To Love and to Cherish Until the Money Runs Out

I forgot to mention that yesterday's post was my 200th on this blog. Suh-weet!

In any case, I was awoken from an extremely bizarre dream (that was a mix between "Lost" and the Twilight books, oddly enough...I said it was bizarre) by the smell of muffins wafting up from the kitchen directly into my nostrils this memory. In my opinion, there is hardly anything better in the world than getting woken up on a nice cloudy morning by the smell of something hot and scrumptious. Our little foster child, Christina, came down with strep throat last night, so I had decided to stay home from church today so that I could Clorox every available surface in the hopes of keeping anybody else from getting it. This is so not the time to come down with strep, and it's actually pretty dangerous to expose Shelby to it.

So I got up and fixed myself a muffin and sat down on the couch to watch ten minutes of a show while I ate my breakfast. Since CSI, regrettably, wasn't on, I turned to this household's fallback channel: TLC. This channel is the Ultimate of Ultimates in home desire, shopping, and really weird documentaries, usually showing the story of a family with thousands of children or a guy that's half fish. I like the first two and generally steer away from the third. Thankfully, the first option was available for my breakfast viewing pleasure, a show called "Moving Up." The premise centers around what happens to houses when the old family moves out and the new one moves in and redecorates it according to their tastes. The old family is then brought back to their old house and they get to rag on the new owner's shoddy decorating skilz and ultimately work through the five stages of grief. It's not my favorite show -- too many awkward moments, and besides, who gives a care what the old owners think? I totally get the emotional attachment behind a house, but honestly, they chose to move out. It's not their house anymore -- but I was only watching for a few minutes anyway.

I was actually given more food for thought than I would have previously realized. I learned that one of the couples on the show, Rick and Beth, I think, were lottery winners. They had decided to take their winnings and upgrade on their living quarters. A young, single woman named Kira bought their old home to be her first house. Kira, to start out with, struck me very favorably. It could be the fact that I will automatically sympathize with the young, single woman, but she really did seem like a sweetie. She decorated the house herself, came in under budget, and turned the old office into an enormous dressing room, including an elaborate bookcase just for her designer shoes. C'mon, what woman wouldn't love to have a room just for her clothes? And the only time you could get away with something like that was if you were young and single and had a house of your own.  

Rick and Beth came in and immediately started burning Kira's design taste. They didn't like the colors, the furniture was stupid, they hated the fireplace, blah blah blah. Kira was watching a recording of their tour of her house, and she was a lot nicer than I would have been. Rick and Beth acted as if her design choices were some kind of character flaw, and Kira just smiled and shrugged her shoulders, obviously realizing that what Rick and Beth said was pointless because the house was hers now. I swear, the most petulant thing Kira said during Rick and Beth's onslaught was when they saw her closet room. Beth made some snide comment, and Kira replied mildly, "It sounds to me like she misses being single."

And you know what? Kira was right. The more I watched the show, the more Beth and Rick's relationship bothered me. They'd won the lottery, right? In today's material obsession, that should have meant instant happiness for them. They were moving to a new house, decorating it to suit their every whim, and from the sound of them, they were about as happy as two jackals with only one bone between them. 

Rick was one of those quiet, non-confrontational sorts that pretty much let Beth get away with her spleen, but that's certainly not productive for a relationship in the end. And Beth! She griped, groaned, moaned and complained about every tiny facet of the move. Rick worked himself to the bone, doing much of the renovations on their new glitzy house. All Beth could do was b---- about the fact that they didn't have enough money for a hot tub to go in their backyard along with their patio, flat screen TV (outdoor, mind you), pool, and fireplace. 

When they went back to their old house, though, Beth said in every single room how much she missed that house and how much she regretted moving. You could see how much the things she was saying hurt Rick, but he didn't say anything back.  Again, not so sure that's a good thing. 

But wait a second! I thought winning the lottery was supposed to be instant happiness, right? Right? 

Wrong. Duh. 

Beth knew that she had been happier back in her older, smaller, and considerably less glitzy house. Why? Because she had worked for it. She had loved it, and had more than money there -- she had memories. When they moved from her old house and focused on spending money as fast as they could -- by the end of the episode they admitted that they were broke -- they lost their connection with what was more important.  I honestly don't think that their marriage will last long, and that's so sad. I hope that they'll learn to communicate, that they'll refocus on what's important, but that's hard to do when you don't have the Holy Spirit knocking you over with a two-by-four. 

It just made me think about two things, one of which being my sister and her boyfriend. If I had one word for the way Jordan treats Shelby, I would use cherish. Jordan doesn't just love her, he cherishes her. As long as he had Shelby and something resembling walls and a roof over his head and a piano, Jordan would be just fine. Shelby could wear a burlap sack, and Jordan would tell her that she was stunning. I have a feeling that they'll still be making goo-goo eyes at each other when they're a hundred years old and can't remember their own names. But they'll always remember each other's names. Their relationship hasn't been a bed of roses the whole way, but I don't have any fears for them. Their relationship isn't built on money or attractiveness or something else that's stupid alone. It's built on love, trust, and a willingness to forgive. I wouldn't be worried if they won the lottery. 

It also made me think of Crichton. What I wouldn't give to go back to the ratty tables and rented building and regain that pure beauty of education. 

I suppose I'm rambling now. It was just a lot to think about. 

Another Crisis Averted

The powers of the universe, sensing the steady decline into madness that was occurring yesterday in my soul, sent a series of interventions that worked to my benefit. It appears that God, in His infinite and unknowable mercy, doesn't want me to be mad. This goes along with the assumption that I've already come to, namely, that He doesn't want me dead, that there must be a divine plan for my life, or I would have died in a car accident long ago. (Memphis drivers....ugh.) 

After having spent a good portion of the morning on my letter to the editor, I taught a few piano lessons and headed out to school, bitterly aware of the fact that my Spanish textbook still wasn't in. If I didn't get that textbook soon, as in at that very moment, I was going to be in muchos problemas with Senorita Tina. Y'all know me. You know that I, Katie, aka SuperNerd, hate not having my work done in a timely manner. I live in a never ending search to make my professors proud, and Senorita Tina doesn't know me from Adam. First impressions last a lifetime, my friends, and I was making a first impression as a flaky, airhead of a junior. This does not a happy Katie make. 

When I got to class (my favorite of the semester: History of Film! Squee!), I was not in a particularly good mood, although it was lifted some by how beautiful it was outside. Sixty degrees and blue skies! Doesn't get much better than that, even if it is January and supposed to be dreary and cold. If it had been any other class (in other words, a class which obviously requires electronic devices), I would have begged the professor to move the class outdoors.  So I walk into class, expecting to have a good class but be unable to concentrate, due to trying to salvage my scholastic future from the dump.

Dr. Jenkins revealed his professorial rock star status once more. 

What did he do, you ask? He brought in movies! 

The movies were relevant to the class material, of course. We've been studying the beginnings of films, silent pictures and stuff. So the first film we watched in class was a documentary that started with the Golden Age of silent film and progressed through Griffith's Birth of a Nation. The documentary was absolutely fascinating, with interviews with actual directors, cameramen, and actors and actresses of the time. 

It also contained bits of trivia about certain movies. We watched bits of one hysterical early Laurel and Hardy film in which they're absolutely tearing a house apart. The commentary said that the house was owned by a member of the film studio. The studio sent the man and his wife on vacation for a month with the guarantee that by the time they returned, their house would be returned to normal. When the production crew arrived at the house, though, they found that their key didn't work. Unperturbed, they merely broke down the door and got down to business. The characters subsequently busted windows, chopped down trees and bushes, and played baseball with vases from inside the house. Imagine their surprise, therefore, when a car pulled up and the man and woman inside, at the sight of the damage, promptly fainted. The production crew was at the wrong house!

I think my favorite silent actress is Lillian Gish. She was so well spoken in the documentary, and her acting was superb. She told so much of the story with her eyes and hands -- amazing. It kind of makes you take a second look at the actors of today. I certainly don't think that Keira Knightley could do the kind of acting that Lillian Gish did. I also like the fact that Lillian Gish hasn't compromised her views over the years. She hates what sound did to the movies, and had very good reasons as to why she hated it. She said it detracted away from the Art of film, that film and music were perfectly married, and that introducing words destroyed that union. Right or wrong, she's still saying the same things she likely said in the early part of the century, and you have to respect her for that. She hasn't cheapened her opinions.

Incidentally, I had no idea that Birth of a Nation was such a big deal. I wonder what Griffith thought about the fact that his movie masterpiece almost single-handedly rejuvenated the Ku Klux Klan? It kind of makes you hesitant as an artist -- who knows what kind of reaction your creation might evoke? I'm sure Upton Sinclair would say the same thing. He wrote a novel expecting to promote his form of art and ended up revolutionizing the sanitary conditions of our country. Disappointing to a degree, but no doubt necessary.

Anyway, the documentary took up most of our class time, but we spent the last ten minutes watching a shorter Griffith film, The Girl and Her Trust. It was the typical damsel in distress type film, but it was great. I've never watched much silent film, but I was fascinated with it. Isn't it marvelous that a lost art like that can still evoke such strong emotions? While I was irritated with the screaming, helpless heroine (just jump off the stupid handcart already, you feeb!), I still cheered the hero on in his quest to save her from the tramps. What does that say? It says that Griffith was marvelous. Racist, perhaps, but marvelous.

In any case, the movies preserved my sanity for a while. The attempt to keep from being fitted for a coat that would allow me to hug myself all the time was further helped by Mom showing up at the school and buying me a Spanish textbook from the bookstore since it appears that the one we ordered will never arrive. Gracias, Dios y Mama!

I drove home from school, and even put the windows down once I got off the interstate, and didn't care about the strange looks I got when people caught me singing, loudly, to "Can I Have This Dance?" and "Benny and the Jets." It was sheer joy. 

Then I taught a piano lesson, for which the student was ten minutes late, hadn't practiced, and his father came in and talked for fifteen minutes. Grr. But then, wonder of wonders, Mom revealed the menu of the evening: homemade fried chicken strips, corn, fruit cocktail, biscuits, and bread pudding.

Bliss.

Another crisis has been averted, Batman! I will retain my sanity, thanks to small blessings! I love my life. Really, even when it gets hairy, it's still beautiful. Sometimes you just have to shave it a bit to reveal the beauty.

Dear Crichton Dos...

My fabulous sister Shelby wrote a letter to the editor, too. It's far more intellectual than mine; I thought it was quite splendid. Here you go!

To

To the City of Memphis:       

At my first philosophy class, my professor introduced Aristotle’s concept of teleology by placing his sneaker against the open door and asking the class, “Is this still a sneaker or is it now a doorstop?” 

Given the events that have happened at Crichton the last few years, I feel we must ask the same question. Is the college still a college? Although the answer to that question is eminently clear now, one might also ask, when did it cease to be a college? Yesterday when the announcement to close the day program was made? Or even earlier than that? 

It is my belief that Crichton ceased to be a real college years ago. According to Aristotle, when an institution ceases to fulfill its rightful purpose, then it ceases to work properly as an institution. It is imperfect. 

In the end, we must ask, “When did Crichton cease to be a college?” Was it when the Big-Brother inspired administration fired the Dean of School of Arts and Sciences (the same philosophy professor who introduced me to Aristotle) for speaking out against the college’s esteemed president two years ago? Was it when the student-run newspaper was cancelled because the students criticized the school’s policies three years ago? Was it when those same students were told that the newspaper was cut for “financial reasons,” although it only cost printing materials? Was it when a few students were told by the school’s “Spiritual Life Advisor” that they were “Pharisees” for desiring Chapel services that went beyond the edification level of a kindergarten Sunday school class? Or did the college cease to be a college even sooner than that? 

The purpose of a college is to educate and broaden the minds of its students’ by the presentation of the ideas and institutions that have made human civilization. Perhaps I should have put the matter more clearly. The purpose of a college is to educate. It is not to curtail the rights of free speech. It is not to show intolerance towards other viewpoints. It is to educate. 

Outside of a few professors who held tight to their Christian vision of the school as a school of Christian education, Crichton ceased to educate long ago. 

It ceased to be a college. 

Sincerely, 

Shelby Johnson 

A Junior at Crichton 

PS. If the matter is unclear, then the college certainly ceased to be a college when it announced yesterday that it would not honor any of its student’s academic scholarships after this semester. Does anyone know a good lawyer?