Empathy vs. Sympathy.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about empathy and sympathy lately, particularly their differences.  Let’s be trite and start with definitions, shall we?

                Empathy:

1: the imaginative projection of a subjective state into an object so that the object appears to be infused with it

2: the action of understanding, being aware of, being sensitive to, and vicariously experiencing the feelings, thoughts, and experience of another of either the past or present without having the feelings, thoughts, and experience fully communicated in an objectively explicit manner

            Sympathy:

1: an affinity, association, or relationship between persons or things wherein whatever affects one similarly affects the other

2: the act or capacity of entering into or sharing the feelings or interests of another

Ok, that’s a lot of words, so let me attempt to (perhaps over-) simplify.  To sympathize is to feel emotions alongside someone because of your relationship with them, and to empathize is to attempt to feel exactly what someone else is feeling in an effort to understand their point of view.

I’ve heard and read things lately suggesting that empathy is the greater value, and one that is lacking in modern society, but I believe this to be an inherently flawed thesis.  I think empathy is, at its core, a selfish and self-centered notion, and that sympathy is the greater virtue.

When someone feels any emotion, good or bad, it is a uniquely subjective experience.  The happiness felt at the birth of a child varies from one person to the next.  It is built on years of back-story and the events leading up to that joyous moment.  When a loved one dies, each person’s grief is different based on their relationship to that person and their own feelings towards their own mortality.  I would argue that emotions are just like snowflakes and fingerprints: no two are the same, and everyone’s are unique because of their complexity.

To claim empathy is to claim that you know exactly what someone else is going through and feeling, and thus can relate to them on a deeper level.  It is to project oneself into a given situation and, after seeking understanding of how one would react, claim to know what someone is going through.  I find this a selfish notion.  We can’t know the feeling of others; we can only know our own feelings and what others share with us.  Empathy results in the statement “I know what you’re going through.”

Sympathy, on the other hand, is essentially our own reaction to another person’s emotions.  Because of our relationship with them, we are happy when they are happy, and we hurt to see them hurt.  It is to feel “alongside”, rather than “through”.  The real miracle of sympathy comes when we hurt or rejoice with those we do not know or have a relationship with just because they are people, too.  Because we rejoice with our brothers and sisters when they are happy, and we hurt to see another in the grip of grief.  Sympathy says “I am here with you now” instead of “I was here once”.

Empathy is a goal you cannot and probably woudl not want to actually attain.  Your own feelings are more than enough most of the time (I know mine are).  But let others know that you care.  Sympathize.

Know your enemy.

Sun Tzu was a general in the military and a philosopher in the Zhou Dynasty of China, around 500 BC.  He most famous work is called "The Art of War", in which he outlines not just military tactics, but the thought processes and wisdom related to victory on the battlefield.  He is responsible for sayings like "All warfare is based on deception", and perhaps most famously the reductionary "To know one's enemy is to know one's self," or more simply, "Know your enemy."  One of the greatest enemies in our household has been given the overly-cute, but situationally frightening name The Sleepytime Saddies.

It's late, you're tired, and you lie down to sleep.  Without warning, sadness washes over you like a cliche about waves.  You're sad about everything, anything, life the universe, it doesn't matter; you are just sad.  Indescribably sad, and it's so hard to shake you think you'll never sleep or be happy again.  That's the Saddies, and they are terrible.

In CS Lewis' book That Hideous Strength, the member's of Ransom's group are visited by the Old Gods, and their attributes fill the room.  When Mercury arrives, they all dance with joy.  When Venus comes through, they are all in love, friendly, and caring to one another.  When Saturn descends, sorrow for the dying universe hits them.  They think about how we all age, we all die, they think about the heat-death of the universe, and feel like they may never be happy again.  Lewis knew.

JK Rowling (also a member of the "Two First Initials Great Authors Club") described the Dementors feeding on happiness, giving their victims visions of the worst moments of their lives, leaving them cold and afraid.  Rowling knows.

I wrote last time about our "8 to 8" rule, and what a lifesaver it has been.  Being able to call out The Saddies for what they are has also been a huge help.  Just being able to say "This isn't real; this is just the pressure of the day collapsing in.  This is just The Saddies," helps prevent an all-out meltdown for either of us.  More importantly, navigating these storms can help you figure out what is weighing on you that you may not have known about, what is troubling you.  Unburdening yourself is one of the best ways to fight the Saddies, and just an all around good idea. 

So know your enemy, know yourself, and keep fighting the good fight against them.  When Saturn descends, he rarely stays long.  Dementors are sent packing by the happy thought of a Patronus, and the Saddies are driven out by talking, by hugs, and by ice cream.  Go easy on the latter, trust me.

The night time is almost never the right time.

Yes.  I know.  I've been busy.  Moving on...

KB and I have been married for almost nine (9) years now, and ever since a little bundle of joy walked into our lives, we've had a decision-making agreement that has really helped us staunch the flow of bad ideas.  We call it the "8 to 8 Rule".

Way back when, in 2004, Meg walked in through our back door, and into our lives.  She was wormy, mangy, and fairly insistent.  We lived in a small house and already had Clancey, our border collie.  Meg was a fairly destructive puppy, as puppies are wont to be, and so we had to make the decision and the choice to keep her.  She was especially barky at night (again, par for the course), and we often threatened (each other?) that the next day she was going to be taken to the Humane Society.  We decided one night, in a moment of clarity, that making decisions when tired or aggravated was probably not the best of ideas, thus implementing the rule that decisions of a large scale could not be made between the hours of 8:00 PM and 8:00 AM.  I dare say that rule kept Meg in dog biscuits, since during the daylight hours she was (and still is) a remarkably well behaved dog.  It served us well for keeping a rational head with Meg, and it has served us well in the days since.  As the night seeps in and we struggle to stay awake, I think we have a propensity to make bad choices; putting in a safeguard in place has really saved us some grief.  "8 to 8" is also a bulwark against an unseen enemy that KB and I have dubbed "The Sleepytime Saddies".

It's late, you're tired, you're about to fall asleep.  There's a knock at the door of your emotions.  Who's there?  The weight of the world, that's who.  Bam.  The world.  Every ounce of cosmic sadness is now on you, and damn if it isn't heavy. That's the Sleepytime Saddies.  Think you can make good decisions where they are going through your closet?  Heck no.  They are busy looking through cards people sent you years ago that you haven't thrown away, and you're trying to decide on vacation plans.  Don't do it.  That attempt at a decision will lead to an argument, and then to a fight.  Just.  Wait.  Until.  Tomorrow.

Just wait until tomorrow; everything will still be here.

Show your work.

Here's the first section or two of a story I'm writing.  It's called "The Queen", and I own all the copyrights, I think.  That's something people say, right?  Please enjoy.

The Queen

The fact that Becky is the assistant manager at the second largest restaurant in town is overshadowed by the fact that it is a Dairy Queen.  Her tenure there has been marred by altercations with customers, rudeness, and an overall lack of hygiene.  It is obvious to most that her attendance, rather than her attentiveness, is the driving force in her promotion from cashier.  Some might not consider six months a long engagement in any other industry; in Food Service it is, in fact, an eternity.

The angry customer’s bony finger jabs at Becky like a rapier.  Her dissatisfaction with her Steak Fingers, while obvious, seems misplaced to most patrons of The Queen.  They all silently agree that Becky cannot be held to account for the quality of a product that comes to them frozen, has the nutritional content of greasy cardboard, and is certainly not made of any naturally occurring substance.

“These fingers are disgusting!”  The final two syllables of her shout fall into oblivion so that the “g” rattles off the metallic napkin dispensers.  Her pronunciation of the word “fangers” causes Becky to smile and giggle.

“Listen here, missy.  I am never coming back here, I am writing a letter to your manager, and I will tell all my friends about this.”

“Again, ma’am, I am sorry for the quality of your Steak Finger Basket.  I’d be happy to comp you another meal,” Becky replies in an uncharacteristically calm manner.

“I don’t want your food.  A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be workin’ here anyway.  You must feel like a Grade ‘A’ loser!”

Becky hisses a perfunctory “Yes, ma’am” through clenched teeth.  The string of verbiage that follows is much more indicative of her usual demeanor.

“Becky, we have talked about your attitude way too often for someone only been here six months ”

Mr. Harding, the corpulent and balding manager, sits behind his comically small desk, peering at Becky over a substantial nose that supports drug store reading glasses.

“She was rude, and there’s nothing I can do about the stupid chicken fingers-“

“Steak fingers.”

“-steak fangers anyway.  So rather than afford her the courtesy that a normal human deserves, I gave her what she deserved.”

Exasperated, Harding continued.  “Becky do you really think that anyone, no matter how awful, deserves to be called a…what was it again?”

“A back-fat toting inbred harpy.”

“Good Lord, girl.  You read too much.”  Another deep sigh, one that spoke volumes of not only Harding’s job, but his life, his home, and the unyielding, nagging thought that if only he’d caught that touchdown pass back in high school…

“I guess you should just fire me.”

Hobbies.

Back when our wedding bliss was in its infancy, KB...let us use the word "suggested here, that I needed a hobby or two. It was when we had cable TV and I, perhaps, watched more than my fair share. I tried the classic "Why can't watching TV be considered a hobby?" trick. That was a lonely night on the couch. I've played guitar for years, so she added the tag "new" to her suggestion, and I debated until I lost. I did not see the point in developing a new hobby just for the sake of having one. I figured it should be something I enjoyed, was somewhat passionate about, and could partake in at any time.

It took six years, but I may have found a new hobby. I have always enjoyed quality short fiction. I think it is a classic art form that America has always supported. I mean, O. Henry (a Texan, I might add) even got a candy bar named for him. A really tasty one at that. The only other person I can think of with that distinction is, of course, Francis J. Whatchamacallit, inventor of the toilet paper holder. Look it up.

Some dear friends gave me journals this past spring for ideas to blog about (it should be noted that this was after a scolding for not updating with enough regularity). I must confess to not having used them yet, but I was inspired to start keeping a running word document on my work computer with ideas. Many of those were just thoughts ("Nay, profundities" - T.K.), and few were sentences that sounded good. Some were comments I had made that I thought especially witty (ok, so there’s only one of those). I realized that I could form story around some of these.

KB and I have tossed about ideas for books or stories before. I have made up a few stories to tell at bedtime. We've had many good conversations on the art of storytelling and writing. Once I finally put these puzzle pieces together, I started writing, and it has been quite a joy. I have no delusion that I will become some widely published author. Heck, I may only have one or two stories in my head at al, but the process has been enjoyable so far.  Michael Chabon has stated that he writes about 5,000 words per day.  I'm shooting for 100, and maybe half of them good.
 
We're taking a trip back to Austin this weekend, and I am itching to get at those journals. I imagine they will be filled quicker than I realize

Removed.

It is an odd sensation to know that you have multiple places to live, and yet feel homeless.  It feels like an after-school special in which the homeless guy on the corner turns out to be a millionaire with several homes, but in this case, it's a couple of rentals.  Also, when you're solidly middle-class, eccentric just comes off as "crazy", so...I try and tamp down the urge to make tin foil hats, I suppose.  (It occurs to me that this entire paragraph is become quite eccentric.  Rather than delete it, I will let it stand as a testament to my eccentricity gaining self-awareness.  Like Skynet)

KB and I are in Houston for the summer, and we have a fairly humble set-up at an apartment between our two work locations.  It's still a weird feeling to see her (almost) every day, but in an extraordinarily good way.  We both agree that it barely seems real; the routine of the past school year set in easily, and disrupting that has very much left us disoriented.  Pair the move and its challenges with a trip to Beaumont last weekend (the first time we've spent an entire weekend there in eight years of marriage, I think), and we don't quite know where we're living.  So we have more than one home, but still feel a little homeless.

While it is great to be back in Houston for a multitude of reasons, one of the weirder experiences has been driving past our old house.  We lived in the Heights for seven plus years, so there are a lot of very happy memories there.  In the last ten months, our former landlord has neither rented out our old place, nor put any care into it, so it's looking very run down.  Seeing it in such a terrible state was a sad moment for us.  Maybe we felt some sense of culpability (we were the only thing standing between that house and nature taking it back), maybe a sense of loss (we kind of just abandoned the place), but part of me thinks it's a glimpse into the future.

KB is in seminary, and in 2014 she will be an Episcopal priest.  It will be our lot in life to be moving on a somewhat regular basis.  It is rare that someone takes a position and then stays more than ten years, so we will be saying goodbye to people and homes more frequently than most.  This past year is the first big move of many more to come, and coping with that is all part of this process.

I'm comforted in a big way by the fact that we have tremendous friends (seriously, some of the best anyone could have) that will be anywhere we need them to be at a moment's notice.  We are lucky to have such anchors in our life; a cadre of friends and family that we can truly depend on is one of the greatest gifts in life. 

Requiem.

Consider the title of this post your only warning.  Besides this one.

Clancey, our border collie, died almost a week ago during our move from Austin to Houston (KB is a chaplain in Houston this summer, so this is only temporary).  Rather than give details of his passing and health, besides assurances that he did not suffer and that we stayed with him the whole time, I want to tell you about my friend Clancey.

I met Clancey on my first date with KB.  I was later told that he did not always take to larger guys, but he and I were instantly friends.  KB had him since he was a puppy, and when I met him he was a very spunky teenager.

Clancey loved people in general, and was always kind.  I think part of that was viewing everyone as sheep that needed herding and tender loving care (with the occasional nip at the heel).  He was friendly towards everyone, especially kids.  He seemed to know when someone was upset, and would sit next to anyone crying to clean up tears.  When toddlers or other little folk were around, he would simply lie down and wait for them to pet him, mostly so he could lick their (hopefully bare) toes.

Clancey was smart.  You could always tell that there was a spark of understanding.  One of my favorite memories is from a rainy day in our house in Houston.  The mud outside prompted me to leave a towel by the back door to muddy paws and feed Clancey inside to minimize that mud.  As I poured food in his bowl, he immediately knocked it over.  I looked at him exasperatedly and said "You better clean that up!".  He looked at me, grabbed the towel in his teeth, and dragged it over the food on the floor in order to cover it up.  How could I do anything but laugh in amazement and hug hm?

Clancey was fast.  So fast.  At the dog park, he would run after a thrown ball with a speed that was awe-inspiring.  On a bad day, he led the pack.  On a good day, he could outstrip all but the greyhounds, a black and white streak dashing for a ball in a moment of unbridled joy.  Once he got to the ball, he never seemed to mind if another dog took it, because...

Clancey was, above all, desirous of pleasing the people he loved (which was pretty much everyone).  Whether it was by sitting and staying, coming when called, playing, caring, or cuddling, Clancey wanted the people in his life to be happy, and the best way he could do that was by doing what they wanted.  He was the epitome of utter selflessness.

I know that many of the qualities I attribute to Clancey can be written off as anthropomorphization, or projecting qualities I find noble onto a blank slate, or even part of grappling with my own mortality.  Those things may well be true, but I also know that he was an example of living a life in perfect communion with how one is Created.  He was perfectly himself, if that makes any sense.  There's a trite saying (probably on a bumper sticker) that goes something like "I hope I can be the person my dog thinks I am."  I would much rather be the person my dog was; someone who loves unconditionally and fiercely, and who seeks to make the people around them happy.

Clancey was a good boy, and I miss him terribly.

On music.

Most people that know me (even just a little) know that I have a deep love for music.  More precisely, I have a very deep love and knowledge of popular music that is derived from traditional American blues and falls into the "rock and roll" category.  I also love the blues, jazz, traditional, and older country music, but rock and roll (and most of its ancestors) is what I really love.  I could write page after page, but I thought I would focus on a very specific moment: the song that changed my life.

Obviously, that phrase is hyperbolic, but hearing it really opened my ears to music for the first time and stirred my love for music.  It was fall of 1992, and I was right around the age of thirteen, what seems to be the perfect age to fall in love with music.  My dad was driving me home from soccer practice, and Eric Clapton's "Layla" (the "unplugged" version) came on the radio.  I was instantly slack-jawed.  The rhythm, the tone of Clapton's voice, and the lyrics hit me with Road-to-Damascus-level force.  I instantly demanded that my father relinquish every bit of knowledge he had on the song and its artist on the double-quick.  After finding out just who the Eric Clapton was, I set about hearing anything and everything I could.

It should be said that I was not some kind of pubescent hermit; I'd heard music before.  I loved Michael Jackson's Thriller years earlier, but this was the first time that hearing a song made me not only want to hear more, but everything else by a particular artist.  It was not just a desire to hear, but to know.  Where was he from?  What other bands was he in?  What made him want to play the guitar (because he made me want to play the guitar)?  I was driven by a distinct need to know and to hear.

So off I went.  "Unplugged" by Eric Clapton was the first CD I bought for myself after Christmas 1992 (when I received my first CD player).  From there, I bought Cream, Derek and the Dominoes, and Blind Faith.  I stretched beyond Clapton to the Who, Hendrix, the Rolling Stones.  The Band, The Beatles (how the heck did I miss them?!), Elvis, Muddy Waters, Leadbelly, Howlin' Wolf.  The CD collection grew.  While friends dove into Nirvana and Pearl Jam (they came a few years later for me), I was devouring everything I could by Pink Floyd, Steely Dan, and Stevie Ray Vaughn. 

My Clapton obsession led to the making of a list for my own personal records; a list of every Clapton album available for sale (fine, it was a checklist).  I soon found myself not only scouring through the CD section of any store I went into, but memorizing the title and release year of every Clapton album I found.  I had a Wikipedia-worthy list compiled within one year of purchasing “Unplugged”.  Through about 1995, my list was pretty comprehensive.

I never came close to owning all of those Clapton records, but my ears had been opened; I was now attuned to the lyrics and music coming form the radio.  I was always looking for the nxt obsession, the next life-altering song (which comes about two-and-a-half years later in the form of a music video), but my love of Clapton and the blues continued (and continues to this day) to grow.  It is one of the truest expression of the soul I have found in popular culture and music.  If nothing else, it tells the listener that they are not alone.  Someone else aches the way I do, someone else is overjoyed the way I am, someone else's feet are stomping, someone else's ears are opened, and someone else's life is forever changed,

Extra Ordinary Time.

If the church's liturgical calendar is suppose to mirror not only the seasons of the year and the lectionary, but the seasons of our lives (birth, celebration, death, resurrection, etc), I feel like the last several months have been very Pentecost for me.  Not in the "everyone wear red this Sunday!" way, but in the long stretch of time through the summer in which we simply carry on.  It is often called Ordinary Time.

Perhaps this is not the best analogy.  It's not like things haven't been busy or changing rapidly.  Plenty of curve balls have been thrown (Surprise! You're moving back to Houston for the summer!), but I don't feel the roller coaster ups and downs as much as I usually do.  Maybe I'm getting used to them, maybe they aren't as big as they seem.  Right now I feel like I'm in ordinary time; soldiering on, because that is just what you do.

I think a big part of my personality comes from my grandfathers; family men, consummate churchmen, and men with close friends that they loved.  A big part of both their personalities was simply doing what needed to be done without much complaint.  JUst pressing on despite obstacles, because that's just what you do.  I know it's a generational mind set common to many of the "builders" but it is something that really stuck with me.

The season of Pentecost is often symbolized by wheat or other growing things.  It is ordinary time, but it's a time for growth and renewal.  Since KB and I will get to spend the entire summer together, we're counting on some of that.  The last few weeks I have really felt the lack of hours together compounding like interest, and need very much to pay back some of that debt of time.  It will be good to have a season to be together, to grown and renew, and to find joy in the ordinary.  Thank God for extra ordinary time.

Editor's note: this post isn't as well written as I want, but I also want to be better about regular updates, so...take what you can get.

Uncle Travelling Nick

So to start with, it's one thing when people tell me to update my blog in person.  Now I'm getting texts that say "Either update you blog or just delete it."  Wow.  Come on, peeps.  I've been crazy busy for the last...OK, so it has been a while.  Sorry.

So where to begin?  I've been travelling a lot work (hence the Fraggles reference above; also I was, in fact, in the land of the Silly Creatures).  I've been to Louisiana, Mississippi, Arkansas, California, and Toronto in the last two months.  Throw a truly wonderful Boston trip in there, and I'm really racking up the frequent flier miles. 

The reason for my lack of updates is simply feeling that I don't have anything to say.  I try and write things to provoke thought or discussion, to draw out ideas, or to help form opinions.  I've been so engrossed in work that I have just not had any thoughts worth sharing lately.  It occurs to me, though, that the people reading this may not really care and are simply interested in what I'm doing or have to say.  Which is weird to begin with, but brace yourselves; here comes the engine stuff...

So let's talk tractors.  Like this one:



A John Deere tractor

 Tractors have what is called a "common sump" design, meaning that the fluids that lubricate the entire machine (except the engine) are in the same housing that runs the length of the tractor.  My company makes additives that go into the oils for those sumps.  We focus on parts like this:



Look kids! A piston pumps! And my desk!

Our chemistry helps maintain the integrity of parts like this piston pump.  It's made of a lot of different kinds of metals (note the yellow metal on top) that all have to be cared for.  Bad oils can be very detrimental:


Worn elliptical gear section

 The gear teeth above are worn down from being used in a bad oil.  This shortens the life of the tractor.  However, what we make...



Happy gears!

 
Keeps gears from spawling (metal shaving off), and extends the life of tractors and farm equipment.

OK I think that's it for now, my darlings.  You are all wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.  I'll make sure to send postcards the next time I venture out into the Land of the Silly People.

Blog, Interrupted.

I suppose when one is informed by two Top Tier FriendsTM* that his blog has not been updated in "over a month!", it should be taken as a sign of dereliction of duty.  So to the two of you, thanks for the prodding, and my apologies for the lack of updates.

Work has been slightly insane, with a fairly substantial increase in travel and a tremendous amount of new things to learn about engines, chemistry, mechanics, business, negotiations, etc.  I have been under a pile of work pretty much since January 1, and there are no signs of it evening out for a while.  I will, however, make an effort to be more diligent with my blogging.

KB has also had her share of travel lately, but we still manage to find fun things to do.  Last weekend we had a housefull of people to eat dinner and study theology.  There was also a guitar based antecedent to the evening, so it was a ton o' fun.  We made Red Beans and Rice for some friends that perhaps hadn't gotten a taste of the Gulf Coast delicacy.

Thanks, Garden and Gun!

It turned out wonderfully, and we will likely do it again sometime.  I think we may invest in a better stock pot, though.  KB made some seriously great molasses cookies for dessert that made their way to Houston this week.  Minus a few, because I am a weak, weak man.

* The Top Tier Friends designation is a registered trademark of NJ Friendship, Inc. and denotes friends of an unsurpassed quality.  Primary specification: the patience and apparent desire to read ramblings of NJ Friendship, Inc.

Inside/Outside.

I walked into our bathroom the other day and noticed a bottle on the counter with its label facing away from me.  I knew instantly that it was a bottle of Listerine due to the shape of the container.  Even if it had not been full of green (burning, delicious) liquid, I would have known what it was because the packaging is fairly iconic. This prompted me to think about other iconic packages that you can identify without text or contents.

An old glass Coca-Cola bottle, a Smuckers' jelly jar (thanks to the checkered cap), a CD jewel case, a Tiffany's box (again, because of the color).  These are all things that simply by seeing the exterior, you know what the contents will likely be.  It seems to go against the axiom of never judging a book by its cover.

It dawns on me, though, that all of these products have iconic packaging because they are associated with their contents.  We know that something in a pretty aqua-marine blue box will be beautiful, sparkly, and of high quality because Tiffany's & Co. have established themselves as such.  We know that Smucker's will be consistently good (maybe not great, but good).  The insides make the outside recognizable; the contents create icons of the exterior. 

I want to leave this post fairly succinct, but I also don't want to pass up an opportunity to leave some advice for my godchildren.  J, PC, R, T, and V: I know you, I know where you come from,  and I know the things that make you the amazing, unbelievable people you are.  The attributes and traits that constitute you are of the highest quality.  There's no need for any of you to worry about your "packaging"; be yourself.  Be the best you that you can, and I promise that you will be known for the content of your character regardless of how it is packaged.

Twirrible.

So as promised, I read the first book in the Twilight series.  Let me begin by saying that I genuinely tried to come at this with an open mind, and leave any bias behind. I wanted to read critically for plot, style, and character development, but also to see how enjoyable the book actually was.  I tried my best to be impartial and objective.

This book is terrible.  It is boring, lacks any real development of its central characters, and was written in an overly simplistic style.

First, the boredom factor.  So much fat could have been trimmed from this book.  This is clearly the work of a lazy editor.  For instance, rather than using the reaction of characters to allow the reader to understand the supernatural beauty of the vampire characters, the author (Stephanie Meyer) relies heavily on descriptors.  This is fine in moderation, but at some point you have to wonder if there should be a special permit for a thesaurus.  I too have the ability to look up the word "pretty" in Roget's, but you don't see me showing off.

Next, the characters.  They are so painfully flat, that they made an already lengthy and slow novel drag all the more.  The main female protagonist (named Bella...ugh, we get it, she's pretty) falls in love with a vampire kids named Edward.  She pays attention to him despite his warnings that he is dangerous (he is a contentious vampire).  Why? Mostly, it would seem, because he's pretty.  Or because he uses vampire magic.  Not because of shared interests, or history, or having anything in common.  He's pretty and magic.  Edward, Bella's main squeeze, is not much better.  He seems to only like Bella because he cannot read her mind (so in case you were wondering if inscrutability was a factor in love, you now have the answer).  He stalks her (not like prey, but like...you know, a stalker) and warns her that he is dangerous.  Neither seem to care, and fall "in love".  They never really move past this puppy love stage, and seem content to be pretty together.  As far as the message these characters send to readers (especially girls)  goes, it is pretty much this: "Being pretty is the most important thing in life, besides having a boyfriend."  Look at Harry Potter, with its cadre of strong female characters, or The Hunger Games, with perhaps the most well written teenage girl in recent memory.  They all have great lessons to teach; not Twilight.

Finally, there's a lot of "telling", and not enough "showing".  The characters all speak (or think) any descriptions or expositions.  They literally question each other (\incessantly) about everything on their minds, so rather than reading about someone reacting to something, they just come out and say it.  It is rather boring.

Seriously, if you're looking for a good book with a strong female lead, read A Wrinkle in Time, or either of the alternatives mentioned above.  Twilight will not teach anyone anything, other than how to write best-selling dreck.

Retconning.

"Retcon" is a term that some may know, and others may not.  It is a portmanteau of the phrase "retroactive continuity", and gained prominence in the world of comic books.  Essentially, it involved altering the back-story story of a given character.  For example, George Lucas retconned the original Star Wars to make Greedo shoot at Han first in the Mos Eisley Cantina on Tatooine, thereby making Han’s originally cavalier act one of self defense, and altering his nature. (TRIPLE NERD SCORE!!)

This happens often in comics, soap operas (He was a robot the whole time!! Dun dun duuuuunnn), and movies, and is usually done to allow for different or enhanced storytelling.  It is usually a good thing, but not always (see the above case).  I think people retcon their own lives more often than they realize.

Because my best friends and I have known each other since high school, conversations return to that topic with some frequency.  Our assessment of our standing in high school society is that we were not really popular, but not really unpopular.  Our wives find this hard to believe (which I in turn find adorable), but I think our assessment is correct, mainly because it was not made in a vacuum.  We can give each other some outside perspective.  I’ve known a few people who have done the opposite and come to (from my perspective) surprising conclusions.

A very dear friend of mine once made an off-hand comment that high school was terrible for him.  I was stunned by this, because my outside assessment was that he was well-liked by most, popular with many, and simply had a deep interior life, thus choosing to not participate in a lot of social-type activities.  His view was totally the opposite.  It was one of inner tumult, outer scorn, and deep wells of sorrow.  To hear him relate in very few terms his memories of high school made me very sad for him because I could only imagine that much of this perception was driven by his inward view of himself.  Moreover, his view of his younger years motivated many of his present day actions.  My external view was that he retconned his life to make it fit who he was at the time. (side-note; he’s a very happy and well adjusted former teenager now, just like the rest of us).

My dear friend is not the only person I’ve known to do this.  In fact, I’d wager that many of us frequently retcon our lives, sometimes unknowingly.  It reminds me of a quote from George Orwell: “Who controls the past, controls the future.  Who controls the present, controls the past.”  Orwell was discussing revisionist histories being used to motivate control of a population in 1984.  If we apply this bit of Ingsoc to ourselves, it means that since we control our present and have plans for our future, we have the ability (and frequent desire) to make our past fit nicely into that present and those plans.  So why do we do it?

Perhaps it is to alleviate cognitive dissonance.  Maybe to help justify our actions.  Maybe it is to make ourselves feel better about our current station in life.  For whatever reason, we’ve all been there.  I would imagine that finding the motivating force behind your own personal retconning would be a momentous and enlightening achievement.  So…you know…get to it.
We all have pasts that are at once hazy and veiled by memory, yet as clear as a mountain stream.  They inform who we are, shape our present, and guide our future.  Some are more difficult to navigate than others, but they all have value and meaning.  Look through yours, and get to know yourself better.  If you play it right, you might discover that you are, in fact, a long lost princess from another world, sent as an envoy to the backwards human race.  (dun dun duuuuuunnn!!!)

iSuccumbed

I had to get one for work, but I promise to use it responsibly.

Sent from my iPhone.

Twi not?

I usually do a good job of forming opinions that are based on some sort of direct knowledge of a given subject.  I try to not go with the popular opinion just because it's popular, but because it's something I truly believe (or not, as the case may be).  KB has one more than one occasion pointed out the notable exception to this point of personal pride: my opinion of the Twilight books.

I've read about  them, but never actually read the source material.  I've read lots of other opinions, and over time just assimilated those.  (FYI, my opinion currently is that they are terrible).  But, as usual, KB is right.  I have not done my usual due diligence in having an opinion about Twilight.

Therefore, in the interest of good taste, philosophy, and opinionology, I will be reading the first book in the Twilight series next week (the friends I'm staying with have the books) in order to draw my own conclusions about the writing, character development, etc.  I will go into the book with an open mind and no higher expectations than I would for any other book.  After what I'm assuming will be some sort of Vonnegut/Chabon/Rowling detox, I'll write a full report and post it here (OK, that was my last snarky comment).

On brunching.

As I may have mentioned before, KB and I love to entertain.  Yesterday marked our fourth annual New Year's Day Brunch.  We've pretty much got this one down to a science.  We've had other successful parties, mind you (a Guy Fawkes Night party was especially memorable), but this one seems to have become our signature party.  I like to think of it as daring anyone to top this party for the rest of the year.  But, as we all know, I have a mean, ugly, competitive streak.

This year was the first party in Austin, and we really missed our Houston friends that have been at all the other brunches.  [Sidebar/direct message to Houston friends: get yourselves to Austin for brunch next year.  That's an order.]  We had a lot of seminary folks, a few other Austin friends, and had a great time.  We decided to go with a north/south theme for the food (okay, it was accidental, but it was still cool).  Corn Pudding was back on the menu, and as delicious as ever, along with Pigs in Blankets.  The Williams-named Plunder Buns were back and devoured (nay, plundered) as expected.  New additions this year were Hoppin' John (black-eyed peas with bacon and greens over rice) and a cranberry/maple bread pudding.  So northern for the sweet pastries, and decidedly southern for the savory dishes.  Drinks, as usual, were mimosas and milk punch.  (Clearly, we prefer to save our hangovers for January 2nd).

I think the reason any party works is because you have not only good food (which we darn sure do), but great guests and company (which we are honored to have).  I am always impressed by our friends and their efforts (conscious or not) to make our parties memorable.  We could not do it without you.  In a related and repeated request (and you know who you are), if our dear, dear friends from around the country and southeast Texas could somehow make it here for NYB, it would be the party of the century.  We have a guest room now, so you have a place to stay (fair warning, we may put you to work, but it would be totally fun).

In other news, there's a new salon across from a Central New York bagel shop at which we often eat lunch.  It's name?  The Lonsale Salon.

The Art of BS.

A friend recently joked about their career with me, and at one point said something like "I'm just worried people will find out I'm faking this whole thing."  I found this odd, because they've been nothing but successful.  I also found it strikingly familiar.

Despite me outward persona, I battled insecurity for a long time.  Usually, it was about this very thing.  I always felt like I never knew what I was talking about, that I was just good at BSing my way through things, and that I was the biggest Holden Caulfield-style phony there was.  My career in youth ministry didn't help because despite how well I may have actually done, working for jerkfaces kept my ego completely underfoot.  I always felt like I was a fraud.  It really came to a head when I was finishing my undergrad at St. Thomas.

I took a lot of philosophy classes because they really interested me, but that required me to write a lot.  Unlike math, where you can stumble into a correct answer accidentally, you really have to demonstrate that you know your stuff in philosophy.  Every paper, every test, I felt like a total fraud, and that I didn't know what I was doing.  Even though I made all As, I convinced myself that I had fooled my professors. 

Finally, during my last semester, I was taking an independent study on CS Lewis.  I had read eight of his books, and was required to produce a 20 page paper on whatever topic I wanted.  I was crippled.  I couldn't even begin because I knew I was a fake.  As I started looking back through old papers and essay tests to "scavenge" a good idea, I realized that I had made As on everything.  I had empirical evidence that I could write philosophically, and I could do it well.  The only thing stopping me was the fact that I had not realized that what I thought was BS, was actually me being great at what I did.  Here I was thinking that I was just pretending to write these academic papers, when all along I was actually doing it.  So, I wrote an awesome  paper on CS Lewis, and got another A.  I graduated Cum Laude.

Since then, I've worked on reminding myself of the many things I have accomplished to keep the insecurity at bay.  It's a work in progress without a doubt, but I can see my way through the fog with more regularity.  Unfortunately, the flip side of this is that I can occasionally develop an impenetrable shield of cockiness and unwarranted over-confidence, but that's a story for another time.

In other news, a very Merry Christmas to all (three or four) of you.  Please know that you are well loved, deep in the heart of Texas (clap x4).

Leavin' on a Jet Plane.

The next few weeks (maybe even months) will be filled with more travel than usual.  I'm headed out to our headquarters in California for one last meeting in my old role, and will likely be back out there for training in my new one come January.  Couple that with travel for Christmas, and you've got me up in the air.  If I had Photoshop, here is where I'd insert a picture of me seemingly flying through the air.  Instead, I'll just allow everyone to imagine that for a few seconds.

Okay, you can open your eyes now.  I'm still safely on terra firma.  For a few more hours, anyway.

We (read: KB) have done a lot of our Christmas shopping, and are nearing the last few, hard-to-buy-for folks.  I have never understood what exact quality makes someone hard to shop for, but it has always seemed like one of those "know it when you see it" kind of things.  I was told that I'm hard to shop for, and I've allowed that worm to work its way into my brain.  I think it may have something to do with me being rather practical, and gifts being inherently extravagant, no matter the actual size or cost.  It's the distillation of a few things, all wrapped up with a bow.  It's how much someone loves you, what they think of you, what they think you like, and what they think you need.  So pretty much a gift can be seen as the sum total of a person's thoughts on you, and wow...that's a lot.  When someone gives me something, I'm always appreciative, but I'm so humbled that I am not effusive.  That may sound like a lot of BS (I like to call it philosophy), but I think it's how I really feel.  When confronted with such an emotional thing, my practical side tends to take over, and I get all stoic and quiet.  Maybe I need to work on being more ebullient when receiving a gift.  I mean, smiling until it hurts isn't so bad and a few fist pumps in the air might do me good.

So watch out, Christmas, I'm going to get all kind of happy this year.  Brace yourselves!

Jay Oh Bee.

I was informed by my Cambridge readers that it had been three weeks since my last post, and that this was not acceptable.  To them, and to the other, let's say, three of you, I apologize.  The slide into Advent has become a whirlwind, and I vow to be more diligent in keeping my reader(s) up to date on the inner workings of my inscrutable mind.
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When KB and I first began the discernment process, we were entirely unsure what the job situation would be like.  If we went to Virginia, maybe I'd get a government job.  I'm sure the BLS is always looking for nerds analysts.  If we went to Sewanee, I could...buy a seersucker suit and become a gentleman of leisure?  And if the choice was Austin, well...that was more difficult.  I have a good job at Chevron, and the commute is a little on the long side, and where would we live, and blah, blah, whine, blah...

Long story short, that decision got made for us, and we live in Austin.  Boomtown: population, us.  I continue my work here in Houston and get to live in guests rooms thanks to the most unbelievably wonderful friends a guy could ask for.

I recently got a new assignment, so I get the joy of learning something new.  I'm very excited, because I really do like to learn, and the acquisition of skills is something I have not gotten to focus on much in the last few months.  I'll be working in the product development group, working with customers to meet their product needs.  I'm a decent talker, so the sales aspect should be easy to pick up; the chemistry perhaps less so.
Since I know that LMGK and PCEK read this, I feel like this is a good chance to impart godfatherly advice to all my darlings, and it is this: learning is always fun.  Never stop.  Find something that you like, and learn as much about it as you can.  (I'll save the rest for another blog post, mainly so I am assured of something to write next time).

I am really looking forward to new opportunities, some travel, learning new things, and growing more in my professional career.  It means a little more time at the office for the near term, but I can handle that.  Most importantly, it enables me the resources and leisure to spend time with the ones I love; that to me is the most important aspect of any job.

This post is a little scatter-shot, but I'm rusty...cut me some slack.