Long day.

It took nine hours of driving and four hours of unpacking to get where I am right now. Tired, but at Dordt College in Sioux Center, IA for the duration of the summer. I already lost my key card twice today--I forgot that I'd stuck it in a different purse once, and then the other time I dropped it in a friend's front yard--but I'm finally back in the apartment.

And so, here begins my long summer at Dordt. I am looking forward to it now, considering that I saw a big group of happy-looking students playing ultimate frisbee outside and have settled into these rather spacious apartments. Hopefully, this good start will continue.

Jumpy.

Today, as it is my last day in Godfrey, my sisters, mom, and I created a course of action: go to Shanghai House (they make the best eggrolls in the country), go to Eastgate Cinema and watch "Terminator: Salvation," then go to the grocery store to pick up the ingredients for tacos.

It all started smoothly, but ended disastrously. Somewhere between the egg rolls and Shop N Save, I lost my cool. It must have been the movie.

Admittedly, I've had trouble with action/horror movies since I was a child. I remember being petrified when I walked through a room and saw a woman's arm being devoured by a shark in the movie JAWS. My mom also likes to tell the story of how, when I was in third grade, I leapt over the sofa while watching JURASSIC PARK. I scattered the popcorn kernels all over the floor in the process.

But that was over thirteen years ago. You'd think that I would have grown into my imagination by now. Apparently not, though.

The entire time I was watching the film, I kept grabbing my knees and looking down. Once or twice I nearly jumped out of my chair, and I could feel my heart almost beating out of my chest.

My little sister, on the other hand, acted as if we were going on a walk in the park. During the scene Blair and Marcus are trying to escape from the humans, my sister tried to carry on a conversation with me. "So, I think she is supposed to be my age," she said in my ear.

I was sweating, and I braced my hands against the arms of my chair. "What? Huh? AH! Watch out!" I said frantically, ducking in my chair as if I were going to be shot.

It was not a pretty sight. After the movie was over, I was even jumpier. We went into Shop N Save, and all I could think about was where I would hide if the store was blown up. My sisters teased me and tried to scare me from behind a couple of times.

I ended up feeling rather childish and wishing that we had seen a chick flick instead of an action movie on my last day at home. It was a great day overall, but I felt as if I was going to drop-kick anyone who came too close to me.

That sensation has faded away now, but I am still astounded at how I can still be caught off-guard by action movies, even after all these years.

Smut Novels.

Recently, I found what my life's true calling should be. I should become a Harlequin writer, better known as a smut novelist.

Don't be shocked. It's a long story, so let me explain.

A close friend of mine and I went to the public library the other day. I was there with all intentions of perusing my usual section of fiction and non-fiction. But, I saw my friend--who usually doesn't read books--focusing all her attention on two rows of small paperbacks. I wanted to know what had piqued her interest, so I walked toward her.

As I got closer, I had to shield my eyes from all the hot pink book bindings. But somehow I managed to focus and read the book titles.

Sold to the Sheik. Rescued by the Sheik. The Businessman's Bounty Wife. The Italian Count's Defiant Bride. The Sicilian Boss's Mistress.

I wanted to run back to West, Matthew and Wharton, Edith and cower, right then and there. Either that, or roll on the floor laughing at all the terrible titles and--what I was positive would be--badly-written plots.

My friend glared at me, knowing that I was preparing to aim some uppity English major judgment on her for reading Harlequin. But, I instead held my tongue--to my own chagrin--pulled down a "novel" to read the first few paragraphs:

Four years of college and two more of graduate school had gotten Julia Wright where she was today - wearing a too-tight Bo Peep costume and staring down the mayor's belligerent adolescent son.

"Unhand the goldfish, Billy, and no one gets hurt."

He stood at the edge of the artificially made pond and stared at her defiantly. "It's a koi, not a goldfish." His words bounced off the frantically wiggling fish poised right above his mouth.

Julia wanted to drop-kick him over the nearest rooftop. "Unhand the koi." Her voice was pure Cameron Diaz in kick-butt mode. "Put it back in the water. Now!"

Billy muttered something under his breath with the rampant disgust only a twelve-year-old boy could display. But he did toss the fish back into the pond that formed the centerpiece of the public library's grounds.

("Good Girls Do" by Cathie Linz)

It's not a Pulitzer Prize-winning piece of work, especially that dated line about Cameron Diaz. But I was surprised at how much of an attention-grabber it really was. I was expecting something more along the lines of "Fabio and Renee stared into each other's eyes longingly," etc. etc. But a little boy almost eating a koi? Interesting. Very interesting.

I decided that, if I am going to make fun of this "chick lit" genre of literature, I had better have read one of the works first.

So I checked out this book by Linz, while my friend picked up Hot Pursuit and The Billionaire's Contract Bride.

Checking out the book was one thing, but getting it home was another entirely. As an English major, I feel that I have a reputation to uphold: I should read Brothers Karamazov or Light in August for kicks, not this type of a book. So I did my best to maintain that rep: hiding the novel under the couch, picking up On the Road whenever my mom came through the living room, reading the book in my bedroom after the rest of the family had gone to sleep. Oh, the lengths I went to to read that book.

And was I riveted by Good Girls Do? Did Linz floor me with her eloquent language?

Not quite. Halfway through the first chapter, I started thinking of all the writing faux pas that Schaap had taught me in Fiction Writing. "Show, don't tell," is one. Linz had a tendency to say, "Angel was carefree and hippie-like" but didn't really show the reader that she was. Linz would also go on moralizing tangents that made me want to skim the book. Besides that, there was the stereotypical "bad" boy decked out in his leather jacket and tight t-shirt riding along with his Harley that Julia falls for. Does he get reformed in the end? Hmm, that's a tough one. Take a good guess.

Another thing that Schaap taught in Fiction Writing is that love scenes are rather difficult to convey realistically and should be avoided at all costs. These scenes are either overly romanticized, extremely awkward-sounding, or just plain funny. And it is. Really, how could anyone aptly describe something like that?

What astounded me most is that Linz is a USA Today-bestselling writer. Not that USA Today is the mark that all would-be writers aspire to. But at least Linz's work is getting published and is read by millions of romance-craving women (and men!) around the world. It's a feat that today's batch of more "literary" novelists have yet to achieve.

Reading Good Girls Do taught me one thing: if I want to write like a fifth grader and make a fortune, then chick lit and Harlequin romance is the way to go. I could be a best-selling author in hardly anytime flat if I signed a romance novelist contract. I'd have to sacrifice (most of) my writing skills and potentially shame my family, but it would bring in lots of glamour and plenty of easy (pun intended) money.

I was thinking that I should continue with the whole "Sheik" notion. Maybe I should write a smut novel called Shackin' Up with the Sheik or Shakin' It with the Sheik. Seems like a popular and potentially best-selling topic. What do you think?

Zwartboek.

Tonight I watched “The Black Book,” a Dutch film set in Holland during the Nazi reign in World War II. It stars Carice Van Houten as Rachel Stein (under the alias of Ellis De Vries), a gorgeous Jewish woman who must use her feminine wiles to survive. She dyes all the brown hair on her body blonde, seduces the head of Gestapo, and cracks down on post-WW II crime. Basically, she is the femme fatale, without all the negative connotations.

But at what price? She watches her family get shot, falls in love with a German officer who eventually dies, is almost executed or killed countless times, and—in one of the final acts of humiliation—has a cauldron filled with feces poured onto her body. And somehow, she manages to persevere and press on.

The same can be said of millions of people around the world today. People around the world much younger than I have to deal with issues that I hope my family, friends, and I will never have to go through and somehow, they manage to wake up in the mornings and continue with their days.

Living in middle class America, I’m allowed to sit around and ponder whether or not I should be an English teacher or a journalist; I don’t need to feel obligated—says this society—to think about the families that have been torn apart by war or brutality. I can contemplate whether or not I want to lose five or ten pounds this summer, while there are mothers my age wondering if they will have enough to feed their malnourished children. Is there something wrong here?

By the end of the movie—and this should be no shock, as we all have taken a history course at some point in our lives—the Canadians come in and free the Dutch from Nazi power. Up until this point, the movie had been filled with lavish, hedonistic Nazi celebrations for the Fuhrer’s birthday or simply for the heck of it. Once the war was over, though, the tables turned and the Canadians, Dutch, and others who had been victimized by the Nazis set out to party. What ends up happening is that they turn around and act exactly as Hitler and his Third Reich had acted beforehand. They put the Nazi sympathizers in cages, shave the heads of Nazi women, and even force the Nazis to bear their extremities during a drunken stupor. One doctor even stands on his balcony like a miniature Adolf Hitler. The similarities are rather pathetic.

Is that what we are destined to do for the rest of existence—repeat the mistakes of those who came before us? Are we as human beings always going to believe that our problems and the sins that were committed against us merit our retaliation? And—not meaning to wax romantic dreamer here but—are we going to always ignore the struggles of those less fortunate than us, or will we step up one of these days and help?

Watch “Zwartboek” if you get the chance. It’s a well-made movie and incites quite a bit of thought, it seems.

(Another) Art Controversy.

I am an art fanatic; I was raised on it. The walls in my parents’ house are lined with paintings and prints of portraits and landscapes, and the walls that are bare are filled with nail holes. My mom—an art teacher—takes monthly trips to the Saint Louis Art Museum, where I may feast on Van Goghs, Rembrandts, Langes, and Beckmanns for hours.

Recently, I’ve taken to snapping photos of my favorite art pieces whenever we peruse the museum. They allow no-flash photography, which helps me since I only get to visit about four times a year. I used my cell phone to take a picture of Van Gogh’s “Stairway at Auvers” today. A guard was standing nearby and seemed to care little that I was blocking other people’s space so that I could achieve the perfect shot.



From there, my sisters, Mom, and I went upstairs to look for a “Photography on the Streets” exhibit. Instead, we found the postmodern art show “Currents 103” with Claudia Schmacke. Her pieces are not like George Caleb Bingham’s or Georgia O’Keefe’s; they’re media-centered pieces, artwork that utilizes DVD projections and other forms of “new media” to astound her viewers.

One such piece, “Time Reel,” involves “long, looping tubes filled with green-colored water that moves through them powered by concealed pumps” (SLAM website). It reminded me of an installation that Matt created in the Humble Bean involving tubes and hot tea and, seeing as I’d been snapping pictures all morning, I lifted my phone to take another shot.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” said a guard in the corner, “You can’t take a picture of that.”



I didn’t really need a photo anyway (it was too late anyway; I’d already taken the picture), but his proclamation that I couldn’t take a picture angered me a bit. So, I can take a picture of Vincent Van Gogh’s “Stairway to Auvers”—his paintings are easily worth millions of dollars these days—but I can’t do the same for a display of bubbling water and tubes?

To give Schmacke credit, she has been trained at and is currently a faculty member of Kunstakademie Düsseldorf, a very prestigious institution. And perhaps my aesthetic sense is not as advanced as others may be. But, I am still of the opinion that many art museums are placing modern and postmodern displays on a higher level than they should be. “Works of art” such as swirling water in a tube or burlap stretched into an octagonal canvas are hanging on walls that used to be the home of Baroque, Impressionistic, or even Pop art.

I went to a German restaurant with some new friends later tonight. Our conversation eventually trickled down to art, and I asked Kelly and Faith their opinions of modern art.

“I don’t get it,” said Kelly. “I don’t understand that glass display they have at the museum, and it really gets me that some people call that art.”

Faith agreed for the most part. I commented that I thought that some modern and postmodern artwork actually pushes people away from the art world—the so-called “philosophical depth” of pieces goes right over the heads of the new viewers. But such is the predicament of all art forms—James Joyce had that with “Finnegan’s Wake,” and I’m sure there are countless concertos, etc. that do the same. Artists might point out that they aren’t trying to please the masses but are instead trying to express themselves artistically or for any number of reasons.

This debate could go on endlessly, and it has for years. Thoughts of Aesthetics at Dordt come to mind on this topic, and I thought about that while I was standing before that security guard with a look of mild indignation on my face. I was just shocked that it came into play in my art museum with two such different art pieces.

Keith.

I am biased, believing that the Saint Louis Art Museum is one of the best art museums a city can offer. I feel as if I have a right to say that, though; it is austere, manageable, and free.

Plus, it is home to some great works of art, such as "Keith," the painting above by Chuck Close. He used the grid system to paint this picture. He hides nothing; you can see Keith's pores and pockmarks if you get really close to the painting. But when you stand back, it looks exactly like a photograph.

Living Together.

Popularity is an understatement when it comes to the trend of living together.

According to Rutgers University’s “The State of Our Unions 2009” study, living together is on the rise nationally. In 1960, there were 439,000 couples living together. This statistic shot up to 3.82 million couples cohabitating by 2000, and increased even more in 2007 with a staggering final count of 6.445 million couples. That is an increase of 6 million couples over the course of four decades.

But that isn’t the case in all parts of the nation. Eight months out of the year, I live in the Dutch bubble town of Sioux Center, a place where living together is synonymous with “living in sin.” Few people do it, and the community will most likely turn a blind eye to the “immoral” behavior of those who do.

It is the conventional family lifestyle that comes first here, and that flows into the lives of Dordt students (of whom 10 per cent are married). The “senior year scramble” does not lead to cohabitation, by any means. These Dutchies are in it for the ring and for the long haul, ‘til death do they part.

I see the opposite in my hometown of Godfrey. When my high school friends move in with their boyfriends, I am no longer shocked. Most people my age currently live with or have lived with other people. One friend moved several states away to be with her boyfriend. Another lived with her boyfriend because she thought that it would save on rent.

“I’m too young to get married!” one friend said. “I’m only eighteen. I don’t want to get tied down yet.”

Besides that, Hollywood romanticizes it. I watched “License to Wed” while I was in Florida and got a dose of what Hollywood thinks of as the progression of a relationship. Boy meets girl in a casual location—in this case, a coffee shop. Boy and girl sleep together after the third or fourth date, and then he asks her to move in with him. Eventually—after they give it a go and see that things might work out—he proposes to marry her. And then they all live happily ever after.

But, as the movie seemingly advocates, wouldn’t it be better to stop at the second step and not marry at all? She’s already washing his windows, and he’s already doing the taxes. Why not keep playing house until they tire of one another and can call it quits without anyone getting too hurt? No lawsuits, no nasty child custody battles. It’s a much cleaner cut when there’s no marriage involved.

And this is where I get nervous.

I’ve never been that girl who has her wedding completely finalized and is now on a rampage for the groom. The most planning I’ve done for my wedding is consider having my two best friends and my two sisters as my bridesmaids; that’s it.

But I do want to get married someday; I want to have a family. I want to have a fight with my husband and know that, no matter what the outcome, he’s in it for the long haul.

I think that the growing trend of living together runs the risk of inhibiting many from having this classic family structure. Divorce may plague 50 per cent of marriages today, but does that mean that marriage should be written off altogether? It may seem old-fashioned, but I think that marriage still has a place in this world. Commitment is the greatest gift that one individual can give to another, and marriage is a sign of that.

Someday I might be faced with the prospect of moving in with a boyfriend, and I won’t do it. Not that it doesn’t work for other people—I just know that it wouldn’t work for me. I just don’t think I could move in with someone and be blissfully happy. Perhaps I’ll become an old maid because I’m not willing to compromise on this fact, but that’s a risk I’m willing to take right now.

I’ll commit once that wedding band is weighing down my left hand. Three years in a town built on traditional convention has taught me that much.

Economics.

This is me, currently. I'm sitting in the library, realizing that I should have tried a bit harder in Economics this semester. I've never had an "earth-shatteringly" bad grade affect my GPA, but I think that this might just be my first time. I'm being optomistic, though.

Why did I take economics in the first place? For a number of reasons actually. I like to learn about different areas of study and pushing myself outside of my comfort zone. Economics is definitely a foreign language to me, so I thought I'd try it. Yes, I've learned a lot, and at a high price too. Opportunity costs, implicit/explicit costs, variable costs, marginal costs...I didn't calculate in the fact that it would cost me my high academic standing.

But alas, too late to contemplate why I took this course. I'm in this course, and the final is T-minus five hours away.

Wish me luck.

Breathless Expectation.

Kristina and I have been reading through Oswald Chamber's Utmost for His Highest for much of this year. Late nights, we will flop down on our sofa and leaf through the pages of the book.

On April 29th, Chambers wrote about a topic that I have grappled with quite a bit this year: gracious uncertainty. I have felt that with the changes that have come this year. So many things that I thought would be part of my future dissipated this year. Yet, I have grown to care for--even love?--some friends, situations that I once could have easily lived without. I have given up on dreams that once meant so much to me and have reached out for the new. And now, I have five days of college left before summer break, and all I can think about is how I never would have dreamed last year at this time that I'd be where I am now.

And so the words of the wise Chambers come into play:

"Certainty is the mark of the commonsense life— gracious uncertainty is the mark of the spiritual life. To be certain of God means that we are uncertain in all our ways, not knowing what tomorrow may bring. This is generally expressed with a sigh of sadness, but it should be an expression of breathless expectation."

Breathless expectation.

I feel that every time I wake up in the morning, wondering what adventure I will have next. Every time I go downstairs after midnight, run into an old friend at the library, consider the independence I'll have for the first time this summer--all of these bring a wash of breathless expectation and sadness.

My friend Andrew wears a shirt that reads in bright letters: "Change is the only constant." And I agree with this whole-heartedly. Change is the only thing that we can count on this life. Just when we get comfortable, change will throw all seemingly dependable qualities up into the air.

So, I agree with Chambers. Breathless expectation is the way to live fully. Change has been my only constant--save God--and so I cannot count on anything but that. I am waiting, now, with the great expectation that this summer will bring adventures I cannot even fathom at this moment.