Today, my boyfriend told me that sandstone stores sound. And that sometimes when people who live in houses built with sandstone hear voices, it's because the sandstone is releasing the sound.
I have tried to find information on this online because I think it is intriguing, but google searches have turned up nothing. If it is true I'd like to use it for something I am writing. Whether or not it is, I still think it is an awesome idea.
Anyone know anything about this?
Vanity Fair
Tonight I watched Vanity Fair (a second time) and wondered (not for the first time) about Becky Sharp and whether I am meant to despise or sympathize with or admire her. After an unsuccessful attempt to analyze her character, I turned to the plot. I failed to see (at first) what I found (and find) attractive in this inconclusive story consisting mainly of pretensions and social and familial skirmishes -- a period drama rendition of a soap opera, going everywhere and ending up nowhere.
And then I came to a conclusion. The attraction of Vanity Fair lies not in the character of its main protagonist alone, nor in its story -- but rather, in the relation each has to the other. Becky Sharpe cannot be scrutinized as a character because she is not, in essence, a character, not even remarkable, but a mere reflection of something that is fully human -- of each and every one of us -- and the plotline serves only as a backdrop to illuminate this existence (and would be disregarded completely if not in perspective with her, as all our lives would mean nothing without us).
Neither is not there to be judged, but for us to observe and say, "yes." Yes, that is how we are; yes, that is how it is.
I don't know what a literary theorist would have to say about this, or what Thackeray would have said. But for me, this must be the truth.
And then I came to a conclusion. The attraction of Vanity Fair lies not in the character of its main protagonist alone, nor in its story -- but rather, in the relation each has to the other. Becky Sharpe cannot be scrutinized as a character because she is not, in essence, a character, not even remarkable, but a mere reflection of something that is fully human -- of each and every one of us -- and the plotline serves only as a backdrop to illuminate this existence (and would be disregarded completely if not in perspective with her, as all our lives would mean nothing without us).
Neither is not there to be judged, but for us to observe and say, "yes." Yes, that is how we are; yes, that is how it is.
I don't know what a literary theorist would have to say about this, or what Thackeray would have said. But for me, this must be the truth.
The Maltese Falcon
I have just finished the first book I've read over winter break -- and the first book I've read of my own volition since I-can't-remember-when: The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett.
It was a little bit slow to get into; but then, most books usually are for me. It usually takes me a few chapters to get into the swing of things and feel like a part of the story, but with this book by the time I got past the second chapter I was totally absorbed and ended up reading most of it yesterday and today (today, hardly stopping at all). I haven't been that absorbed in a book since ... I don't remember. Probably a year or two at least.
Of course, it is a detective story, so it can be expected to be somewhat addictive, a fast read. But The Maltese Falcon wasn't just that -- it was extraordinarily well-written. Although the prose is detail-laden (and this is very noticeable at first) it isn't overwhelmingly so, and the narrative style moves the story along at a pace that doesn't leave you scratching your head but also doesn't allow you to start nodding off mid-chapter. I think the most essential literary device for crime fiction is the plot twist, and Hammett doesn't throw that in like a reward at the end of a tedious story, but uses it in small but frequent doses which make every paragraph worth reading.
Most important of all, however, are the characters Hammett created. Every one of them is original, 3-dimensional, quirky, and expertly written. Even without his exact and formative descriptions, his use of dialogue alone paints an accurate portrayal of each of these unique characters. The story could never be as engaging without them.
There is no spectacular twist ending, which I suppose is the price that must be payed for this plot device having been used so frequently throughout. But the ending is not entirely expected either, and it does serve to complete the novel's depiction of its main protagonist, so I did think it was rather clever and hardly disappointing. In any case, the story is extremely engaging, remarkably well-written for a detective novel, and all in all, well worth the time it takes to read a mere 217 pages. This is, in my opinion, a book anyone should pick up.
I, for one, will be looking up Hammett's other novels the next time I go to the bookstore, and that is, I think, as big a compliment a person can pay to any author.
It was a little bit slow to get into; but then, most books usually are for me. It usually takes me a few chapters to get into the swing of things and feel like a part of the story, but with this book by the time I got past the second chapter I was totally absorbed and ended up reading most of it yesterday and today (today, hardly stopping at all). I haven't been that absorbed in a book since ... I don't remember. Probably a year or two at least.
Of course, it is a detective story, so it can be expected to be somewhat addictive, a fast read. But The Maltese Falcon wasn't just that -- it was extraordinarily well-written. Although the prose is detail-laden (and this is very noticeable at first) it isn't overwhelmingly so, and the narrative style moves the story along at a pace that doesn't leave you scratching your head but also doesn't allow you to start nodding off mid-chapter. I think the most essential literary device for crime fiction is the plot twist, and Hammett doesn't throw that in like a reward at the end of a tedious story, but uses it in small but frequent doses which make every paragraph worth reading.
Most important of all, however, are the characters Hammett created. Every one of them is original, 3-dimensional, quirky, and expertly written. Even without his exact and formative descriptions, his use of dialogue alone paints an accurate portrayal of each of these unique characters. The story could never be as engaging without them.
There is no spectacular twist ending, which I suppose is the price that must be payed for this plot device having been used so frequently throughout. But the ending is not entirely expected either, and it does serve to complete the novel's depiction of its main protagonist, so I did think it was rather clever and hardly disappointing. In any case, the story is extremely engaging, remarkably well-written for a detective novel, and all in all, well worth the time it takes to read a mere 217 pages. This is, in my opinion, a book anyone should pick up.
I, for one, will be looking up Hammett's other novels the next time I go to the bookstore, and that is, I think, as big a compliment a person can pay to any author.
Wind
Last night I kept waking up to the sound of the wind whipping around the outside corners of my house and rattling my windows.
There has always been something unsettling for me in the sound of the wind. I can't seem to not notice it the way other people do -- there's something in it that makes me listen. Like listening to a heartbeat, I listen to the wind like it is proof the world lives and breathes and feels something. Something like emotion. For me, the wind carries instinctual emotion. It sounds like so many things: loneliness, pain, acceptance, love, sadness, anger, power, helplessness, voice, voicelessness ... but most of all loneliness in all of this, and an intense awareness of my own existence, and while during the day it lifts me up with a sort of insight into the essence of things (or lack thereof), at night it carries the power to make me actually cry. For no apparent reason. Even when everything in my life seems to be running smoothly and I have no reason to be unhappy.
The first time this happened was when I heard the wind more vividly than I had ever heard it in my life, vacationing at a cottage on the ocean in Cape Cod. One night there, the wind came off the sea and danced and howled around the walls of the cottage with such life that it kept me awake all night, and hearing it in combination with the waves crashing in the distance threw me into such a state of awe at the intensity and enormity of nature and despair at my own insignificance and veneration for the beauty of it all, that I actually had tears coursing down my cheeks for the hours that I drifted in and out of sleep. Nothing has moved me so much since. But every time I hear the wind at night, I remember that night, and it chills me to the bone.
Because only words are supposed to do that for me, and that soundtrack has no words, only the thing that words borrow from, that I can't get my fingers and a pencil around, and that terrifies me.
There has always been something unsettling for me in the sound of the wind. I can't seem to not notice it the way other people do -- there's something in it that makes me listen. Like listening to a heartbeat, I listen to the wind like it is proof the world lives and breathes and feels something. Something like emotion. For me, the wind carries instinctual emotion. It sounds like so many things: loneliness, pain, acceptance, love, sadness, anger, power, helplessness, voice, voicelessness ... but most of all loneliness in all of this, and an intense awareness of my own existence, and while during the day it lifts me up with a sort of insight into the essence of things (or lack thereof), at night it carries the power to make me actually cry. For no apparent reason. Even when everything in my life seems to be running smoothly and I have no reason to be unhappy.
The first time this happened was when I heard the wind more vividly than I had ever heard it in my life, vacationing at a cottage on the ocean in Cape Cod. One night there, the wind came off the sea and danced and howled around the walls of the cottage with such life that it kept me awake all night, and hearing it in combination with the waves crashing in the distance threw me into such a state of awe at the intensity and enormity of nature and despair at my own insignificance and veneration for the beauty of it all, that I actually had tears coursing down my cheeks for the hours that I drifted in and out of sleep. Nothing has moved me so much since. But every time I hear the wind at night, I remember that night, and it chills me to the bone.
Because only words are supposed to do that for me, and that soundtrack has no words, only the thing that words borrow from, that I can't get my fingers and a pencil around, and that terrifies me.
Post Secret
http://postsecret.blogspot.com/
This is, hands down, my favorite website on the internet. I mean, if this was the only website that ever existed I would still pay for internet access to view it. (I exaggerate. But you get the picture.)
I first discovered it when people I knew started posting links on facebook. I remember my first reaction on reading the description was, "A community art project? That sounds awesome..." before I really even knew what it was about. Even on viewing the website, I didn't get at first that these were actual postcards sent to one person who had the task of sorting them and selecting which ones to display on the blog. I found this out later when I saw the PostSecret books in Barnes and Noble.
The books are even more awesome than the website because you can share them with other people. It's such a strange and extraordinary experience to discuss other peoples' anonymous secrets with people you know... I know that sounds weird but it is weird and wonderful and I can't really think what else to say about it. Except that if you haven't picked up a PostSecret book yourself, you are missing out.
I remember whenever I went to Barnes and Noble with Hannah this Spring, we always sat in the corner window by the journals and stationary and read all the PostSecret books. Once, we both decided to write our own secrets on scraps of paper and left them inside the books. I still do that every once in awhile. It's a liberating feeling. I always wonder if anyone ever found them, and what they think.
This past semester, Frank Warren, the creator of PostSecret, gave a presentation at SUNY Binghamton. Amy and I went, and it was the best event I've been to this year. It was at once funny, heartbreaking, and inspiring. Frank talked about how PostSecret got started, shared some stories about some of the postcards he's received, and showed some of the postcards that weren't allowed to be published. Also, of course, the music video for The All American Rejects' "Dirty Little Secret". At the end, members of the audience were invited to the microphone to share their own secrets. One idiot chose that moment to profess his love for the friend he'd brought along with him (poor girl must have been mortified), but mostly it was well worth hearing what people had to say. Of course I would never get up and share my secrets via microphone at the school I go to, but attending the lecture got me to thinking I would like to send in a postcard someday.
A few weeks ago, Sue gave me a copy of My Secret for Christmas. It was so much fun reading each of the postcards inside for the first time, and even more fun reading them again with other people, waiting for their reactions, laughing or sympathizing with them or commenting on them together. The secrets always inspire some really interesting conversations.
Mostly, though, reading the book and having time to think more about it lately since I'm on winter break ... well, I finally have time to create my own postcards, don't I? I think I'm going to contribute to the art project this week. I have plenty of my own secrets, after all, and it'll be fun to write them down and make them into something worth sharing -- anonymously. I've never done anything anonymously before, so that'll be a first. And I've never shared any of the secrets I plan to send in, so that'll be a first. And I've never taken part in a community art project, so that'll be a first.
I think it's worth killing three birds with one stone. Keep an eye out for my secrets!
...not that you'll know they are mine....
This is, hands down, my favorite website on the internet. I mean, if this was the only website that ever existed I would still pay for internet access to view it. (I exaggerate. But you get the picture.)
I first discovered it when people I knew started posting links on facebook. I remember my first reaction on reading the description was, "A community art project? That sounds awesome..." before I really even knew what it was about. Even on viewing the website, I didn't get at first that these were actual postcards sent to one person who had the task of sorting them and selecting which ones to display on the blog. I found this out later when I saw the PostSecret books in Barnes and Noble.
The books are even more awesome than the website because you can share them with other people. It's such a strange and extraordinary experience to discuss other peoples' anonymous secrets with people you know... I know that sounds weird but it is weird and wonderful and I can't really think what else to say about it. Except that if you haven't picked up a PostSecret book yourself, you are missing out.
I remember whenever I went to Barnes and Noble with Hannah this Spring, we always sat in the corner window by the journals and stationary and read all the PostSecret books. Once, we both decided to write our own secrets on scraps of paper and left them inside the books. I still do that every once in awhile. It's a liberating feeling. I always wonder if anyone ever found them, and what they think.
This past semester, Frank Warren, the creator of PostSecret, gave a presentation at SUNY Binghamton. Amy and I went, and it was the best event I've been to this year. It was at once funny, heartbreaking, and inspiring. Frank talked about how PostSecret got started, shared some stories about some of the postcards he's received, and showed some of the postcards that weren't allowed to be published. Also, of course, the music video for The All American Rejects' "Dirty Little Secret". At the end, members of the audience were invited to the microphone to share their own secrets. One idiot chose that moment to profess his love for the friend he'd brought along with him (poor girl must have been mortified), but mostly it was well worth hearing what people had to say. Of course I would never get up and share my secrets via microphone at the school I go to, but attending the lecture got me to thinking I would like to send in a postcard someday.
A few weeks ago, Sue gave me a copy of My Secret for Christmas. It was so much fun reading each of the postcards inside for the first time, and even more fun reading them again with other people, waiting for their reactions, laughing or sympathizing with them or commenting on them together. The secrets always inspire some really interesting conversations.
Mostly, though, reading the book and having time to think more about it lately since I'm on winter break ... well, I finally have time to create my own postcards, don't I? I think I'm going to contribute to the art project this week. I have plenty of my own secrets, after all, and it'll be fun to write them down and make them into something worth sharing -- anonymously. I've never done anything anonymously before, so that'll be a first. And I've never shared any of the secrets I plan to send in, so that'll be a first. And I've never taken part in a community art project, so that'll be a first.
I think it's worth killing three birds with one stone. Keep an eye out for my secrets!
...not that you'll know they are mine....
Top Three Teas
(by a coffee drinker)
1. Lady Grey (Twinings)
2. Sweet Dreams (Bigelow)
3. Passion Tea (Tazo)
1. Lady Grey (Twinings)
2. Sweet Dreams (Bigelow)
3. Passion Tea (Tazo)
The Beginning
And so I have done it again: started another blog. Whether or not I make anything of this remains to be seen. I don't have any warranted reason for writing one -- I'm not cooking my way through Julia Child's book or anything like that -- but I would like to keep writing something over winter break, regimentally, and my new ultra-portable netbook makes follow-through on this ever so slightly less doubtful. We shall see.
In any case, today is Christmas, and I think that is as good a day as any to start writing something new -- it is, after all, traditionally a day of birth. Whether or not I am a self-professed agnostic, I have always loved the Christmas story. I think it is incredibly beautiful. I don't think the question of whether it is factually true should interfere with whether it is conceptually true, and I think everyone believes in that, Christian or not.
What I do think is strange about Christmas is how it becomes entirely isolated from the other 364 days of the year, so that there's suddenly a reason to smile and greet the clerk behind the counter at CVS, suddenly a reason to slow down for someone on the road, suddenly a reason to call people you haven't talked to in a year. And then this becomes the issue I have with the idea of organized religions and their blocked-off calendars of designated days, and with the capitalist market and its fiery chasm of Black Friday that just reflect every other day, and with all the people who unthinkingly subscribe to both. I know it is naive to wish away both of these institutions, and I know I am only seeing one side when I look at them. Especially today. But I can't help wondering what it would be like if every day were Christmas, or if no day were Christmas, and whether or not those would be the same situation?
In any case, today is Christmas, and I think that is as good a day as any to start writing something new -- it is, after all, traditionally a day of birth. Whether or not I am a self-professed agnostic, I have always loved the Christmas story. I think it is incredibly beautiful. I don't think the question of whether it is factually true should interfere with whether it is conceptually true, and I think everyone believes in that, Christian or not.
What I do think is strange about Christmas is how it becomes entirely isolated from the other 364 days of the year, so that there's suddenly a reason to smile and greet the clerk behind the counter at CVS, suddenly a reason to slow down for someone on the road, suddenly a reason to call people you haven't talked to in a year. And then this becomes the issue I have with the idea of organized religions and their blocked-off calendars of designated days, and with the capitalist market and its fiery chasm of Black Friday that just reflect every other day, and with all the people who unthinkingly subscribe to both. I know it is naive to wish away both of these institutions, and I know I am only seeing one side when I look at them. Especially today. But I can't help wondering what it would be like if every day were Christmas, or if no day were Christmas, and whether or not those would be the same situation?
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