SOLS: Things I Love

If you can't say something nice, then don't say anything at all. If you have to say something, then say something nice. Today I have nothing to say except this:

I love things. I love shoes. I love Yo-Yo Ma playing his cello on Youtube. I love wandering through the library and picking up the first book that catches my eye, and checking it out, no matter what. I love strawberries, oreos, candy corn, and tooth paste. I love the origami critters taped to my wall. I love coming home. I love going out. I love words spicey and sweet. I love breathing in and breathing out.

SOLS: Let It Be Lent!

Mardi Gras!!! Okay, I didn't actually celebrate Fat Tuesday or Carnival, but it was a really great day. And...I am looking forward to celebrating Lent. Lent? I hear you, my imaginary audience, ask. But, Megan, you're not Catholic, and besides is Lent really something you celebrate? Isn't it more something you suffer through?

Yes. I know, it can be, and not by my reckoning. A few years ago I jokingly told people that for Lent I was giving up the dreadful habit of being wrong, but this year I'm taking it seriously--Lent, that is. I officially renounce complaining. No complaining for 40 days. Not one moan, groan, whine, or kvetch! Will I succeed? All my money says no, but I'm going to try anyway. I think life will be better if I say it is, or if I don't say that it isn't. So come Lent, come gentle Lent, come, cheer-filled, sun-browed Lent! I celebrate you!

(Shakespeare and Whitman?)

SOLS: Louis XIV, King of China?

I'm hanging out with Amanda, doing homework. It's nice (minus the homework part). She's working on Art History and I'm studying for tomorrow's midterm. Sometimes I wish we could trade--I'll write about how Caravaggio influenced artists all over Europe and she can compile a list of the characteristics of sentimental literature.

Then she leans over to ask me if the following sentence seems right. "King Louis called himself Sun Ling." She's been filling out answers on a worksheet from a wordbank where Sun King has been mis-typed as Sun Ling. Now we can't stop seeing Louis XIV in a Versailles-turned-pagoda shouting to all his officials and heads-of-this-and-that, "I am Sun Ling! Call me Sun Ling!"

Typos make me smile.

A Poor Attempt at Book Reviews

Gah!  Now that Megan's started her slice-of-pie-whatever I feel like I haven't posted enough.  Conveniently, a torrent of ideas for blog posts have recently graced me with their presence.  One of which is book reviews.  At the begining of this year I made several goals pertaining to books.  Since my family is now the proud owner of a private library with close to a million (probably more like a few thousand) titles I figured it was high time I got well acquainted with them, especially since I've been named co-curator.  I set a goal for myself to read every book on the first shelf that I haven't already read by the end of the year.

In order, they are:
1. Flatland by Edwin A. Abbott
2. Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe
3. Watership Down by Richard Adams (Not shown here)
4. Plague Dogs by " "
5. Shardik by " "
6. Blackhearts in Battersea by Joan Aiken
7. Nightbirds on Nantucket by " "
8. Castle Barebane by " "
9. Midnight is a Place by " "
10. The Quiet Little Woman by Louisa May Alcott
11. The Story of a Bad Boy by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
12. Gypsy Rizka by Lloyd Alexander
13. Time Cat by " "
14. The Wizard in the Tree by " "
15. Westmark by " "
16. The Kestral by " "
17. The Beggar Queen by " "
18. The Illyrian Adventure by " "
19. The El Dorado Adventure by " "
20. The Drackenburg Adventure by " "
21. Town Cats by " "
22. The Cat Who Wished to be a Man by " "
23. A book of 3 Lloyd Alexander novels: The Arkadians, The Remarkable Journey of Prince Jen, and The Iron Ring
24. Kit's Wilderness by David Almond
25. Tales Before Narnia by Douglas A. Anderson

It's quite a load, but I've already finished the first two books, which brings me to the main point I'm writing this.  I thought it'd be fun to write a review of each book after I finished it.  I've never really written a book review before, so here goes nothin'!

 Flatland by Edwin A. Abbott
I was really surprised to find out that this book was written in the 1880's

because it's seems so science-fiction-y.  It has nothing to do with robots or extra-terrestial beings but it's all about Dimensions and crazy, mind-bending ideas.  It starts out by giving a brief history and rundown of Flatland.  Flatland is a place populated by two-dimensional shapes separated into classes; the triangles(lower class), squares(middle class), polygons(upper class), and circles(pretty much royalty).  The main character, A. Square, has a dream one night where he visits Lineland.  Lineland took me a bit longer to understand.  Basically, it's just a bunch of lines that make up one long line and they can only see a point in front of them which is actually another line, but they can only see the end of it.  A. Square tries to explain to the lines how to move left and right but they can't grasp the concept.  They believe that the line connecting their two endpoints is their insides, and you can't move the way of your insides.  Our gallant hero gives up on the ignorant lines and returns to Flatland.  Soon after (possibly that same day), A. Square is visited by a strange being who calls himself a sphere.  Because inhabitants of Flatland can only see straight lines in front of them he believes that the sphere is really just a circle.  The sphere begins to explain to A. Square that he is a 3-dimensional being and can move up and down.  The conversation is very similar to the one had in Lineland, only this time it is the square who is unable to comprehend moving in the direction of his "insides".  To prove what he says, the sphere rises above Flatland, out of A. Square's vision, and lightly taps his insides.  By this point A. Square believes that this sphere must be some magician and raises the alarm.  The sphere decides it's time for A. Square to learn the truth and somehow drags him into Spaceland where he can see the hole sphere and can move up and down.  Then they go on a little journey learning about spheres and cubes and other 3-Dimensional shapes.  Before they part ways A. square demands to be shown the fourth dimension.  The sphere doesn't understand what he means and only becomes angrier and angrier when he tries to explain that there must be a dimension above the sphere and surely there's a dimension after that.  In the end the sphere sends his guest back to Flatland raving about endless dimensions.  I won't disclose anymore because I hate when people give away the ending to a book.  All in all it was a really great book and left me in a sort of week-long stupor where all I could talk about was the existence of other dimensions and how we might discover them one day.  I also gained a greater appreciation for Geometry and found myself wondering what kind of shape I'd be if I lived in Flatland (If I were male, that is.  All females are sharp needle-like shapes.).  I give it four stars out of five.  Maybe four and a half.

There you go.  My poor attempt at a book review.  It wasn't much of a review, more like a lengthy summarization with a few comments at the end.  Oh well, maybe next time will be better.

SOLS: The Andes Project

So, two weeks ago we pulled "The Andes" out of our magical hat of topics. "Great!" I thought. Machu Pichu (spelling?), Peru, llamas, bright, knit shawls, hats, and ponchos here I come!


I did dash off a sketch of Amanda and I cum llamas and authentic garb during a spare moment at work last week, but my final project was a little less inside the box. I stopped by Maceys to replenish my stock of vitamin C (if it weren't orange and grapefruit season, winter really wouldn't be worth it), and, lo and behold, Andes Mints were on sale. "Ha!" I thought, "Andes, spelled just like the mountain range, with some simplified peaks for a logo, I wonder why I never made the connection before...I wonder if the mints originated in South America?" Needless to say, I bought a package.


I didn't find much time for research, but the internet is so very handy. From the Andes website I learned that the mints are owned by Tootsie, which really surprised me. I don't know, tootsie rolls, tootsie pops, dots, and the rest seem so middle class--you know, my kind of candy. But Andes Mints? Those are high class! My kind of after dinner mint are the hard, starlight kind Sonic drops in with your chili cheese fries, or the bad butter-mints Grease Monkey leaves on your seat (except they didn't last time I got my oil changed...I feel cheated).

Another surprise, the mints are not actually christened after the mountains. A man named Andrew Kanelos first started making the mints (or something like them) in the 1920s and selling them as Andy's Candies. Where was he selling them, you may ask. Not in Peru, not anywhere in South America. Chicago. They changed the name to Andes in the 1950s--I guess snow-capped peaks, ancient ruins, and llama herders seemed like a better marketing tool than some guy from Chicago.

Despite these disappointments, the website did give me a great final project--Andes Mint Pillow Cookies. Don't think I was completely lazy, though, relying on the website to do all the work for me. I did have to do some experimentation. For starters, I only had 28 mints, not the called-for 49. So I halved everything, minus the egg (it didn't seem right to put in half an egg). Then, I don't like to eat butter, but I learned during our project on cuisine that applesauce makes a good substitute for butter/shortening/etc in baking. So, applesauce. This, however, made the dough far too wet to roll. At this point I gave up on independence and called on the culinary prowess of my Mom. She seconded my plan to add more flower. Although this resulted in a thicker dough it was still too wet to roll out. But we didn't want the cookie dough to become paste, so instead of adding even more flower, we used spoons to mold the dough around the mints.





If you check out the picture included with the official recipe, you'll note that my "pillows" look much more comfortable.





Like magic, Kate and McKell turned up just in time to help me eat the first batch--a warm, but not-too-sweet cookie outside surounding a piping hot, ooey-gooey, mint-chocolatey center. Perfect (despite being disparraged for being low-fat, even though I still insist that nothing that has an Andes Mint center can be counted as low-fat).

SOLS: A Weekend Away

"Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately knocking people's hats off--then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball."

So says Ishmael in Moby-Dick. In the Greene family we believe in a similar mode of deliverance from our "hypos" (whatever those are)--the road. After this past week I accounted it high time to get to the road. Convenient, since Carter had a mountain-bike race in St. George this morning. We drove down last night, throwing away responsibility, transferring all the gravity and friction of our lives to the humming tires-on-highway under us, revelling in the dying art-form that is the family road-trip.

We talked, laughed, quizzed each other with random trivia, ate too much, lost our troubles in strange places uncluttered by the usual details of our lives. And today we all basked in Carter's glory. He won for his division! Granted he was the only racer in his division--nonetheless, he worked hard doing something he loves and being there to watch him was like watching someone open a present you know they'll love.

We took our time coming home, and, although four hours (one way) is a short road-trip by our usual standards, I now feel quite cured.

SOLS: And you said it so much better...

At last she posts! I've really enjoyed these extracurricular projects we've been doing--I've learned cool stuff...But I haven't succesfully prioritized the blogging part of the assignment (or I've too succesfully procrastinated it). Sufficient motivation has finally come, however, in the form of the Slice of Life Story challenge. The idea is to force yourself past all those incessently handy excuses and write. Just a slice. Every day for a month. While my slices may not always pertain to our topic-at-hand, I thought this would be a good place to post (mostly because it means killing two or three birds with one stone--I participate in the challenge, finally join Amanda in the commonroom, get in some writing practice, get a break from the nagging, etc.). So, although I'm a few days late, here goes: a slice of my life today--

What a week! WHAT a WEEK! I mean, really, this week! It's the sort we've all had, I'm sure, where your whole soul seems like it's on the line. The kind where you forget all the comfortable patterns that take the threat out of the day, where you don't know moment from moment whether you'll have the self-control not to cry, or hit things, or hide under a desk, or drop your backpack in the hallway and keep walking away forever without it, without thinking about it, without ever turning around, and you'll just go straight-straight-straight, through rivers, over highways, up that mountain that sits on the edge of your world like the ropes of a boxing ring--keeping you in this stinking, sweating, place where you can't open your eyes without being hit in the face--and you'll get to the top of the mountain like the bear in the song and you'll find out he didn't go to see what he could see, he went to not see anything anymore, ever again, he went to disolve there on the peak into the sky and be cold and indifferent and vast and untouchable.

You know, one of those. And last night I thought, with what little pride remained to me, that I had at least expressed with some eloquence just how I felt when I wrote in my journal, "I'm tired. Tired of living. Tired of myself. Tired of being what I am--mundanely, grotesquely human. Seeing the divine all around me, thinking I feel the promise of potential within me, and consistently betraying all of that--everything I worship--by existing as I am."

And then, of course, as I did my readings before class this morning, a line from Nathaniel Hawthorne's "The Birth-Mark" caught all of my emotions and thoughts with more precision and subtlety than I ever could:

"Life is but a sad possession to those who have attained precisely the degree of moral advancement at which I stand. Were I weaker and blinder, it might be happiness. Were I stronger, it might be endured hopefully. But, being what I find myself, methinks I am of all mortals most fit to die."

Tragic, melodramatic, Romantic, and, oddly enough, just what I needed. I read something by Ursula K. LeGuin once about words being the bridges that minds or spirits use to span the abysses of existence and meet together. This morning--alone, emotionally ungaurded and spiritually bereft--I found for a moment, through Hawthorne's words, solid ground under my feet, an encouraging grip-and-release of my hand, recognition in a sea of strangers. I found everything I needed, not to restore my hope in the future, but to give me strength for the moment. The sunshine, fresh-cold wind, and my favorite class were enough to do the rest, and life, terrifying as it is, no longer looks like a bad penny.