Waiting for Godot

This is my last shift at switchboard, and perhaps the last time I will ever work at Cornerstone. The summer is coming to an end. Classes are beginning for all those souls either blessed or cursed to still be in the midst of their education. It seems a good time for some reflection.
I had a lot of plans for this summer when I came back from Oxford (or more accurately, a lot of ideas and/or random impulses). I was going to pick up the guitar again, maybe try my hand (or hands, so to speak) at the piano. Oh, and brush up on my ballroom (I keep getting books out of the library...). I organized a shelf of all the books I own that I have not read. I was going to start Latin and Coptic. Finish my internship. Catch up on my theological reading and maybe start my grad school essays (I don't really like anything I have written in the past four years. ahem). Polish my Greek to a blindingly reflective sheen. I was finally going to write, free some of these story ideas that have been marauding through my brain for so long. A story a week was my plan; you all remember that. I was going to keep up my correspondence with my friends, both Oxonian and otherwise (truly a first for me, for I am notoriously bad about this). And beyond all that, real, meaningful time spent with my family, friends, and, most importantly, with God.
And most of those things, of course, didn't happen. Not really. Oh, maybe a weak stab here and there, but for the most part I was staring out the window, watching the scenery go by. I do realize that I have a tendency to be too ambitious, maybe a bit unrealistic about my own capabilities, or just the number of hours in the day. But it's also more than that.
There is a line from the film "Fahrenheit 451" that is burned into my memory (I can't remember if it is in the book) where Montag is railing at his wife and her vapid, hollow friends.
"You're not really living," quoth Montag. "You're just killing time."
For the past few months I feel like I have been doing just that: killing time, as though I am just kicking around waiting for something to happen. You know how it is when you are waiting for someone to arrive, and you don't want to get started on anything meaningful, because they could show up any minute? So you might watch some television, check your email, mindlessly surf the internet. Fluff things. The styrofoam packing peanuts of life. I can remember doing that when I was younger, when we would be waiting for mom and dad to come back from grocery shopping (or something like that) so we could go out. I could burn a whole morning doing nothing in particular, thinking they would be back soon anyway (although, really, when I was eleven it's not as though I would have written a symphony or taught myself Swedish had I known).
My life is styrofoam packing peanuts.
And yet I know I'm not waiting for anything in particular. Nothing is going to happen. "This is my life. I've waited twenty-six years for it to start...but this is it," said the protagonist of Garden State whose name I cannot remember.
Indecision...or at least a failure to act (I identify with Hamlet...though I never go about with my doublet unbraced)...has always been one of my character flaws. I wait for things to happen, to force my hand. Reacting instead of acting...perhaps to deny a measure of responsibility. Recently I have had cause to think about how that abdication has hurt people I care about. I have placed burdens on others that were not theirs to carry; for that I am sorry, and can only hope to make amends.

I've been thinking about something Johanna and I talked about, that every decision you make, every relationship you cultivate, either brings you closer to the person you want to be, or pulls you away. I don't suppose it is something we (I) consciously think about, but, well, there it is. Reminds me of Lewis, too, talking about loving your neighbor; it doesn't matter if you feel like you love him, just start acting as though you do, and one day you will discover that you do. Like the fairy tale about the person's face changing to fit the mask he wore. Sometimes all that remains is the will. Just do, even if you don't feel it, even if you feel you are acting, and eventually the rest will catch up. "Become who you are," Luther said.


Right. Yes...well, that's probably enough introspection for the moment (though I do have more...if we don't take these things in bite-size pieces, we are liable to choke. or at the very least chew with our mouths open...I've lost the metaphor, never mind). And no matter how undeserving I may be, God's grace is ever present, and humbling.



As I said, today is my last shift at switchboard. Next week I start a...
***Cue Dramatic Sousa-esque Theme Music***
...Real Job!
The Tale: A few weeks ago Katie (Stanfield. Not Oxford Katie. Or Kate [Oxford Kate. But there is no other Kate]) told me that her dad's company was looking for (essentially) a technical writer to work for the next year. Normally such a temporary position would be difficult to fill, but with my plans for grad school, it was a perfect match. A few phone calls and an "interview" later (I hesistate to call it that, because throughout the process it seemed like he was the one trying to convice *me*! [as though I needed convincing]) and I am the newest employee of Mill Steel, where I will not, in fact, mill any steel. Essentially my job is to take "normal person speech" and translate it into technical standards and jargon formulated by people from Europe, where, I might add, the alcohol consumption is quite high. I am a professional obfuscator. I even get a fancy new cell phone and yet another laptop.
It's one of those blessings that chased me down, or just fell out of the sky and smacked me in the back of the head, like a Holy chunk of space debris. The only negative is that the company insists I be clean shaven. So, I suppose for the next year I must wear my face in the Roman fashion (over the unanimous vote of my friends, who seem to prefer as much of my face be covered as possible). Perhaps I will post pictures, if anyone is filled with a sense of morbid curiosity.

(I am at home now, by the way, and sleep calls my name, so this will grow increasingly succinct, before collapsing altogether)

Johanna'a cousin Sarah was in town this week (the one who came to England with her), so I got to spend some time with the both of them. It was nice; the three of us just seem to be comfortable together, and even though technically I have only met Sarah twice, I feel like I have known her longer (but then, a week in Avalon is an eternity; time flows differently). We had a picnic...

Speaking of Johanna, we are planning to drive *all the way* to Indiana to see Chelle in a few weeks. A visit long, long overdue, and I miss her (Johanna may, too, but I miss her more). You see, SCIO friends, the disadvantage of living in such a large country? Otherwise we would ba having block parties every other week...

And with that, I must away. Morpheus and the land of dreams beckon.

Grace be with you all,
Brian

Latina est gaudium--et utilis!

It has been some weeks now since my last substantive entry, and undoubtedly many meaningful things have happened in my life in the interim.
However...I'm not going to talk about any of them at the moment. Later, perhaps.

I've finally started my Latin work this week. I am hoping to cram all forty chapters of Wheelock's first year grammar into the next few months. I am actually enjoying it immensely...for the moment, at least. I have a bit of a head start, I know, because of my Greek work, and it is fun going back to simple sentences and translation. To whit, a poem I thought was intensely amusing:

Cattullus Bids His Girlfriend Farewell
Puella mea me non amat. Vale, puella! Catullus obdurat; poeta puellam non amat, formam puellae non laudat, puellae rosas non dat, et puellam non basiat! Ira mea est magna! Obduro, mea puella--sed sine te non valeo.

Translation:
My girl does not love me. Goodbye, girl! Catullus is tough; the poet does not love the girl, he does not praise her beauty, he does not give the girl roses, and he does not kiss the girl! My ire is great! I am firm, my girl--but without you I am not strong.

I admit it loses something in the translation...

Poetry Break

Trying to Write Poetry
And suddenly I realized what was wrong.
The whole time, all along, I had left
My shoes on. How can you write poetry with your shoes on?

TO KNOW
Oneself is a task
Never quite as interesting
As all the talk
Would make one believe