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I know, I know, I know. I disappeared again a little, didn’t I? You know what is helping me to post right now? The intense desire to procrastinate.
Big paper due on Tuesday. Also a final the same day. So no time like the present to post a blog entry right?
I have been… fabulous. Really, really great. The truth is that life and the stars seem and my persistence seem to all have finally aligned and now… things are great.
My boyfriend (yes, how strange is that? strange and awesome) is a good, good man. I am very lucky to know him and very, very proud to be his girlfriend. It is all wonderfully new, wonderfully overwhelming, wonderfully fun, and overall just beautiful. I am enjoying every minute of this new phase of life and excited to see what the next minute holds.
For those who want/don’t know “the story” we met online. I had signed up for match.com and the very weekend that I had decided to discontinue the service is the weekend that Dave showed up in my search. It didn’t take long at all for me to realize that he was very different, nor did it take long for me to turn off my subscription to match. I knew that as long as Dave was around I didn’t want to date anyone else. It has been… five weeks?… now and I am still just as blessed, just as excited, just as happy to know him.
A friend of mine signed up for match around about the same weekend that I met Dave and she has been sharing the excitement of her results and dates and conversations. And I am thrilled for her. But even more than that I am ECSTATIC, beyond words, to have that behind me. First dates… first dates suck. I was so tired of having the same conversation, answering the same questions over and over and over and over. I was tired of the time it took to email, phone, etc. before finally meeting and figuring out if a second date was worthwhile. Usually they were not. I never had an awful first date, and I believe I have my instincts to thank for that, but for an introvert especially the first date is more or less a nightmare. So I can’t even convey how great it feels to not have that ahead of me right now.
I know this isn’t a great, fascinating read for a post but this is as good as it gets tonight. There is still much paper to be written, much showering to be had, much wine to be drunk, much sleep to be attained. Here’s hoping!
I have officially been disqualified from entrance into the Crazy Cat Lady Society.
Recently I have had the opportunity and desire to gather up a few sentimental, creative-type artifacts from my past. Some black and white photos that I took at my great-aunt’s house… of my great-aunts and their homestead. Some old writing I’ve done. Old music I’d forgotten about.
One of the things I dug out this week is my senior writing project from Anderson. It’s incredibly sentimental for a variety of reasons. One of those is that it is about waterfalls. The goal of the project was to visit various S.C. waterfalls and write about them or the experience or their history. Looking at the work makes me soooooo lonely and desperate for those beacons. Anyone who has known me for a week or so knows about my intense affection for waterfalls and my missing them here in Raleigh is compounded every time I think about this time in my life. Another reason I am so attached to this project is that the memories of the project include hours and hours of wonderful conversation with my adviser, whom I did (and do) adore.
Anyway, I grabbed this old essay about one of the falls… or lack thereof. It’s one of my favorite pieces but of course I can’t judge fairly. At any rate, I hope it gives you a laugh:
King Creek Falls – Attempt
The Beginning: in which the author thinks she knows where she is going, but in fact, does not know at all.
“One of the joys to waterfall trekking is finding the right spots that give themselves over to visitors. The ideal trip would include a relaxing hike, photogenic falls, and places to dabble in the water. King Creek Falls is one of those spots. A moderate, 30 minute hike leads to this 70-foot tumble through a laurel-choked gorge where you could relax all day long on a tree trunk in the falls’ spray.”
So read the description in my handy-dandy South Carolina Waterfalls manual. A description that explains perfectly why I found myself three hours deep into the Chattooga National Fores and no waterfall – laurel-choked or otherwise – in sight. I think my trekking started off on the wrong foot when I failed to realize exactly what a “parking area” was. The book said that the trail began at the parking area on the left, which I might have been safe to assume was the gravelly space on the left where a multitude of campers and truckers were… parked. But maybe perhaps they meant instead the rounded indent in the gravel another mile down the road where I parked my car… where only my car was parked… where there was room for only my car to park. But there in front of me and my little “parking area” was a trailhead, most assuredly a sign that I was in the right place.
My second mistake may have been in failing to realize exactly what a mile was. Or, more specifically, what three-tenths of a mile was, for at the point I was supposed to take a left. Now the fact that there were no turns in the barely distinguishable trail – left, right, or indifferent – or any of the places to “dabble in the water” that I had read so much about, might have been a clue as well that I was not headed in the right direction. Heedless of the nagging pull on my internal compass, I pressed on. Well, I didn’t really press. Rather I trudged. Or barreled. Or, in some places, crawled. There were a few bushwhacking episodes, and while I am on the subject I would like to take a moment to apologize to the hundreds of spiders that I left homeless that day.
Deciding that the particular forest of gnarled tree limbs, briar patches, insect and snake habitations in front of me must not have been what the authors of my trekking guide had in mind by “relaxing,” I concluded that I might be on the wrong trail. In addition, I concluded that it really would not be possible to bushwhack my way back through the mess I had just come from. I threw my body into the dense crowd of what may have been choking laurel, and wrestled my way to the creek bank. I stood and gazed mutely at the “creek” in front of me. I noticed a large dog further up the creek – most definitely on the opposite side of myself. Strange, I thought, I wonder why the dog is on THAT side. Immediately I noticed two backpacks bobbing along, also directly across from my crouched gazed.
Crap.
A large river, about forty feet wide and at least four feet deep in places stood between me and the dry riverbed where I presumed a trail. The water here was relatively calm, but I could see foam building just ahead. I peered into the water at my feet, cautious of creeping things and the color green.
In hopes of discovering the “photogenic” King Creek Falls I had brought with me not only my backpack, but also my camera bag. Within it were my not-so-waterproof Nikon and two also-not-waterproof lenses. I debated for a lengthy few minutes the wisdom of leaving my bag on the rock I was currently inhabiting, thinking that surely no one else alive would end up in the same messy position in which I now found myself. Finally deciding that I couldn’t abandon several hundred dollars worth of equipment, I prepared myself to cross the Chattooga River.
I rolled my jeans up to my knees, tied my shoes together and threw them over my shoulder, secured my backpack across my chest, and cradled my camera bag underneath my left armpit, as high as I could hold it. Then I proceeded to Step Into the Water. The river surged icy fingers between my toes, grasping at my jeans and creeping up my thighs. The rocks beneath my grasping feet were slick and unstable. I take a moment to seethe against the authors of South Carolina Waterfalls. This was certainly not part of the dabbling adventure I’d planned.
I held my breath and took slow, unsteady steps across moldy rocks lying along the river bottom. The water was quickly rising above my waist, and I repositioned the camera onto my shoulder. Both hands supporting it left me none to balance. Just over halfway across the river, the crisis I’d anticipated: my foot slipped on a particularly slimy rock, and I felt my legs slipping out from under me. I jerked and twisted at the waist, straining against gravity and the current. A foot came up and swept my backwards, my camera bag grazing the water’s surface. I performed an elaborate and painful dance that left me with a cracked toe, bruised shins, and cut knees – but the camera came up and away, safe and dry.
As I got closer, I threw my boots to dry land and followed them slowly. I sat down and made several mental notes, one of them being that I would never again take this camera hiking.
The Middle: in which the author does in fact know where she is, but not where she is going or hoping to go.
For no obvious or intelligent reason I decided that I must now be on the right trail, or at least the Foothills Trail, and King Creek Falls just ahead. I scurried ahead excitedly, anticipating beauty and dabbling just ahead. Maybe another ten minutes…
About an hour and several mental arguments later, I stopped and planted myself on a large boulder. There were definitely no falls here – and apparently not anywhere nearby either, because I had pretty much covered the area. So I paused to enjoy the pulsing thrill of the Chattooga. As I sat there, staring, I considered that the rapids here must be almost as good as any waterfall. Massive boulders as big as my car sit perched at odd and impossible angles, sending the water surging over, around, and between them. The thick white water pounds so hard that I cannot hear the voices of the nearby fishermen just a few feet away.
The Ending: in which the author hopes she is where in fact she is, but doesn’t know for sure if where she is where she hoped she is.
When it was finally time to make the journey in the general direction of where I hoped I would fine my car, I set out with speed. I always tend to move much faster when I am lost. I met up with the fishermen, who offered me a ride back to my car after discovering I was nowhere near where I needed to be. Fearing the wrath of God against hitchhikers, as imparted to me by my parents, I declined. Several hours later I trudged up a gravel hill, praying with every breath that I would find a parking area at the top.
In fact, there were. I dragged my bruised and broken feet several more yards, past the actual parking area and on to my self-designated such. I left the Chattooga National Forest that day, driving away in the twilight hours and hours after I had set out, and none the richer or more joyous in my waterfall trekking experience.
And completely determined to return.
There is an element of the Christian church that believes in relational Christianity. That is, the practice of living in community with nonbelievers and developing deep and meaningful relationships with people of other faiths, lifestyles, interests, etc. Many of those who practice this kind of Christianity have chosen to rarely, if ever, make deliberate attempts to evangelize the “others” that they have befriended.
Those people are rare. And I respect them.
One of my struggles with the church has been the very, very many people I have encountered who practice a different kind of religion. The kind of religion that attempts to infiltrate a person’s privacy with almost an element of voyeurism. Having been there and done that, it is a compelling sense of NEED TO KNOW that will cause the evangelist to do whatever it takes to unearth whatever dirt will shed light on a person’s spiritual or personal life.
Several months ago I began getting requests from my mother’s PASTOR to be my “friend” on facebook. I barely know this man. He became pastor after I was in college and I have had very, very few interactions with him. I ignored the request. A few weeks went by and I got another. Ignored. Another. Ignored. Then, oh fateful day, I got a request from MY MOM. Also ignored. This week, another request from “Pastor Brent.” Ignored. And this time I sent a message to please stop sending these requests as I had no intention of allowing this man access to any of my personal information. My brother has suggested, I believe accurately, that this is a new, modern evangelism tactic. I am CERTAIN that my mother would never have signed up for a facebook account unless something really specific happened… something like her pastor telling the congregation that they needed to be watching the activities of their friends and relatives via facebook, myspace, whatever.
Everything about this is “distasteful” at the very best. Not that I don’t see the appeal, but the crux of the problem is the fake relationship. To be “courted” as someone’s friend only for the purpose of being a notch in someone’s kingdom belt is a betrayal and a lie. I’ve been on the receiving end of this (and probably the giving, to my shame) and it’s been a major factor in my decision to leave the church and to stay left. The problem is that for the “true believer” none of that matters. The only thing that matters is the end result. How many times did I hear, from the pulpit, that everything and anything was worth it for the sake of one soul? If the evangelist feels that his/her methods have or will result in a salvation… who cares what else happens?
Seque!!!
Google Mail has announced the ability to predate one’s email(s). As in, you can send an email today that will be timestamped as having been sent last week or last month or as far back as 2004. In addition, you can specify whether the message should be marked as “read” or “unread.” In other words you can send an email to anyone and it will show up as having been sent in the past and read by the person you sent it to. Google suggests that this can be utilized for work-related communication or forgotten anniversaries or what have you.
WHA?!?!?!
The “testimonials” on the info page for the service are all very farcical and obviously intended to be humorous, but…. am I the only one disturbed by this???
UPDATE: A very smart man tells me this is probably an April Fool’s Joke. They totally got me. Well played, Google. Well played.
