XXIII

1. My brother visited this week. He is normally over at Animation 07-11, where he draws pretty petchers, but he flew in from the Internet on Saturday. We picked him up at the airport and took him home, where he maneouvered around in a remarkably conscious state until he fell asleep during Public Enemies.

Which film is interesting, by the way. It is akin to Lawrence of Arabia or The Guns of Navarone in that I don't fully understand how it operates. It is about a character--not character interactions so much as a character--and the symbolic code or order or whatever you want to call it is different from most movies made nowadays. There is something entirely inaccessible about Dillinger, which is usually a mark of an older movie (ie. 60s) rather than a newer one. At least, in my limited film-watching experience it is. Maybe I'm just a dummy when it comes to watching the classics. Whatever you may think about me, this is not an impossible proposition.

Anyway, my brother coming over meant that the family was together again, at least for a week.

2. We, my family, volunteered at the Salvation Army's Christmas Dinner on Sunday. Mother and I helped set tables while brother and father worked in the kitchen. Then, once food was being served, I was in the kitchen generally slacking off and doing dishes with the other men-folk in my family. We (Nick and I) were sent out to eat once all the guests were served, and we joined a very bearded man named Rob who told us quite a lot about electromagnetism and how the whole system was being run improperly. We chose sitting with Rob because he had been alone for the whole meal.

My mother and I spoke to a woman who wore a nice necklace. My mother commented on it, and she said something like, "Oh, thank-you. Yes, I got it from a dumpster. I got everything I'm wearing today out of a dumpster. You'd be surprised what people throw out." She said it as someone in my own demographic would say, "Oh, yes, I got it on sale at [Abercrombie-and-Finch bracket accessory store]." That is, she said it with a certain amount of pride. And let me be clear: she takes care of those clothes. I'd have assumed she bought them at Wal*Mart or Zellers or maybe somewhere higher-end.

This did mean that I didn't go to church, but I think that's fine in this case, just this once.

Oh, and did you know that the Salvation Army's clergy (their term, not mine) wear uniforms and have ranks, like "officer" and "captain"? I did not know that. I think it's fascinating.

3. On Monday we celebrated Christmas. My Dad works irregular shifts, see. Well, he works very regular shifts, but they don't align with the days of the week, and he doesn't get stats off. (He makes an obscene amount of money on stats, too, so he doesn't exactly want to take them off.) So we celebrated on Monday. It was good, of course. I received more than Fallout 3 and seasons 2.0, 2.5, and 3 of Battlestar Galactica (see photo), but those are the salient points here.

4. On Tuesday we drove on the winter road to Fort Chipewyan. It is only maintained during the winter, and is rather cool. Perhaps I will have more to write on it later as we explore it a little further. (I can't claim the coyote picture; Nick took that one.)

5. I went in to work on Wednesday for four hours in the morning. I got some work done and got some questions answered, the latter of which was most important. I also showed brother and mother my project when they came to get me.

My brother also managed to get Fallout 3 working this day, and I played a little. I have not played it since, but I did enjoy it. I so rarely do that sort of thing any more--play video games, that is--but I used to do it fairly often. I think I like the FPS-RPG hybrid. (If you don't know what those terms are, I wouldn't bother looking them up.)

6. On Thursday, Christmas Eve proper, I served at St. Thomas'. In fact, I served for midnight mass, or the 11:30 service. It was the first Communion service I participated in as part of the worship team. I was jittery at first, but it worked out. Cues were, of course, as always, an issue. I was too distracted and nervous to feel overwhelmed or elated or whatever by the sacrament. But I will get 'better' at being a server and will hopefully as a result learn more things.

It was tough work staying up late enough for that, though.

Evidentally more happened on this day than evening service, but that might be better explored in the next entry...

7. On Friday, brother and I watched obscene amounts of Battlestar Galactica. Over the last week we managed to finish seasons 2.0 and 2.5, but as much as 4 and a half hours of that were viewed on Friday. I must again repeat the quality of this show: it is not your 'dinky' or 'silly' Star Trek-like sci-fi people seem to think it is. That's not to say that the original wasn't--I wouldn't know--but this show is good. It deals with "issues" and characters and suchlike that are required of being good. I have discussed that some extent here, but if you weren't with me back then, you could use being told it now. So consider yourself informed!

Which is not to say that we did nothing else. We--Nick and I--went for a walk down to Conn Creek, a little brook which runs through green space in the middle of the Thickwood-Timberlea area of town. One thing I didn't do is post on my blog, because I spent most of the day thinking it was Thursday instead of Friday, so I'm not doing Quick Takes until now. Sorry.

Today we returned my brother to the airport, from which he will go back into the Internet. But that is really for next week's Friday post.

Adieu,

Christian H aka English Clergyman

Wearing Glasses of Many Tints

I hereby exhort you to read Huston Smith's The World's Religions, a book I have been spending time with until the day before yesterday. I have two particular reasons for this exhortation, followed by a set of qualifications, which are the short-comings of the book. But to begin I will tell you that The World's Religions is Smith's attempt at explaining the major religions of the world intelligibly, so that you, I, and your average joe can have a well-rounded, amicable, and sympathetic undestanding of the traditions he's detailing. His emphasis is on the "core" of the tradition and less on its ritual, structure, taboos, and other "trappings," unless they pertain directly to that core. Thus he is concerned with history where history is necessary, but avoids it when he finds it unnecessary.

As I said, there are two reasons you should read this book. The first is simple: throughout his assorted chapters, nuggets of wisdom--either from the tradition that section is devoted to or from his commentary on it--glint through the facts and philosophy like the gold it is. For instance, one phrase in particular caught my attention: "We are a blend of dust and divinity." Its poetry, of course, lends it its power, but others are less beautiful-sounding but nonetheless profound, such as the observation that, at root, most if not all lying comes from the realization that something about ourselves is not the way we think others expect it to be. Lying is often a symptom of a flaw in ourselves; if we observe our own lying, we will be better able to correct ourselves. There were many others, and I am reviewing the book in search for them, copying them out as I find them. Of course, when you read the book, you will find different things resonate than I will, I'm sure, but the nature of the book--a compendium and discussion of what Smith terms that world's wisdom traditions--indicates that almost anyone who reads it perceptively will indeed find embers wisdom.

The second reason, however, is vastly more important. Smith's lifetime religion-hopping has allowed him to see from the viewpoint of each tradition he represents. He is in a sense both an insider and an outsider of all religions, confering upon him the anthropological benefits of each position.* What this gives him is the ability to explain each religious tradition is a way that is fair to the others around it but nonetheless preserves the integrity of the religion itself. If you read this book with due attention and openness, you will be able to understand how a person would see from each religion's point of view, even if you still retain that your religion is nonetheless the best or truest one. This ability or attitude that Smith confers upon the reader is one of the book's greatest attributes. In a world in which Protestants and Catholics usually consider each other not truly Christian, it is easy to see how your average person could look at something like Islam or Hinduism and be entirely baffled by its customs and claims. In a world in which the media can often slip into equating Islam with terrorism, a world in which atheist organizations and celebrities portray religion as the prime divider (and if this has only a surface plausibility, is has at least that much plausibility), a world in which people will brazenly deny that Confucianism or Buddhism are religions at all, a world in which Aboriginal beliefs' endangered status goes not unremarked but unnoticed, the ability to see at least partially from another traditions perspective is invaluable. Smith's book is an oasis in our cooperative desert.

And before anyone is fooled one way or the other, I have particular people in mind when writing this, and some are atheists and some are Christians. Everyone needs what this book can confer, and I know far too few who have it. And it's not just the capacity to see from these different points of view, which enough people have; it's the actual details of each tradition that I'm refering to, which virtually no one has. I am, in fact, thinking of you, reader, whoever you happen to be. Read this book.

But not until you read my caveats.

First, Smith is himself biased. I noticed quite a few times when he tried to distinguish between a 'pure' version of the religion and a 'corrupt' version of a religion. I do not disagree with this attempt in and of itself; as a practitioner of a religion, I can tell you from the get-go that there are corrupted versions of religions, and that they ought not to be counted as fully part of the religion they came from. Take, for instance, those people who called themselves Christian who participated in such groups as the Ku Klux Klan. While I cannot speak about the possibility of their salvation, I can tell you that calling them "Christian" renders that word meaningless, as they certainly don't fit under its substantial definition.

However, I do not think that Smith's divisions are fair. He tends to cut away those strands of a tradition which are ritually focused, and instead devote his time to theology, compassion, and more often perspective. For instance, he no more than mentions that there is a difference between Sunni and Shi'i Islam, and instead draws his 'division' in Islam between mainstream and Sufi. This is like drawing your like between the Christian mystics and the Christian non-mystics, rather than between the three major divisions (East Orthodox, Roman Catholic, and Protestant). While I'd agree that a Catholic mystic looks more like an East Orthodox mystic than a Catholic non-mystic, I think there are still important differences which cannot be passed over so easily. While the different churches in Christianity are not analogous to the Sunni-Shi'i divide, I still think from my very little knowledge that said divide is worth exploring.

A good example is Smith's discussion of Hinduism. He spends a lot of the book exploring the philosophic and yogic dimensions of India (and it is until recently fair to equate religion in India with Hinduism, since Hinduism at the outset was simply the umbrella term for the religions in India, back when the English colonials believed that nations had single, national religions). In the Buddhism section, he needs to explain what shortcomings Buddha found in the Hinduism that surrounded him because he wants to explain Buddhism as a liberation from that context. Thus he sets up a 'corrupted' version of Hinduism. It is true that in some cases it was corrupted; for instance, by then the sense of hierarchy based on skill-set had transformed into the hereditary caste system. However, he also suggests that the sense of the mysterious had devolved into divination and "miracle-mongering," and that rituals had simply become mechanical petitions. First, it seems unlikely that no one derived meaning from their rituals, since these rituals persisted. Second, why ought we say that a religion interested in divination, miraclework, and petition is corrupted? By that logic, most of Shinto is a corrupted religion, since it is virtually devoid of 'lofty' things like theology or creed and is consistent mainly of ritual and myth. And this is certainly not the only place he betrays this attitude.

Related to this inaccurate definition of a corrupted religion,** he tends to dismiss ritual as secondary. This again devalues those traditions which use ritual and not theology to explore worldview. While he admits that ritual is older than theology and that such ritualistic traditions exist, he tends to gloss over the rituals themselves and tries to dig out those worldviews independently of their medium. I don't think this can be done. Ritual is far too important to too many traditions to put aside as a trapping. He reasons that focusing on the rituals, particularly those we find bizarre, is the worst kind of voyeurism, but to me it seems that trying to understand them and integrate them into the philosophical system he does so lovingly describe is a worthy project.

Another complaint, and this one fairly major, is his weighting. The Hinduism section is more than twice as long as the Taoism section, which is itself longer than the section of "Primal Religions," which includes the traditions of the Australian aboriginals, Native Americans, and non-Abrahamic Africans. He has no sections on Shinto, Zoroastrianism, Mormonism, Scientology, Neo-Paganism, or Baha'i. He mentions some of them in passing, but gives no discuss at all. This I found disappointing. So weight is another issue. (Obviously, if you want more detail on anything, you will need to consult more intensive sources, but this is always the case when you're looking at a survey.)

And my last complaint for the moment is that he has too optimist a view that religions are somehow reconciable. I realize that he was raised in a syncretistic environment (rural China) and I was raised in an environment that emphasized the rule of the excluded middle (educated Canada). I am a staunch monotheist, born into my current religion, and he is a frequent convert, first to a pluralistic Hinduism. For a Christian I have a very welcoming attitude towards other traditions and to syncretistic elements, but I must emphasize the "for a Christian" part: I continue to affirm the Apostle's Creed and you'd have to use Scripture to convince me otherwise. That is, I would call the Dene prophets Christian, but I wouldn't say they're right. Which is to say, I find his pluralism unlikely and excessive, but I realize that there are many who would find my exclusivism the same.***

Now that you are equipped to deal with his biases, I hope you will seriously consider reading this book. Reading this or a similar book (so long as it is reliable) is crucial to human citizenship in the full sense of the word.

*There is an on-going debate within Religious Studies about whether an anthropologist ought to be part of the religion(s) they study or not. Those who say "not" suggest that you'll be wearing fetters of some sort; not only will you be biased, but you'll have no external frame of reference to understand it and explain that understanding to others. Those who say you should be part of the tradition indicate that so much of religion is subjective experience, which means that one must participate and involve oneself in the narrative, symbolic, and interpersonal orders of which the religion is made in order to understand it, and that furthermore everyone is biased and works within their own frames of reference, even those who are agnostic. For the most part both sides acknowledge the other's point, but claim that their own concerns are more important than the other's.

**I would define a corrupt religion as one that veers from its central tenants or perspectives. Thus the KKK is not truly Christian because it does not advocate love, which is Scripturally required. As Protestants, the KKK would be willing to assert that the Bible is central to their faith, but if they do not love or at least attempt to love those around them, they cannot be Christian. Put more forcefully, if they trade in hate, they cannot dwell in Christ.

***I am not, in the scheme of things, wholly exclusivist--God will not damn someone who has never heard of Him, as far as I am concerned--but I recognize that non-Christians will often perceive me as being exclusivist by merit of the fact that I am Christian at all.

Winter

Having just read Em the luddite's post about snow in the South, I want to be clear about something.

Notwithstanding how much I gripe about the cold and how little anyone in the 'South' (ie. south of me, ie. most of populated Canada and the rest of the world) will be able to understand just how cold it is, I do find it quite pretty here. "Quite pretty" fails semantically. Whenever I see the hills from work, I pause--only for a moment, but I do pause--with a sense of blessedness that I get to live amid these hills. This was true in the summer, but in the winter it is more striking because it is newer. I've never seen these bluffs cloaked in white before. They look wilder like this, and I just want to get into them, tromp through forest drifts. I probably will do so this week.

There is a view in Fort McMurray which does, upon first seeing it, take your breath away. Whether you fly in or drive north on Highway 63, you will enter Fort McMurray at its southernmost point, which is the Gregoire-MacKenzie Industrial Park-Beaconhill trifecta. Driving north along 63 from there, you will come down "the hill"* into the Lower Townsite-Waterways area. As you come down, the hills still climb to your left but, as you ease around something of a bend and as Gregoire peters out, the trees and rocks and bush to your right will drop away and you'll see meadows roll down to a cluster of pines and spruce that give in to the Clearwater River, behind which the long, bare cliffs of the further hills can be seen. In the summer, when you first see it, the meadows are the light rich green of grass and the forest is the dusty dark of pines and the Clearwater is quicksilver and the cliffs behind are a pale earth forested with more pines and spruces that show, again, just how wide a palette "green" can be. I have not yet seen this during the daylight in the winter; I have seen it at dusk and by moonlight. Tomorrow I will go with my folks to pick my brother up at the airport, though, and this will be during the daylight. I wait with bated breath, because what little I have seen through the gloaming has hinted that it will be wonderful.

I love the winter light. It is white. Summer's warm radiance, signified best to me by a patch of gold on the rug, is nice in its place. But nothing says 'bookisness' to me like the white of an overcast day, and nothing says 'holidays and happiness' to me like bookishness. For those who haven't experienced it, when the ground is carpeted in snow and the sky is overcast, what sunlight comes through is reflected between the snow and the clouds back and forth, as though trapped between mirrors. Unlike a day with snow on the ground and a clear sky, it's usually not painfully bright (though it can be). The light, since filtered by clouds and reflected by snow, is white. Next to an incandescent bulb it looks blue, but next to a fluorescent bulb you can see what real white light it is. And since it's muffled from above and deflected from below, it's diffuse. There are no shadows. Nothing glows; there is no clear light source. There is just light.

I dislike the cold, I get claustraphobic and frustrated if I'm overdressed, my hands and legs hurt if I'm underdressed (in -35 to -45 Celsius, at any rate), I don't like getting footprints in snow, I don't like the time it takes to get dressed or the snow and water that spreads through the house no matter what you do or the mud that spreads through stores no matter what you do. You cannot kayak in the winter and there are no dragonflies or moths. Walking the dog becomes a much bigger chore than in the summer and shoveling snow emerges as grave and mature as Athena but as needy and tiring as a baby. Winter is not my favourite season--it ties for last with summer--but I must say that despite the recurrent frustrations--frustration so blinding that it's like panic only not rooted in fear--it can like no other season give a sense of underlying peace, joy, and maybe even rapture.

The hymns I associate with spring are ones of hope and renewal. I associate no hymns with summer, actually, but as a season I would characterize it as having a sense of possibility and maybe freedom. Autumn must always be new to me, gemini to spring, because that's when I start school (except this year); were it not for that it would be reaping the fruits of industriousness, winding down, impending rest. The hymns I associate with winter, though, are not properly hymns but rather carols. "Jingle Bells," yes, and, "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," but more often the slow ones, so full of circumstance: "We Three Kings," "Silent Night," "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen," and "O Come O Come Emmanuel." These songs are full of majesty. Not bursting with majesty, but full like filled wineskins or a well-packed lunchbox. They are soft, quiet, paced. And they are minor key, many of them. I don't know much about music theory, but minor key always strikes me as more monumental, as somehow out of our realm--fey, ominous, portentious, netherworldly, tragic, wild, or ecstatic. These carols are thus majestic, reserved, gentle, wild, full, rapturous, and otherworldy. They are that which is good about winter.

Winter is also dangerous. As a recently-initiated local historian, I am learning about fronteir Alberta in the early 1900s and am discovering just how dangerous winter could be. To us it means broken hips and sliding tires and poor visibility. To others it meant--and means--starvation and hypothermia and crashing planes and isolation and cabin fever and windigo and madness and darkness and other versions of death. If during winter the earth sleeps, than the earth has violent parasomnia. Winter is dark and dangerous and deathly, and that's how it functions as a metaphor in Frye's seasonal genres and in C. S. Lewis' fiction. This cannot be ignored, and as I pause before those hoary hills whenever I glimpse them at work, I also feel as well as I can how the early settlers of Fort McMurray must have felt about those hills--promise and freedom, hardship and death, mundanity and superreality cheek-by-cheek.

Winter is not my favourite season, no. But it is to me by far the most evocative, and I hope I always feel it.

----------------------

*Sorry to confuse you, but there are at least three "the hill"s in Fort McMurray, four if you live in or know someone who lives in Abasand Heights.
**Once I have an appropriate one, I will post a photo of Fort McMurray in the winter on here.

7 Quick Takes (XXII)

1. I worked for a few hours on Saturday, taking pictures of artefacts in a sort of photo studio I made with portable lighting and white screens. This was for my exhibit. The previous photos had been too blurry. I can't recall the afternoon. What I can tell you is that it persisted in being cold. (I don't suppose there's any point in telling you that it's "cold," though, because unless you live north of Wandering River, you cannot understand the meaning of the word.)

2. Sunday. I went to church in the morning. There was some laying on of hands. This wasn't a healing service, but a gesture of asking the Holy Spirit to come down into the people beside us. I was not used to this, and I cramped up a bit holding an awkward position. (That, friends, is called bathos. Look it up.)

Then, in the afternoon, there was shopping for snow pants, which wound up being nice and warm. Also, a Secret Santa gift was purchased.

3. Monday. It was cold. There were assorted problems with buildings at work, including doors that would not open and furnaces that gave up and fire alarms that were going off. I managed to fix the alarm and reset the furnace, but I was no hope at the door. That, though, has now been fixed.

4. Tuesday. I cannot recall any particular event on Tuesday--I did buy more Secret Santa type things, but that can wait for Thursday. So instead I will tell you that I've still been reading The World's Religions. There are some problems with this book, which I will address in a review-type post, but here I will indicate that I think this book is on the required reading list of being a citizen of humanity. It does a very good job of making sense of the world's religions from (largely) their own perspectives, which is something pretty much every person I have ever met--including myself--desperately needs. (Yes, I mean you. Some need it more than others, but you can be quite sure that, whoever you are, I mean you.) You are allowed to wait until I've written my review, without which I am quite sure you will be misled into sin and ignorance. (And that, ladies and gentlemen, is hyperbole. Look it up.)

5. Wednesday. I volunteered at the Snowflake Soiree, which was a shindig put on in conjunction with the arrival of the Winter Lights judges. In case you don't want to bother clicking the link, Winter Lights is a contest which judges contestant community's festive spirit and blatant disregard for energy conservation. My Mom was doing a children's craft table, and I was helping her. I spent most of the evening helping a high-maintenance girl named Ella make a doll/puppet/glove with a pom-pom for a head. I got brief breaks when she ran off to see Rave the Raven ("Can I go see Wave one mowa time?"). All in all, it was a pretty decent evening.

6. Thursday. We had our Secret Santa deal. I got my recipient a pink hat (he hates pink) and put it in a bag with his name on it. Inside the hat were instructions that the big bag under the tree with a "?" on it was also his. Inside that were the real presents--chocolates and a calendar with horses on it. (I tried to find a calendar with horses being ridden by beautiful women wearing only hockey jerseys while the Dixie Chicks and the Barenaked Ladies played in the background, but apparently they don't sell that calendar, so horses would have to do.) Unfortunately, he didn't find the instructions as soon as I thought he would. He thought that was his actual present, and reasoned that it was for his daughter. He was good about it, but I could tell he was disappointed. I almost caved and told him to look in the hat, but he found it in the end and was happy. I also got a good gift--a game called "Catch Phrase"--but that is less interesting to me than giving the present.

After that we went to the restaurant in the Sawridge. The boss paid for us all to eat at the buffet, and I did what everyone does at a buffet, which is overeat. It was a good night.

7. And today is Friday. It was -19 this morning and -3.9 in the afternoon. For those of you luxuriating in the desert and who forget what it was looking like last week, that's balmy. I didn't wear my neck warmer or my snow pants. It seems the meteorologists were on the game after all. There was a bit of moisture in the air, too, for which I was grateful. We don't have much more than a few inches of snow, though. -35 and lower weather makes you appreciate the warm stuff. (Note: all temperatures are in Celsius. If you don't "do" Celsius, then I suggest you start.)

OK. That's all.

Go visit Conversion Diary. She doesn't need the traffic, but you need to read her blog.

Writing with a Goal

Of course I ought to be doing other things, like preparing for bedtime or working on grad school applications or not drinking caffeinated beverages, but instead of being responsible or something stupid like that I will write a blog post.

In writing text documents for the on-line exhibit I'm working on, I have stumbled upon a fact or few about writing itself. The fact-cluster is one which most of you already knew on some level, but I am going to augment your knowledge with fresh examples. I hope you find it useful.

1. Writing is usually done with a goal, or a purpose, or a win-scenerio in mind. A person does not simply write things willy-nilly. One writes toward something.

2. Different projects are written with different goals in mind. Take popular books. You can generally get a sense--but only an imperfect one--of the goals that authors wrote their novels towards in author interviews. The goal of a horror book is usually to scare the reader in a way that the reader finds enjoyable, though a bonus is to make the author think about things somewhat. Stephen King expresses this interest; mainly he's concerned with the story, but if you read On Writing you'll see he is nonetheless interested in what the story's "about." Science fiction's goal is often to explore ideas and, most importantly, possibilities--both in the sense of 'things we could do' and 'things that might happen if we don't wise up.' The goal of a romance book is, as far as I can tell, to provide a form of escape or distraction through titillation, sometimes outright arousal. Other books, those labelled "literature" by those who do such labelling, have some sort of critique or education as a goal, perhaps, though often it's a challenge.
The goal of an essay or argumentative book is different; the goal there is to persuade the reader. Perhaps they want to persuade the reader of a theoretical concept; perhaps they want to persuade the reader to a course of action; perhaps they want to persuade the reader (ie. grader) to give them a high mark. Sometimes it is to persuade the public to stop hating the reader so badly--this is a defence.
There is sometimes overlap here: a novel may be an attempt by the author to persuade the reader to respect the author. This would be "writing for fame."
Or, perhaps the writing is not reader- but self-directed. This is writing as celebration, writing as therapy, writing as discipline, writing as reasoning, writing as documenting. Or it is writing as exorcism, because the story burns to come out. Or it is writing for the sheer joy of wordsmithery.

3. Writing, when done well, is shaped by its goal. In English class they explain how, in a good story, each chapter, each scene, each sentence, each word somehow contributes to or drives the plot. This is only true if the goal is to move that plot along. As we have seen, this is not the only goal. A romance novel may include graphic sex scenes which move well past advancing the plot; they are obviously there for some reason all their own. This is because the plot is secondary to the response the author wants to elicit in the reader; usually, this is the same response the reader wants elicited in her, since she bought the romance knowing what would likely contain. (Or perhaps she does care more for the story and skips over these bits as silly. But at rate I think the author can expect that the reader will be buying the book at least to some extent for the sexy bits.) In a horror novel, a scary scene might be included not because it appreciably advances the plot but because it appreciably advances the suspense. In an 'idea' novel, a scene may be included not because it advances the plot but because it explores some new angle to or establishes some important groudwork for the ideas being analyzed. The goal shapes the story, in other words.
Essays are more obviously goal-driven. If you know this, I needn't explain it; if you don't know this, you likely don't want to.
Journals are shaped by their goals more nebulously; in this case it's how it serves the writer.

4. Writing which has no clear goal would be bizarre. Witness things written by children who do not yet have a sense of narrative flair. A friend of mine, for an assignment in our grade five class, wrote a story based on one of the pictures in the Chris Van Allsburg book The Mysteries of Harris Burdick. The picture dictated that the story have as a moment in it a house which was lifting off. The title was something like "The House on Maple Street." I read the story for him, as an editor, I suppose. I cleaned up some grammar and spelling errors, trying to persuade him that because SpellCheck approved, "The dog was baking," didn't make it correct. Anyway, even then I recognized that there were some serious structural problems with the story. Namely, the house-lifting-off part happened in the last page of a five-page story. That would have been fine, of course, if the preceding four pages hadn't been devoted to an account of the protagonist's dirt-biking. What happened, clearly, was that he had to write about the house on Maple Street, but really he was more interested in dirt biking, so he attached the house bit at the end. Which isn't to say that he didn't think a space-going house wasn't cool. It just wasn't as cool as dirt-biking. His story failed as a story because it's goal was unclear. The first part was writing for himself, but the last part was writing for the teacher. He'd have been better off writing for himself, and then going back and "editing like a mofo," as Kay once put it, so that the whole story worked for the teacher. But it was grade five.

So that's the system I have discovered.
1) We write towards a goal.
2) Different writing projects have different goals. (enlightenment, $$$, arousal, pleasurable fear)
3) Writing projects, when done well, are shaped by their goals.
4) Writing projects with muddled or no goals have unsatisfying structures.

Now why I am discussing this?

Well. As I said, I am working on the virtual exhibit. This involves writing "Storylines," or blocks of text and old-timey photographs and new-timey photographs of old-timey things strung out in a narrative fashion. The point of these storylines, according to my instructions, are to lead the virtual visitor through my exhibit and give them something coherent to follow. This is unhelpful, as a great number of things could do that. What we have to keep in mind is that the visitor is at the exhibit because they want to learn, probably as a form of entertainment. That at least is our ideal visitor; it is also possible that there are high school students who want to extract specific information as quickly, painlessly, and thoughtlessly as possible for an assignment, but they will have to deal with the fact that I am not writing for them alone.

Which means my goal is to provide an information dump of assorted trinket-like facts and anecdotes. It's like a rummage sale: I don't expect everyone to find each piece of information interesting, but I'll only include it if I think someone will.

And that leads of course to my list of points, namely #3: Writing, when done well, is shaped by its goal. What is the goal of a narrative (it has to be a narrative) that functions as an information-dump, meant to entertain and inform?
It is a narrative with lots of tangents and anecdotes that don't advance the 'plot' one bit. It's an interesting genre, one which I could do again, but I can tell you that I didn't find it easy. The best thing about it was the fact that I was allowed to include things for no other reason than that they're "cool" (and on topic).

(If you want to see what this 'genre' is like, read A Brief History of Nearly Everything or Rats or The Serpent and the Rainbow or another popular-audience non-persuasive non-analytical non-fiction book. (Of course all non-fiction has some sort of thesis, but some have more than others. My theses in the exhibit are largely 1) this topic is worth writing about, 2) the overarching structure/topic is in fact an authentic claim/category, and 3) we--that being the museum in general and me in particular--are not idiots. This also acts to shape the narrative.) This can be an excellent and enjoyable genre to read.)

7 Quick Takes (XXI)

1. Was it only last Friday that I went to a party? It must have been just a week ago. That's crazy. That, then is the first entry: On Friday I went to a party. The import of this is that I haven't been to a real social gathering since September--September!--when I visited Oakville, Kingston, and Windsor. It was tremendously awkward at first since I knew so few people and didn't want to latch onto those I did know and drag them down with my own social ineptitude. But in the end it worked out, as I got to know a few other people there and by the end I had quite a bit of fun.

2. Saturday. What happened Saturday? Books happened on Saturday. That's what. We went to the library, where I extracted The Magician's Book again, as well as Neuromancer. I finally got to finish the former, which has excellent parts and less than excellent parts. (It also gave me a book idea--I good one, I think--that I will attempt in the future. Not yet. I am not mature enough to take on this task yet.) I began Neuromancer, but will return it without finishing it, I think. It is perhaps too dark and gritty for me. Maybe not; maybe it's just a mood I'll pass through. But I am not feeling it right now.

After this, there was an expedition to the Peter Pond Shopping Centre (ie. the mall). This involved Chinese food and Bootleggers (not for me) and Zellers and Coles. This later was what interested me most, as from it came The Elements of Style and Huston Smith's The World's Religions. Lacking a reference book in either English grammar or world religions, I decided that I must use my gift certificates to remedy this situation. I have never read Strunk and White's classic, so I picked it up. And Smith's book was the most promising and most comprehensive, though now that I look over it I realize it stills lacks things on what might be called 'minor' religions--Shinto, Zoroastrianism, Rastafarianism, Wicca and Neo-Paganism, Mormonism, Scientology. There is a section for "primal religions" in the back, but this is thin and covers too vast a territory for me to confident of it. I haven't read that far yet, so I can't tell you for sure.

What Huston's book has so far done is greatly improve my understanding of Buddhism and re-familiarize me with Hinduism and Confucianism. That's as far as I've read so far, but I feel edified for having read this. Also, it's here in Fort Mac with me, so I can refer to it as need be. This is better than my host of textbooks in Ontario, which I cannot access. Yay!

Visits to the other stores mentioned, incidentally, involved buying presents for families through the Salvation Army.

3. Events must have occured on Sunday, but for me the day revolved around the twin axes of church, in which I didn't serve, and reading. I haven't spent enough time reading lately, so spending a whole day with The Magician's Book (see above) was nice. Not that I agree with certain parts of that book, but it was nice to just read.

4. And then on Monday work recommenced. Somewhere in this past week I finished writing text files, which is to say that most of the prose for the exhibit I am designing is now in draft form. This I must edit myself and then have edited. I have a rock-truck of work left to do, which means that the coming holidays will lack in certain holiday-like elements. Such as free time, or as much of it as Christmas usually heralds. This exhibit is becoming a stress-centre.

5. I need to spend more time on grad school applications again. I very much do not want to--I have mentioned this sentiment before--but there you go. I must, or I will be here in Fort McMurray for yet another year, and I can tell you that if that wasn't an incentive before, this week has changed that...

6. ...because it is COLD here! Geez jumpin' Louise. It took the knights of yore less time to suit up for a joust than it does for me to get my outdoor gear on, and I'm still woefully underdressed. I lack snowpants or other leg-warming accoutrements, for instance. I wear a coat and a jacket and a sweater over a t-shirt or long-sleeved shirt simultaneously, as well as two pairs of gloves (that's gloves, not mittens, b/c I need fingers to work) and two pairs of socks in my boots. I wear a hat and a hood (sometimes two hoods, if I am wearing my one-and-only hoodie that day) and a scarf or a neckwarmer. Under this pile of cotton and polyester my torso and ears are warm, but my hands, legs, and feet are still cold.

Now, in case you're thinking that I'm merely participating in that time-honoured Canadian tradition of griping about the cold, let me lay down some figures for you. Yesterday I saved some outdoors-related tasks at work for the early afternoon, when it was to warm up to -30 oC. For you Fahrenheiters, that's -22 oF, according to some on-line temperate calculator. Notice that it warmed up to that temperature. You wouldn't know it, though. I heard tell that with the wind chill it was -50. My legs actually hurt they were so cold when I did my end-of-day security round.

Some forecaster was talking about a balmy -5 next week, but I've been told that they lie about the forecast all the time. This happened during the summer when they told us it would be sunny next week, and it never was. I'm not surprised they lost a zero somewhere between the meteorologist's office and the newsroom.

7. I went to work for a few hours today and got a photo shoot done. (Of artifacts and not models, alas.) And then on the way back I had an impromptu photoshoot of some ravens. My subjects were kind enough to pose for me, though they were a bit nervous.

Oh, and I didn't do this last night because the folks wanted to break out a new game Mom bought called Catch Phrase. I found out about it at the party (see above), so Mom got it on Saturday (see above).

Also, again outside of the 7 Quick Takes thing, do people ever e-mail information to themselves, like pictures or links or whatever, instead of burning CDs or using USB keys? If yes, does anyone else feel weird about writing anything in the body? Like it somehow bifurcates your selfhood, makes you uncomfortably non-singular? Or am I the only one who both feels such bifurcations and feels uncomfortable about them?

Title Goes Here

I was going to write 7 Quick Takes, but I was busy and I should get ready for bed now. Bye bye!

Ham Cookies and Sonnet 45

Do you know what's bizarre? The sorts of things that lead up to one's blog in Webmaster Tools. For instance, there are consistently a few people out there (mainly Britain, from what I can tell) who Google "mina makeout" and get my blog up on the search list. That was one post of mine, likely the only post I have which uses either word. (Now, of course, there are two.)

What's really bizarre is the sorts of things I get first place on Google for. Like "ham cookies" (2, now 3 posts) and Sidney Sonnet 45 (2, now 2 posts). Seriously, Thinking Grounds ranks highest for people researching Sir Philip Sidney's 45th sonnet. That's sad. Ham cookies I understand; it refers to an online ad I saw once and my attempts to track down its origin. But Sidney deserves better than me.

For a while there, I was getting high hits for "pachycephalasaurus," too, which I am ashamed to say isn't very representative of my blog. There are not nearly enough dinosaurs on here, and in future I might try to remedy that.

I get lots of Aboriginal spirituality, which does make some sort of sense. I mention spirituality and aboriginal things fairly frequently, sometimes in the same post.

The number one which actually induces people to visit my blog from Google, though (rather than the above, which only describes what sorts of searches my blog turns up in), is "spirituality pathway test." I feel bad about this, because that sucker's sort of plagairized. And that's my #1 from Google.

Of course I assume my traffic is largely not from Google but from the prodigious amount of links I leave on other people's blogs.

Dinosaur:

First Saturday Blog Carnival

Gist: you link your best/most defining/most favouritest blog posts of the month here, and then read other bloggers' submissions. It's a monthly, blog-personality carnival. Yippee!

Link here: http://www.elizabethesther.com/threes_a_crowd/2009/12/the-saturday-evening-blog-post-vol-1-issue-4.html.

7 Quick Takes (XX)

1. I'm actually writing this Thursday night. I might be too busy tomorrow night (a social outing) to do this on Friday, as is traditional.

2. Saturday was Old Fashioned Christmas. Assorted things happened. We had an ice rink and a sledding hill. There were horse rides and pony rides and sleigh rides. There was a hockey shuffle board. There was maple syrup on a stick and children's crafts. There was chilli and hot dogs and hot chocolate and hot cider. There was a silent auction and a gift shop and pointsettas. There were carolers and live entertainment and bonfires and Santa Claus and elves and Christmas decorations. I was floater, as usual. It wasn't a bad event. I stayed later then than I ever have, though. I got out at 8:00. Before I left, I was mopping floors by flashlight.

I want you to look at this photo I took. The one to the right in this paragraph. Those are carollers, yeah, and that's a dude taking pictures of them, and there are little wooden sleighs with reindeer in the background and further back there are Christmas trees with Santa's Village in front of them. But that's not really what I want you to observe. What I want you to notice is the positions of the sun. See where it sits above the horizon? See the length of the shadows? Now here's the kicker: I took this photograph at 12:00 o'clock noon. That's the highest the sun gets around here. And we're not at solstice yet.

Of course, in Inuvik the sun doesn't even raise entirely above the horizon by now.

3. I served in church on Sunday. I've already written about that, though, in this post. That also happened on Sunday. I'm sure other things did, too, but they aren't really coming to me right now. It was a bit of a disappointing weekend, given how short it was.

Writing that Advent post got me to thinking. (Any surprises?) The other day I saw on ad on Facebook exhorting me to celebrate Newtonmas on 25 December. Maybe they want to join the festive season with their own scientistic holiday (I say 'festive season' because this time of year certainly has holidays other than Christmas, and the Jewish community began to observe Hannukah more to fit into the mainstream culture, Islam has the Eid and many religions have solstice celebrations, so I think it's fair to say this is one of those times of year that are celebrated by many different cultures). I have a suspicion that they want to practice a bit of irony and try to replace Christmas' spot in the mainstream culture with their own holiday, but I know I shouldn't think that because it's uncharitable. The choice of Newton-mas over Newton Day makes me wonder, though.

Anyway, this is the second scientist-based holiday campaign I've heard of. The other is Darwin Day. It makes sense for the atheist revolutionists and secularists to try and create a seasonal cycle. Conversion Diary has written about the importance of liturgical seasons, and in my incarnation as a Religious Studies student I have come to realize that many faith traditions take seasonal cycles far more seriously than your average Christian. I like being connected to the natural, planetary cycle because it makes me feel more agricultural and less urban, which is at this point nearing hypocrisy. Regardless, I realize how important it is to be able to enact a symbolic, community narrative each year, and the cycle of fall and return is a potent one. I think it will be a difficult project for the scientistics to create such a symbolic narrative. The creation even of a narrative has proven difficult (see the failure of things like The Great Story to gain momentum), and even people like Dawkins have noted that atheist communities seem inherently prone to dissolution.

Strictly as a scholar of religion, I'd like to see how this calendar holiday deal develops for the atheist movement. Will they try to use the actual idea of calendar holidays--that is, creating an annual narrative that the whole community reenacts--or will they find that is antithetical to their whole project of atheism? And do they have the voice and numbers to make this become popular? People who are still in academia (where atheism is more influential), could you keep your ears to the ground and let me know what develops?

4. I'll never finish this post if my entries continue to be this long.

I finished reading the Lovecraft collection (Nick, if you're reading this, know that you can borrow it now). Unrelated to this, I also finished reading Isaiah. I am now in--you guessed it--Jeremiah.

Thoughts on Isaiah: at some point I need to sit down and read it in bigger chunks. Maybe chart it out. I feel like something's there, but I'm not seeing it. I'm feeling like my education in close reading, while necessary and formative, is limiting me in my ability to see the whole of things I read. I want a sense of the whole structure (an idea I got from Frye, and again there are no surprises there). I have some sense of unease concerning this book. It's my first Prophet since my months in the Wisdom books, of course, so it's been a little while since I read much about carnage and slavery, I guess. This is why I want a sense of the whole.

I started this with Lovecraft, so I guess I should say something about him. Not the best, but certainly not bad. If you have any interest in the horror genre, you ought to read him. If not, then I suppose you need not. "Facts Concering the Late Arthur Jermyn and His Family" remains my favourite, though "Whisperer in the Darkness" is a close second.

I have started reading Daphne de Maurier's Rebecca, and am so far enjoying it.

5. Today I received a thank-you (I won't tell from whom or for what) in the form of a $25 gift certificate for Peter Pond (a mall up here) and a space pen. It's one of those pens that can write underwater upside-down in a vacuum on a greasy surface at 100 degrees Celsius. (OK, I realize that it is impossible to be both underwater and in a vacuum or at 100 degrees Celsius and in a vacuum. You know the pen I'm discussing, though.) I also received a $2o gift certificate at Chapters-Coles-Indigo, so I have some fun lined up this weekend!

6. I had some work related things to share. I can't really remember. Let's see. It's cold. But not as cold as it usually is here this season, and it's bound to get colder. And I am now starting to think I hear people with me (usually upstairs) in empty buildings, especially when I have to go upstairs. But those weren't what I had in mind.

There's an article in the Queen's alumni magazine about female sexuality which is pretty interesting, but that's obviously not it because that has nothing to do with work.

That's it! I remember! Sorry, this is negative. OK, I shouldn't say it, because this might get back to me in a bad way. I don't think anyone at work is even aware that I blog, but it's the Internet. Who knows who's reading, right?

Notwithstanding, let me just say this: I am annoyed when educators speak in non-standard English. In particular, I am annoyed when educators speak in a regional dialect--Newfinese, say--when they are educating in a different region--northern Alberta, say. I'm worried they'll teach the kids bad habits, for one. With Newfinese, the worst will be the habit of replacing all ats with tos. ("Go and sit to your desk.") Prepositions and articles, in case you didn't know, are some of the worst for making people judge you. Not only is a person less likely to mistake a vern or noun, but we're usually more forgiving when you do, since then it seems like you're ESL. If you mistake a preposition or article, though, you just sound lazy/slangy/ignorant. This is problematic because, in English, prepositions are the hardest part of speech to learn. This is part of the reason why Chinese immigrants sometimes appear less intelligent to English-speaking Caucasians (or anyone else who thinks they're less intelligent based on language use, I suppose). It's also why it's a problem if you're teaching young kids and you use prepositions incorrectly. We don't systematically teach our children prepositions, but rather teach it through example. (Since it's almost entirely idiomatic and follows no universal pattern, it would be virtually impossible to teach by rote or rule, anyway.) So they kids might pick up the teacher's preposition use, which preposition use will be invalid in the context of all of the English-speaking world with the exception of Newfoundland and maybe Cape Breton. And since they won't be speaking in a Newfoundland accent, people won't chalk it up to coming from Newfoundland but will instead assume that the kid's just not as bright as he/she probably is.

Also, when you tell the kids to stay on the bridge and the nearest bridge is on the very busy highway, I get a little worried. I really hope that the kids know that "bridge" in Newfinese refers to a porch or deck just as much as it refers to a piece of architecture spanning a river, ravine, or road, and that therefore the teacher is telling them to stay on the deck. I don't see how they could know this, but then again I didn't see any of them headed for the highway, either.

I don't think there's anything we can do about this. I certainly don't want to discrimate against people who speak differently than me. It just seems like it's going to be a problem in the education system, as it might give kids habits which will be an unnecessary detriment to them in the future.

Educators, what do you think?

7. OK, cut to the chase, because I need to go to bed: Jon asked in a recent post about life being fulfilling. Or he discussed, more than asked. OK. I feel sometimes unfulfilled because I work for so much of my life now. For those of you still in school, I say this: be happy. School's better than the work force. At least, that's how it's been for me.

So where do I get my fulfillment? The loser answers are blogging, books, writing, and Corner Gas. The less loser answers are fortunately truer, if less frequent. Going to church is actually a big one. I know it sounds hokey, but it's true. St. Thomas' is now a big deal to me. Refer to the Advent post. And time with the dog is actually up there, too, even though she's getting smelly.

And I can't think of any more right now, other than thinking, which I try to do a lot of, and maybe playing Banagrams with the folks.

I need more 'inputs' (think Navs talk, for you Navs readers), and I really need more 'outputs'. Actually, a lot of my outputs are inputs and vice-versa. But what keeps me trucking right now really are those things I mentioned. Other than that I worry about my eyes dying on me due to the superfluity of screens, it works so far.

Simple pleasures are not for simple people; simple people need complex pleasures to keep them occupied, while complex people can deal with stangation because their own minds can turn fairly minor stimuli into fascinating phenomenon. Obviously there's really no such thing as 'simple people.' But I think there's an element of truth in what I'm saying. Look up the original meanings of extrovert and introvert in the personality theories.