut up. From now on, I’m only kissing Hugh if we’re both wrapped in cling wrap. Just in case.
Hugh tweeted that he didn’t want kids. Perfect. I wonder if sixteen is too young for him to get a vasectomy.
Discussed vasectomy with Hugh. He says he’ll do it if my Mum takes the eggs back. Definitely worth it. Meg makes my hands itch.
6
Miss Bobbit asked us what we were holding under our desks, and when we explained she had a coughing fit and left the room. NOT FUNNY.
Meg is oddly compelling. I feel funny without her neat warmth in my hand. Her little marker-drawn face looks like it’s smiling.
7
My BFF Sasha said that if I have to face parenthood my Mum should let Hugh stay with me so we can experience the pitfalls of married life.
When I asked Mum why she disagreed with Sasha she sent me to my room. Meg was making little gurgling noises. Pretty cute for a robot.
8
Meg was doing so well, and then at 3am she spat out some kind of green goo. Mum sucks! I never woke HER at 3am when I was a baby.
Fell asleep and missed drama class. Why couldn’t I fall asleep in maths? What’s wrong with me? I LIKE drama. Uh-oh, Meg needs a walk again.
9
Hugh pulled me over at lunch to show me something cool. He threw his egg (Sven) up in the air. It made a squealing noise like it was happy.
I wasn’t sure I dared throw Meg anywhere, even if it helped develop her motor skills in later life. Hugh grabbed her and chucked.
Meg flipped over and – yes, she was laughing! Hugh stepped forward to catch her and slipped. I dived facedown and JUST got her. Never again!
10
Rough night. When I woke up, both my hands were dark purple with bruising. Hugh came over and his hands were the same – especially the left.
“It’s Sven,” he said, “because I hold him in my left hand so my right is free for the remote.”
“Should infants be watching TV?”
“Not the point,” said Hugh.
I said, “Fine. We’re – allergic, or something. Should we tell my Mum?”
“What if she makes us give them up?”
11
I walked into Mum’s room without thinking, and saw her getting dressed. Her skin was green and slimy, and she pulled on a human skin suit.
She turned slowly and looked at me with two bulbous eyes on stalks: “We need to talk.”
I stood frozen: “You’re not Mum.”
“No.”
The alien explained that my real Mum was in Barbados and would be back for Christmas: “Call me Xarla.”
“Oh. . . sure. Er. Nice name.”
12
Hugh and Xarla and I sat down with the eggs. “We need human blood to feel our children,” she explained – “so, sorry about your hands.”
“Why don’t I remember Mum saying she was going away?” I asked.
Xarla said, “Short-term memory wipe. Give it another day or two.”
I called Mum in Barbados. “Are you doing your homework?” she trilled.
I said, “Um. Yes. So you’re fine?”
“Time of my life!”
“Okay then.”
13
Meg was crying again, so I walked around with her in my hand for over an hour. Now I knew she was doing it, I could feel tiny pinpricks.
I called Hugh. “Is Xarla implanting me with something? Because I’m finding it cute how Meg drinks my blood.”
Hugh was silent a long time.
“No,” he said at last: “They’re not altering us to like the eggs. Humans are biologically programmed to like small messy helpless things.”
14
Hugh and I sat close together at the back of English and discussed whether or not we were aiding an alien invasion of Earth.
I decided, “I don’t THINK we’re betraying the human race. I think we’re just. . . babysitting.”
Hugh nodded.
“If the aliens do take over, do you think they’ll abolish school?” said Hugh.
I said, “Another excellent point.”
15
For the sake of the children, Hugh and I skipped maths. I know I’D wipe out humanity if that was what I saw of it.
16
Hugh and I had dinner with Xarla – she cooked a great lasagna.
I said, “Er. . . would you mind putting your human skin suit back on?”
“No problem,” said Xarla.
Hugh whispered, “Adults are sooo gross.”
“I know.”
17
We took the eggs to a Lady Gaga concert. They moved around a lot, but I couldn’t tell if they were dancing or trying to escape.
Budget
CJ and I are saving for a house. We put aside a certain amount each year. I just sat down and worked out our budget until the end of 2010. And we can make it. If we can put off getting presents for three close friends (who will be fine with it), we will end the year with $2.
Yay us.
#242: Modern Art
Art should provoke an emotional response. Some modern art is brilliant, and some makes me say, “That’s PATHETIC!” (which is, technically, an emotional response).
I’ve been thinking about my own piece for some time now, and wanted to make some kind of comment on Christmas. Here’s what I finally came up with (there was a flash of late-night inspiration, naturally):
For those who don’t know, Gaviscon is Australia’s leading product for the relief of heartburn and indigestion. What could be more Christmassy than that?
Please file your comments on the worthiness or otherwise of this piece of art* below. Bonus points for any of the following words:
synergy
juxtaposition
visual allegory
hurynoggininity
For those who prefer the kind of art that looks nice, I give you “Ana at Twilight” (when the wall is toasty):
*I DID mention a few days ago that I’m no artist.
#241: Good Santa/Bad Santa
To a Christian (such as myself), Santa is a big fat symbol of capitalistic greed taking over what’s technically our religious holiday. (99% of us get over it on the theological loophole of, “Ooh! Presents!”)
I had a strange and somewhat disturbing moment in Indonesia one Christmas, when I discovered that poor Muslims were refusing charity gifts from Western countries because they contained pictures of Santa – something they considered a Christian religious symbol.
Arg. In this particular instance, volunteers sorted through the presents removing all the Santas, and it was all fine.
Indonesia is also the country that responded to terrorist attacks on churches by beefing up security – and dressing the armed guards as Santa. I like that.
THANK YOU to my parents for always telling me, “Santa Claus is a game we play at Christmas”, and for never forcing me to sit on the scary man’s knee.
And THANK YOU for my church, for happily bringing Santa into the celebrations, letting him give away ACTUAL LOLLIES (good health and OH&S can get stuffed) – and most of all, for having him ride in on this each year:
Coming soon: Modern art. Secret Squirrel. And my review of “Leviathan” and “Behemoth” by Scott Westerfeld, who is infinitely cooler than Santa.
#240: It’s a boy!
Some of you rabble have been around long enough to recall that I bought a bristle-nose catfish many moons ago, and named him Watson. Here’s what he looked like then:
He’s the white-spotted comma shape on the plastic wood. You may notice there’s no bristles on his nose. That’s because he was too young, and of indeterminate gender. Only the male bristlenoses actually have bristles on their noses, and only when they’re above a certain age.
Turns out that “certain age” is now. I noticed a lump on his face and wondered if he was sick. Upon closer examination, the truth became clear: Watson is male. My little catfish is becoming a man.
You can’t actually see the bristles in these photos, but they’re there. Trust me.
#239: Facing the Paint
I’m a familiar face at church (despite my increasingly rare attendance due to dieting making me extra-crazy), so when four face-painters weren’t enough for the tiny crowd, I was asked to help.
I am no artist, but one thing I can do is pretend to be confident. Thus, carefully restraining myself from utterances like, “Whoops! Your face now looks like &@#)$!”, and “Oh dear, I’m so sorry” and, “I’m sure it washes off”, and “Erm. . . can it be an EVIL fairy?” I dived into the fray.
The point at which it became fun (observe the smile of eeeevvvviiiiillll):
“Now just hold still, my little man. This won’t hurt a bit.”
Oh, sorry. Did you guys want to see HIS adorable Christmassy face?
Awww!
Double aww with blood-soaked teeth and a figgy pudding on top.
NB: The child did actually request this face.
The afternoon was made even better by the way the woman painting next to me was saying, “It’s not too late. I can still change you from a skull into a puppy. A nice, fluffy puppy. No? Okay. . .”
Christmas
For those who hadn’t noticed, it’s next week.
Soon the pain will be over.
Oh look! A picture of gratuitous cuteness!
