I'm reading Why Write? by Mark Edmundson. It's a fantastic book, one on which I'll likely write more when I finish it. However, the chapter "To Fail" (in order to answer the question, Why write?) really shocked me. It is devoted to Melville (whose Moby-Dick remains one of my top five favorite novels). Edmundson's thesis in this chapter is that one writes in order to fail, and he uses Melville's familiar story of having thought he wrote something magnificent (which he had) and dying in relative obscurity. Moby-Dick only became popular as its power was recognized by later generations. "[Was Melville a] Prophet? Yes, but what the teacher said is true. Prophets are not honored in their own land or in their own time either" (85).
There's an attendant myth about Melville--and I haven't researched this, so it may even be true--that, upon removing his desk from his room after his death, they found a bit of a Friedrich Schiller poem: "Hold fast to the dreams of your youth." Edmundson liberally applies Shakespeare when necessary (though his literary man-crush is clearly for Keats), and often to great effect. In a thick paragraph about the greats as they compare (Austen seems perfect until you compare her to Milton*), he also brings in Babe Ruth as an example of a man who failed as frequently as he succeeded--and his failures were always done with the same relish. Then Edmundson alludes to the most important part in Hamlet (for me) by riffing off what I often tell my students the meaning of life is ("The readiness is all") by saying, "The swing is all" (88). There are ways to draw me into a conversation. Shakespeare is the easiest one. (Once, while focusing on paperwork at a quidditch match, some former students tried to draw my attention by saying my name. After three or four failed attempts, they said, "Shakespeare!" and I immediately looked up.) In this particular case, Edmundson's allusion sent my mind into a spin. I've been struggling with what it means to write, what I want out of writing, how I think I belong--or don't--to the future of the book, as it were. Especially in a world where being an author is becoming less and less viable as a career--one of the aspects of writing that, as many of you know, I desperately want--seeing this phrase really struck me deeply. I don't want to be Melville. While I would absolutely want to write to "aftertimes something they will not willingly let die", I would kind of like to be around to see that, too. But I do want to be Melville in the sense that I want to write something powerful and important and meaningful. Currently, I can't. I have not the skill. But I can continue to swing--enthusiastically every time, because I never can predict which one will connect. And I find hope in that. --- * Though Edmundson feels that Milton's God is a literary failure. The Mormon in me rejecting this claim and the literary reader maybe mumbling a qualified agreement. ==== Hey, friends. I have been releasing essays on my website for a couple of years now at a pretty steady rate. I'm happy to do so, as it benefits me as a writer and (I hope) you as a reader. I also think that, as a writer, it's okay if I believe that my work has some value monetarily as well as emotionally. To that end, I've created a Ko-Fi account, which is basically a way to give an online tip to a creator whose work you appreciate. The idea is, you can buy them a cup of coffee. (That's what the name of the website sounds like, if you're curious.) I'm not charging for any of the content on my website; instead, if you'd like to toss me a cup-le (see what I did there?) of bucks to show your gratitude, that would be cool. I'd totally appreciate that appreciation. If you don't? No problem. We can still be friends. As always, thanks for reading! When I was a teenager, my first exposure to zombie fiction was in the form of Resident Evil 2 for the original PlayStation. My friend Mark and I would play through the game frequently until it got to the point that I could run through the first half of the game without much difficulty. (Due to the nature of the old PlayStation, my memory card had a tendency of getting erased, so I ended up playing the beginning of the story more times than finishing it.) It started a seed of zombie appreciation that continues--albeit abated--to this day.
Capcom recently released a full-fledged remake of Resident Evil 2 for the PlayStation 4. I don't know what the thought process was, though I hope that Square Enix is taking notes about how to update without rebooting, to pay homage to the past without slavishly abiding by it, because Capcom has really created something worthwhile here. A handful of caveats: 1) I didn't finish the game; I didn't finish one campaign. I imagine I was within striking distance of finishing Claire's story, and I have the entirety of Leon's to play, but my Redbox rental came due and I didn't want to spend any more money on a game I'm likely to buy sometime in the not-too-distant future. 2) I'm not really going to divulge a bunch of plot twists or spoilers per se, but I also amn't going to hold back on points I think are worth noting--consider this the spoiler warning. 3) This game is extremely graphic and it has quite a bit of foul language. So, if you're thinking of trying out the game but those things bother you, then you may want to reconsider. Onward… The great challenge (or, more precisely, one of the great challenges that isn't related to how the community of developers and fans treats minorities and women) of video gaming is the closeness of incipience and perpetual iteration. Video games are living memory-new, having been born at about the same time as a great many aficionados were. Video games, therefore, have a quality to them that is inherently nostalgic. Its roots are ludic (it's in the name, right? Video games) and there's a sense of possession that this particular medium has which extends far beyond the type of possessiveness that other burgeoning media might have had. Comic books were printed on pulp because they weren't considered valuable enough to preserve. Early film--heck, no film--was available for home-use consumption, so film couldn't be seen on-demand up until the '80s--right around the same time that video games began to make themselves known. What I mean by this is that I believe there's an unprecedented connection between the product of the medium and the consumers of it. Video games are inherently interactive, and the fanbase that has grown up with video games takes that sense of interactivity to (all too often, sadly) claim it gives them possessive rights to the games. They're the DNA of our childhoods, as it were, and mutating that DNA is risky business. Gamers are strange beings in that they claim to crave originality but truly they only want more of the same. (Evidence: Call of Duty, Battlefield, and Assassin's Creed games are indistinguishable from previous editions to all but the most dedicated fans. And for all its glory and beauty, games like Flower or Journey are footnotes on the indie-game scene.) So when it comes to wanting a remake of something, video game developers are in a bit of a bind: If they hew too closely to the first, it isn't "original" and is considered a waste of money. If it's too different, then it's clear that the developers have lost touch and they're just trying to exploit the fan base. This is, I'd wager, one of the biggest hangups that Square Enix has on remaking Final Fantasy VII: There's a lot of stuff in the original game that doesn't transfer well to the 2020s, so what should be changed? What kept? And how does a company take what made the original so beloved and update it to modern* sensibilities? Capcom's biggest hurdle was finding a way to invoke the distinct flavors of Resident Evil 2 from 1998 in a way that, just over twenty years later, can utilize new methods of gaming. That is, a beat-for-beat remake would be dull--an HD Remastering, not an actual remake--and something that took the series into brave (and controversial) territory, as they had with Resident Evil 4, 5, 6, and 7 would fail to feel like they were being genuine or connected to the past. What they discovered, however, was that it's not so hard to invoke nostalgia that can actually enhance expectation and subvert it at the same time. The Raccoon City Police Department's layout is almost the same, particularly with the massive hall in the center and the two separate wings. There are some new things that I wasn't expecting--emergency shutters and Mr. X stomping his way through the building--but familiar pieces made the transition, too (the licker jumping through the one-way mirror in the interrogation room, for example). The result was a familiar story--Claire Redfield looking for her brother amidst the hellscape of Raccoon City during the G-Virus outbreak--with enough twists to make it feel fresh. Chief Irons has a larger story, and there's an extended amount of area to explore, including an orphanage where Sherry Berkin is kept prisoner for a short segment of the game. The updating of gaming mechanics--being able to move and aim and shoot instead of the tank-controls of previous iterations--was a good move, in part because there were enough wrinkles** to make it so that, enhanced aiming notwithstanding, the zombies put up a good fight. Allowing the camera to be moved around instead of fixed-camera angles was necessary--it's how we're used to controlling characters nowadays--but there are enough zombies-in-the-dark-or-sneaking-up-behind-you moments that the jump scares still happen. In fact, as I was playing through a section in the sewer, my wife sat down to watch some of it. A zombie that we both saw slump off a banister was waiting when we came down and immediately jumped on my character's back. My wife, concurrently, jumped and screamed, declaring how much she hates games like this. All of the additions feel perfectly at home in the Resident Evil world--with a gripe about language. I know, I know; I'm aware of the hypocrisy in being fine with graphic violence but not swearing. But there's hardly any in the original, and Claire cusses the entire time she's taking a bead on a zombie. It's…distracting. Chief Irons is the biggest perpetrator--and since he's supposed to be scum, one might almost expect f-bombs from him. But Claire's profanity felt gratuitous and somewhat out of character. Speaking of graphic violence, though, there's a large difference between the pixelated flowers blooming from a zombie's face in 1998 and the glistening viscera the REngine can create. While the details of the world--and the insides of many of the victims of the game's violence--are incredible, the 2019 version did something that the '98 version never really managed: A genuine sense of revulsion and recognition of just how bad a zombie apocalypse might be. While there might be spots with static blood or a corpse on the ground in the 1998 version, there is no sanitation of a loading screen--back in '98, any time I wanted to see if a zombie really was dead, I need only wait for the bloodstain to grow beneath its stomach. Then, when I came back into the room, the corpse would be gone--spirited away by the limitations of the gaming system. Not only that, but there aren't any loading screens now…it threw me off for a bit, seeing Claire shove her way through double-hinged door after double-hinged door (not complaining, by the way, just noticing the difference). I didn't realize how the screen loading affected how I responded to the world until I started realizing that the tension I felt in the hallways never abated. In the past, I was accustomed to having a few seconds to catch my breath before the next screen opened up. No such luck in the 2019 version: Everything blends perfectly together, and the chances for a break are few and far between. Unlike Final Fantasy VII, which has countless memorable tunes, Resident Evil 2 (1998) only had a couple of songs that really stood out to me: The RCPD main hall theme and the eerie-yet-soothing theme of the "save (safe) rooms", a place where you could be certain a zombie wouldn't attack. Those auditory clues aren't in the 2019 version--though I think you can buy a more expensive version of the game that will come with the original soundtrack (which bothers me, but I won't get into that right now)--and I miss them. Still, on the whole, the game is an excellent game, a wonderful balance of nostalgia and freshness, and entirely worth your time--provided you like that sort of thing. To old fans of Resident Evil 2, I think you should give it a go. To those hoping to get into the series, this is a good way to see what Resident Evil 2 did to us twenty years ago, back when we were kids. --- * Another interesting bit: The progress of "modern" gaming. The iterations of gaming systems--with talk of a PlayStation 5 already looming, as well as other offerings from Microsoft, Nintendo, and (perhaps) even Ocular Rift--is fast enough that they can fit inside of presidential terms. What makes a game modern will quickly become antiquated--I remember buying Metal Gear Solid 4 in a deluxe edition because I assumed I'd never be able to buy another MGS game. Unlike the classics of literature, which has a real past, "classic" video games are really just the oldest--regardless of their value. I actually find it really interesting to see the ways that gaming culture tries to mimic canon when there isn't an Iliad or Odyssey to use as a measurement. How long before this medium has something that is the quintessence of the form? I don't know; hasty awards, while noteworthy, fundamentally fail what the medium is capable of. It'll be interesting to see what kind of consensus is required in determining what is the best representation of video games. ** In the sewer portion of the game, I got poisoned because a big monster vomited goo all over my face. Claire limped around for a good twenty-five minutes as I searched (mostly in vain) for relief from the poison. Whilst infected this way, Claire would frequently fall into coughing fits, which meant she couldn't run as fast and, if aiming, couldn't pull the trigger. These moments were particularly tense, as I often found myself going up against overwhelming odds and--unexpectedly--unable to fight back. The way they increased the horror differed, but the effect was the same: It made it more intense, more terrifying. ==== Hey, friends. I have been releasing essays on my website for a couple of years now at a pretty steady rate. I'm happy to do so, as it benefits me as a writer and (I hope) you as a reader. I also think that, as a writer, it's okay if I believe that my work has some value monetarily as well as emotionally. To that end, I've created a Ko-Fi account, which is basically a way to give an online tip to a creator whose work you appreciate. The idea is, you can buy them a cup of coffee. (That's what the name of the website sounds like, if you're curious.) I'm not charging for any of the content on my website; instead, if you'd like to toss me a cup-le (see what I did there?) of bucks to show your gratitude, that would be cool. I'd totally appreciate that appreciation. If you don't? No problem. We can still be friends. As always, thanks for reading! Just over five years ago, I visited England for the first time. In January 2017, I was there again. Both times it was with students on a tour of the country that connected to the curriculum I teach; in the case of the former, it was to see Milton, Shakespeare, and Austen in an English Literature Tour, while the latter saw me there in order to study the World Wars. Both times I was there, I felt like I was home.
If the records are correct, about 47% of my ancestry come from the United Kingdom (almost all of it from England). And though we could, assuming we had enough information, trace whence my English roots grew, it suffices me to think that "this sceptered isle" is enough a part of me to mean that I am, in some ways, actually English. And I do wish I could live in Great Britain. It's a feeling that waxes and wanes, but never really disappears. I would never simply move there--I have too many responsibilities, too many connections in my frigid land of Ut to relocate. And, looking at the modern politics of England and their inexplicable choice to leave the EU, I'm reminded of Hamlet's conclusion that it is better to "bear those ills we have/Than fly to others we know not of" (3.1). There would be so many unknowns, so many questionable decisions, so much money that turning into an American expat in the land from which we liberated ourselves not even three centuries ago would be a foolish venture at best, and potentially catastrophic at worst. And yet… I pine for another return to England. It's not a perfect idyll; I know that, at least intellectually. But the less rational part of my mind whispers about the green-grown homes, quaint and tucked together, the winding Roman roads, the endless history beneath the ground, the constant reminders of a vivid past on almost every building. These are the icons of a part of the world that I've dedicated a great portion of my life to better understanding, so I think it's natural that I would want to be among them more often. Every time such pangs pinch, however, I remind myself of a couple of salient facts: I'm quite settled and content with where I am and what I do. I truly love my job, and while my home may not have as much storage space as we could truly use, it's in a good place and we're building a life there in New Place. To move to another city is daunting enough--to move to another country is beyond the scope of my abilities, I think. (Heck, I can't even muster the energy necessary to shift my life enough to earn a Master's degree, something that I've wanted for years.) My wife is agonizing over changing schools in a year or so--a decision that is important but fraught with questions and difficulties. If this comparatively easy decision requires so much emotional agony, how would I be able to ask her to uproot the entirety of our lives simply so I could live in a country where they drive on the left side of the road? The second thing that halts my too-deep consideration of the possibility is the utter lack of skills that could transfer to England. What would they need me to do? Teach English history? The average teenager in England probably knows more about British history than I do, and as far as my language teaching abilities, I'm heavily trained in the American way of doing things. I have, essentially, nothing to offer to another country--or, for that matter, other business. There's a reason I teach what I teach where I teach it: Though my skills serve very well here, they're not particularly useful in almost any other forum. Those considerations are strong in my mind and they're compelling enough that I have never seriously given any effort to trying to convince my wife that we should move. Joked about it? Sure. Wished it? Yeah. Done anything substantial? Nope. The closest it's come is looking at the admission requirements for Cambridge (though I prefer the town of Oxford, Cambridge is where John Milton studied--hated it, but studied there--and that's too strong of a pull to my easily-swayed heart). So, no, I don't--and don't anticipate I ever will--have an English home. But that doesn't mean that I wouldn't want one. ==== Hey, friends. I have been releasing essays on my website for a couple of years now at a pretty steady rate. I'm happy to do so, as it benefits me as a writer and (I hope) you as a reader. I also think that, as a writer, it's okay if I believe that my work has some value monetarily as well as emotionally. To that end, I've created a Ko-Fi account, which is basically a way to give an online tip to a creator whose work you appreciate. The idea is, you can buy them a cup of coffee. (That's what the name of the website sounds like, if you're curious.) I'm not charging for any of the content on my website; instead, if you'd like to toss me a cup-le (see what I did there?) of bucks to show your gratitude, that would be cool. I'd totally appreciate that appreciation. If you don't? No problem. We can still be friends. As always, thanks for reading! Whew. Glad that one's done.
Here's the thing about The Taming of the Shrew: It isn't a very good play. Now, I'm a fan of saying that the worst of Shakespeare is the best of what others can do, and to a certain extent that is true. Wordplay and puns abound in The Taming of the Shrew, and the framing story is still a delight to me--in part because it sets up the theme of deception and deceit, but also because it's just funny--so the whole play isn't without merit. There are some enjoyable parts with Hortensio getting his head shoved through a lute, and when Kate can be herself, she's a wonder to behold. But… But the play's central conceit (even if Lucentio and Bianca getting married is the primary plot, Petruccio and Kate are the center of the play) is the taming of the shrewish woman. Kate is a whirlwind of anger and energy. To see it stamped out--and so viciously, too--is always heartbreaking. I am capable of understanding context, of course. I know that marriage in Elizabethan times was not quite what it is for us in our modern day. And I realize that, on a certain level, Shakespeare was using the play as a critique of the transactional quality of marriages of his time. That's all one, however: I simply can't overlook the misogyny that's rampant--both implied and expressed--in the play. Seeing Kate's passion quelled so savagely--via starvation, gaslighting, sleep deprivation, and even identity removal--galls me. I can laugh at the jokes, but I refuse to indulge the "humor" of domestic abuse. It's…distressing. One part that had escaped my notice before (and that's easy to do; I've only read this play, perhaps, three times and seen it once or twice--which means I think I've hit my lifetime limit on this particular entry in the Shakespearean canon) was a part in 4.3 (for my Norton Second Edition, it's lines 70-71). This is the part of the play where Petruccio is denying a fashionable hat for Kate--robbing her of the pleasure of dressing herself as she wants--and she says, "Gentlewomen wear such caps as these." "When you are gentle," replies Petruccio, "you shall have one, too." Baptista, Katherine's father, is described in the "Dramatis Personae" as being "A gentleman of Padua," which means that Katherine and Bianca are both, by default, gentlewomen. They're of the upper echelons of society, born and raised that way--with money and servants and all that being a gentlewoman entails. So Petruccio's comment here in response to the fashion of gentlewomen is an attempt to strip Kate of a longstanding part of her identity. I wouldn't go so far as saying that it's her only source of identity, but hierarchy was large in Shakespeare's time (and vestiges of it yet remain even in American society). Consider, for example, the fury that Vincentio displays when he sees his son's manservant, Tranio, dressed in the finery that would befit a gentleman like Lucentio. In 5.1, Tranio (at that moment pretending to be his master, Lucentio) says, "Why sir, what 'cerns it you if I wear pearl and gold?" (61-62), which sends Vincentio into a froth, spitting out "O villain!" (64) and later accusing Tranio of murdering Lucentio and stealing his identity (see 5.1.72). Petruccio flat out denying how Kate was raised, her status in the society, is one of many cruel moves that he does in order to "tame" her. When it's all said and done, I simply can't get behind what's happening in this play. It's too heartbreaking to see a woman of Kate's potential be grounded down through abuse until she parrots patriarchal platitudes that she knows aren't true…but, for survival's sake, she pukes them out. Of all of Shakespeare's plays, this is the one that is hardest for me to stomach--and not just because of the misogyny. The antisemitism of The Merchant of Venice is also difficult to watch; the difference, I would argue, is the amount that we can gain by looking at ourselves in the fractured remains left to Shylock. We can watch The Merchant and resolve to be better to others; we watch Kate lose to the sixteenth century version of a men's rights activist and realize that times have changed but little. --- * The framing story is clearly abandoned in The Taming of the Shrew but perhaps preserved in The Taming of a Shrew, though the scholarship on that is leaning toward it being part of a collaboration rather than an earlier draft of The Shrew. There are bits of Christopher Sly in A Shrew, which do fit in well. I like them quite a bit (save the last few lines), so I guess I'll go along with them being Shakespearean. ==== Hey, friends. I have been releasing essays on my website for a couple of years now at a pretty steady rate. I'm happy to do so, as it benefits me as a writer and (I hope) you as a reader. I also think that, as a writer, it's okay if I believe that my work has some value monetarily as well as emotionally. To that end, I've created a Ko-Fi account, which is basically a way to give an online tip to a creator whose work you appreciate. The idea is, you can buy them a cup of coffee. (That's what the name of the website sounds like, if you're curious.) I'm not charging for any of the content on my website; instead, if you'd like to toss me a cup-le (see what I did there?) of bucks to show your gratitude, that would be cool. I'd totally appreciate that appreciation. If you don't? No problem. We can still be friends. As always, thanks for reading! At this particular moment, I can scarcely see out from my office window. There are shapes of trees, sure, and darker smudges that must be the road. I think I can spot my mailbox, a black rod against the white background. The snow is coming in fiercely, and with the typical wind that my city is frequently blown by, it has caused a great bit of accumulation on my windowpane.
I am not a fan of snow. I was, at one point. Most kids in Utah are, as it has all the sorts of enjoyment that kids find in playing outside, plus it's so soft and fluffy. I, like most children (probably), used to wish that snow was warm enough for me to swim in--had I three wishes, I would have used up one of them for that fancy. Now, however, I see it only as, at best, an irritant and a threat at its worst. Part of this comes about because I once had a doctor's appointment for Puck many years ago. I thought the appointment was absolutely crucial, so I braved the storm that was ravaging northern Utah at the time. The freeway was moving, albeit very slowly. We didn't drive to the hospital so much as slid, with Puck crying his baby cries and me singing a broken and nervous version of a lullaby that he liked. What was normally a forty minute drive doubled its length, with me arriving in time but feeling rather frazzled. When I told the doctor about our harrowing trip upward, he said something along the lines of, "Really? Well, we could have rescheduled. That would have been okay." I was not particularly pleased to hear this. As with many aspects of my early fatherhood, some experiences impacted me so sharply that a particular sentiment has ossified into a permanent opinion. I think that I dislike snow in large part because of that day. A similar thing happened with my early career as a teacher. Puck was born with half a heart, so my wife and I were unsure if he would live soon after he came out. Gayle teaches eighth grade science, but was on maternity leave. I was a recent graduate with a teaching license, so I became her permanent sub. Since it was in April, she was able to end the school year when Puck was born and I took over for the last six weeks. So my first real teaching job was babysitting my wife's class of eighth graders and dealing with all of the stress that entails, all the while wondering if I would need to buy a baby-sized coffin. An emergency heart surgery happened while I was teaching one day--I found out during my prep period--and I had to abandon the classes to coworkers because I wasn't sure if I had said goodbye to my firstborn son for the last time when I had kissed him that morning. I am not particularly fond of eighth graders as a result. I find it interesting the ways in which my mind creates the circumstantial connections and concretes them into something unshakeable. I don't much care for eighth graders to this day, and nor do I much enjoy the snow, and it's mostly because of some bad experiences with each. Anyway, I'm glad that it's a federal holiday so that I don't have to worry about sliding into work this morning. I'm sure I'll have that joy tomorrow, though. Stupid snow. Recently, Russell M. Nelson, the prophet and president of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, gave a talk about the change in what he wanted people to say in reference to the Church itself. This is not a new topic for him; in April Conference of 1990, he gave a separate address that touches on the same themes. All of them are concerned with how the Church is named and how people refer to it. What is different is who is saying it and the more distinct prohibitions that have come down as a result.
I feel that I should say that I wrote about my own feelings about how the Church is discussed a couple of years ago, and much of what I wrote there remains my opinion. As much as possible, I feel like people talking about the Church ought to designate it using its full name, per the request of the institution. There is, however, more to be said about this topic. The problem with talking about it is some assumptions that I want to unpack. If you're unfamiliar with the Church, you may not recognize the way the president--often called the prophet (as opposed to the Prophet, who was Joseph Smith) of the Church--is considered. Particularly in official decrees over the pulpit during General Conference (which is what that first link is connected to), the pronouncements of Church leaders is considered sacrosanct and of divine origin. This is part of the reason why, back in October 2010, there was a kerfuffle about Boyd K. Packer's modified version of his talk on same-sex attraction: If the speakers at General Conference are inspired of the Lord, how can they say anything astray? This type of thinking is fundamental to Mormonism (yes, I used the M-word; I'll explain why in a minute) because the entire concept of coming into the Church, of conversion, is a belief in continued revelation--both organizationally and personally--that allows anyone to come to know the truth of the gospel as contained within the doctrines of the Church (see Moroni 10: 3-5). Without revelation about what is and is not orthodoxy (and, quite often, orthopraxy), the Church's entire conceit is lost. So when a Church leader says something in April or October General Conference, it's considered a soft-kind of scripture. (Most talks recycle ideas and themes from the canonical texts, though they will quote each other frequently, and very rarely would anything come across as being "new" doctrine--hence the stir Elder Packer's comments created, as well as their omission.) This is why it's such a big deal that the president of the Church made the kinds of nomenclature changes* as he did back in October. As a member of the Church, I'm not supposed to criticize or argue against what has been done. As a Mormon, I'm really uncomfortable with the declaration. And the two conflicting emotions have given me a bit of an identity crisis. Part of this is because I still stand by the idea that Mormonism isn't Christianity. While I love my Christian friends and my atheist friends and my Muslim friends and my all-of-the-other-things friends, there is enough difference between Mormonism and Christianity that I do not want to be considered a Christian. That is a term for the branch of religion from which Joseph Smith broke back in 1830. Christians believe in the Bible; Mormons believe in the Book of Mormon and the Bible and the Pearl of Great Price and the Doctrine and Covenants. Much like Jews believe in the Tanakh and Christians in the New Testament and the Tanakh, I feel that my religion is an outgrowth of a previous one, built upon its foundations and using its texts, while at the same time expanding. And a term that works very well for indicating that unique and powerful doctrine is Mormon. Now, President Nelson pointed out that using the term Mormon omits the name of the Savior from how we're viewed. I don't disagree: It's one of the things that makes it hard for other Christians to understand that we believe in Christ. I don't think that someone who doesn't know who we are, however, is going to have more positive feelings toward us simply because our two-syllable name is eschewed in favor of the eleven-syllable one. And I simply don't feel that my belief in Jesus Christ, His sacrifice, and His Atonement are lost when I use the word Mormon to describe my beliefs. And that, right there, is part of what makes this particular topic so fraught. How can I say I disagree with the prophet? A man whom I said I sustained as prophet, seer, and revelator? It's…tricky. Believing in President Nelson's guidance as the leader of the Church doesn't mean I have to turn off my brain. I flatly disagree with my Sunday School teacher, who said that the leaders of the Church are "perfect". I resist the hero-worship that many Saints practice (as one bishop said, "If it's good enough for President Monson, it's good enough for me") and would rather not defer my feelings to another. But why would I be enamored of a nickname to the point of opposing the president? (And I don't think I'm opposing him; I'm stating why I feel differently than others.) President Nelson alluded to Romeo and Juliet (how could you not? Shakespeare is everywhere) in his talk, saying, "What's in a name, or in this case, a nickname?" A rose really does smell as sweet, regardless of the language naming it. Without going into Derridean postmodern deconstruction on the purpose and power of words--which absolutely do matter and, so far as our society operates, really do mean things--I assert that Mormon is a word that easily and clearly describes the types of beliefs that I hold. Mormonism is an excellent way of describing the religious philosophies that I espouse. In his talk, President Nelson reminds us of how the term Mormon was used as an epithet and a way of speaking derogatorily about members of the Church. That much is true. But the thing about derogatory terms used against a particular group is that the group can also appropriate that term. Because words matter and mean things, that means that words are power. To usurp a persecutor's power, one can usurp that persecutor's term. This is why the Black community can use the N-word (and those outside of it really can't), as it defangs the pain the word can cause. Queer members of the LGBTQ+ community (and I know there's arguments about what to do with that argument which I'm not up to speed on, so I'm using this term for the nonce) also took what was supposed to be the verbal rock of the word queer and used it to build their own fortress to protect themselves from the scorn of those who hated them. In other words, it's only an epithet to me if I'm willing to let it be. And, as a member of the community, I feel I'm justified in choosing to feel that Mormon describes me in a non-persecutorial way. Additionally, it's important to note that our early history shows an acceptance of the term. Brigham Young was fond of saying "Mormonism" (as he always put it into quotes), going so far as to asssert that "Mormonism" was true. Even Joseph Smith omitted Christ's name in an early version of the Doctrine and Covenants**, and I don't think that Smith's actions were "victories for Satan". Of course, that's the tension inside the Church, isn't it? We believe in continuing revelation, but we always cleave to our canonized past. I don't know how to square that circle, save to say that, for me and myself, I don't have any problems with the M-word. It fits who I am and what I believe; it's convenient and it creates a solidarity for the persecuted past through which my ancestors suffered; and even if it is a bit of a shibboleth to others, I see it as pushing me into a deeper exploration of whom I believe in. --- * Clearly, it's not a "change" in that the Church didn't get a new name. It's the same as before. In fact, it's not even a request to others that they stop using the term Mormon, as the Church has been asking that for years. It's a change in how we, as members, think of ourselves. ** "Joseph Smith oversaw the editing of the text of some revelations to prepare them for publication in 1835 as the Doctrine and Covenants of the Church of the Latter Day Saints" (Introduction). ==== Hey, friends. I have been releasing essays on my website for a couple of years now at a pretty steady rate. I'm happy to do so, as it benefits me as a writer and (I hope) you as a reader. I also think that, as a writer, it's okay if I believe that my work has some value monetarily as well as emotionally. To that end, I've created a Ko-Fi account, which is basically a way to give an online tip to a creator whose work you appreciate. The idea is, you can buy them a cup of coffee. (That's what the name of the website sounds like, if you're curious.) I'm not charging for any of the content on my website; instead, if you'd like to toss me a cup-le (see what I did there?) of bucks to show your gratitude, that would be cool. I'd totally appreciate that appreciation. If you don't? No problem. We can still be friends. As always, thanks for reading! One of the unexpected lessons I've learned from my kids is a specific brand of nihilism. It's one of those "lessons through observation and repetition" rather than anything they've specifically said. That is, my kids haven't sat me down, looked me gravely in the eye, and said, with a sad, solemn aspect, "Nothing really matters, Dad. Anyone can see. Nothing really matters to me."
Well, they do love "Bohemian Rhapsody", so I guess they kind of have said that to me. But, again, it was never them saying it; it was them doing it. I'm not a particularly good househusband. I don't do a lot of cleaning--except the dishes and folding of the laundry--and I feel like I have a semi-worthwhile explanation for that: My wife is a cosplayer, so the areas and qualities of the messes made very often have to do with patterns, plastic gems, gears, and other miscellanea that I know better than to disturb. There are, of course, other areas of the house that I could do more to keep clean--the family room and my own office come to mind--but I kind of feel like my kids ought to learn how to clean up after themselves, if only to a degree. Every time I try to get them to help straighten up the house, however, is when I get the emphatic lesson in nihilism. I will ask my middle son, Oberon, if he would please empty out all of the garbage cans in the house, replacing them with a plastic bag as a liner. It is not, I would submit, a too-hard requirement for an almost-nine year old to accomplish. Physically, it doesn't demand too much of him. Mentally it's almost insulting. Dexterously, it requires only the most rudimentary of movements. From what I can see, it is not something that assumes too much to fulfill. Yet, despite requests, shouts, arguments, cajolings, threats, pleas, and a host of other air-wasters, it still takes Oberon a good forty-five minutes to an hour. Part of the wasted time is in the form of saying his name six to eight times before getting a response. The first one or two are always in a fair, understandable tone. Each subsequent repetition, however, sharpens the name until it's slicing through the house. By the time he feels the cut, it's laced with frustration and irritation. "What?!" he often snaps back, feeling attacked because, so far as he can see, we're out-of-the-blue screaming his name. For us, we're about ready to walk out on the whole thing and live in filth because who cares? What does it matter? Nothing matters. It's fine. One of the reasons that I don't get more writing done--and this is as much excuse as explanation, from my point of view--is because it's far too stressful to spend too much time in my office on Saturdays. The boys require perpetual haranguing to keep them in line, and the frustration of one parent eventually bleeds into the other and we end up feeling like horrible parents who haven't accomplished much with their one day* off. But it's fine. Nothing matters. It's fine. --- * As M-words**, we don't usually use Sundays as cleaning days. We try to get those chores done on Saturday so that Sunday can be devoted to church and church-related activities. ** I have…feelings about the rejection of the Mormon label, but I'll write about it--if I ever do--another time. Also, yes, I totally just footnoted my footnote. I'm not even sorry, either. ==== Hey, friends. I have been releasing essays on my website for a couple of years now at a pretty steady rate. I'm happy to do so, as it benefits me as a writer and (I hope) you as a reader. I also think that, as a writer, it's okay if I believe that my work has some value monetarily as well as emotionally. To that end, I've created a Ko-Fi account, which is basically a way to give an online tip to a creator whose work you appreciate. The idea is, you can buy them a cup of coffee. (That's what the name of the website sounds like, if you're curious.) I'm not charging for any of the content on my website; instead, if you'd like to toss me a cup-le (see what I did there?) of bucks to show your gratitude, that would be cool. I'd totally appreciate that appreciation. If you don't? No problem. We can still be friends. As always, thanks for reading! I received a request to fill in the USQ (United States Quidditch) on why I left the sport. They're (understandably) interested in figuring out what keeps people playing. I ended up giving them more words than they were probably expecting with less meaning than they were hoping, but as it gave me some things to think about, I figured I'd save the information and use that as a mini-memoir of my time on the broom.
What were you involved with? * Community Team If involved with a team, was it a USQ member or non-member team? USQ Member Team If involved with a team, what was your role? Player What prompted you to become inactive in the quidditch community? * Could Not Make Time Commitment Anymore Feel free to elaborate on why you became inactive in the quidditch community. I'm a teacher, father of three, and a slew of other things and aspirations. As much as I loved the people and the experience, I could no longer justify spending so much time and effort--particularly in the commute to and from practices--in playing. It wasn't easy, but it was necessary. What were you hoping to get out of your time with quidditch? * Originally, I started playing quidditch because I found myself gently throwing a ball at my then-two-year-old and realized that he didn't understand what I meant when I shouted, "Beat! Back to hoops!" I found the closest team (about 40 minutes away in Salt Lake City) and started playing with them. I wanted...I don't know, some sort of understanding of the world of sports (I'm not particularly athletic) and what it's like to be on a team. Pretty quickly, it turned into a deep love and respect for not only the sport, but the people who filled up my Saturdays with so much fun and acceptance. So maybe that's it; I was hoping to find some people who would accept me, help me, and enjoy my company. I feel blessed that it happened for as long as it did. Did you achieve what you hoped to get out of quidditch? * Yes Feel free to elaborate on why or why not. The people I met were really wonderful. Sure, there were a couple of bad apples, but...I don't know, the people were so great. I played in Snow Cup in Utah for a couple of years, and even in those randomly-generated teams, I still felt like my shortcomings weren't a big deal and that they enjoyed getting to know an introvert like me. If you have participated in a USQ run event, what were you hoping to get out of the experience? A goal. Like, a single dunk or shot through the hoops. Every time I hit the pitch, I wanted to get at least one goal. Then, if I got that, another one. That was my baseline. The rest of the experience I stored away to help me as a coach (I had a high school team that practiced regularly from 2012-2017). What resources do you wish had been available during your time being involved with quidditch? * I really liked the whole thing. I don't think I would have needed anything different, save a team a little closer to where I lived. I haven't checked recently, but is there a YouTube video that explains up-to-date rules? That was always a bit tricky when I would share an old video that had outdated regulations; it made playing with new players a bit more tricky. Is equipment a challenge for our sport? Why or why not? What could USQ do to help? * I started off by buying dollar brooms from a Dollar Tree and taping hula-hoops onto a soccer goal to provide hoops. It took a couple of years before I could afford getting Peterson brooms and bases, though I had concrete buckets for a number seasons, too. I guess what I'm saying is that, if someone wants to play the sport, they can find ways. I don't see what USQ could do, necessarily, and--as I mentioned before--I'm not really up-to-date with your current practices, but I suppose if there were resources (videos of how to build cheap hoops, websites with affordable headbands, explanation of how to buy PVC at the right length) that could help? I'm just spitballing here. What challenges do you see present for anyone trying to become involved in the quidditch community? If any, what could USQ do to help overcome those challenges? * Well, the broom is clearly the biggest issue. Using a stick to hit the ball, apparently, is totally fine and normal, but using it as a handicap is ludicrous, I guess. When I left, there were conflicted feelings about how heavily to lean into the roots of the sport. Some were saying that the connection to Harry Potter was hurting it; some of the best players I know came in because of their love of Hogwarts. I don't know where the community landed, but for me, personally, I *loved* the whimsical side of the sport. I was sad (though I understood the reasons) when off-pitch seeking was canceled; I feel like a focus on the athleticism undoes much of what is (dare I say?) magical about the sport. But, at the same time, the sport has to learn how to stand on its own legs; it can't be an off-shoot to larping. It's tricky. Man, I'm not helping at all? Sorry. Would you ever consider re-joining the quidditch community in some capacity? * Maybe What would motivate you to rejoin the quidditch community? * Short answer: A closer team. Long answer: As much as I love the sport, I couldn't justify the way I had to (it felt) abandon my family on our weekends to go play. I was devoting more hours to quidditch than I was to writing, which isn't a wise move for me, personally. It's possible that, once my kids are a little older and don't need as much parental supervision--or if the students at my school wish to resurrect the team and commit to the sport--I could see myself coming back in. Oh, and on the last one, having a couple of high schools that wanted to play against us would go a *long* way to increasing interest. While playing the sport is in-and-of itself fun, being able to have a friendly rivalry would matter a lot. I know that, once Salt Lake wasn't the only place with a team, we started having a lot more fun. We could casually meet up in some place in between two of the teams and play for an afternoon against other players. That was really great. So, greater team saturation, I guess, would be a big factor. What year did you become inactive? * 2015 ==== Hey, friends. I have been releasing essays on my website for a couple of years now at a pretty steady rate. I'm happy to do so, as it benefits me as a writer and (I hope) you as a reader. I also think that, as a writer, it's okay if I believe that my work has some value monetarily as well as emotionally. To that end, I've created a Ko-Fi account, which is basically a way to give an online tip to a creator whose work you appreciate. The idea is, you can buy them a cup of coffee. (That's what the name of the website sounds like, if you're curious.) I'm not charging for any of the content on my website; instead, if you'd like to toss me a cup-le (see what I did there?) of bucks to show your gratitude, that would be cool. I'd totally appreciate that appreciation. If you don't? No problem. We can still be friends. As always, thanks for reading! Five years ago, I bought a copy of The Norton Shakespeare, which is a complete works of the Bard with thousands of footnotes and a lengthy explanatory essay prefacing each play. I bought it because it is the "International Student Edition" and "Not For Sale In The United States Or Canada" (according to what's on the cover), and, at £34.99, the book was priced about what I wanted for my "unforgettable souvenir" from Stratford-upon-Avon. I carried my "baby William" home from England, the book open on the tray in front of me on the plane, and have used it frequently ever since. Sadly, my school requirements prevent me from using this specific copy for my in-class work, so it sits on my shelf, a steady reminder of my happy place.
This year, I decided that I need to change that. One of my resolutions is to read everything in this book--at least, the stuff written by Shakespeare. I may or may not read the explanatory notes, nor do I find a lot of interest in the textual differences between folios and quartos, which occupy a substantial amount of text. Instead, I'm focusing on completing one play/poem (depending) per week. This requires a good thirty to forty minutes of reading each night to knock out an act or two, but it has been worth the effort. I already read The Tempest this year for my Fantasy Literature Winterim; today, I finished The Two Gentlemen of Verona. This is, as far as the Norton editors have seen, the first of Shakespeare's plays. While there's always going to be doubts and questions, this feels like a very early play. There are strange inconsistencies (a friar at one point switches his name from Patrick to Laurence--the name of a character that Shakespeare will reuse in Romeo and Juliet some years later) and the story is almost painful in some areas. This is less to do with Shakespeare's still nascent gift and more to do with modern sensibilities. As always happens with the women in Shakespeare, they fall in love with men who aren't particularly remarkable: Mediocrity is the key for love, it seems, at least in the comedies. For this one, Proteus and Valentine are good friends, until they separately leave home. This is particularly hard for Proteus, who is forced to leave his girlfriend, Julia, and hang out in Milan (or Verona…the geography is inconsistent, too). Valentine is there already, but instead of being friends in another's court, Proteus falls in love with Valentine's love-object, Silvia. Proteus decides to betray Julia's love and trust, Valentine's love and trust, and even the trust of some schlep name Thurio (who, in typical Shakespearean fashion, is the preferred suitor to Silvia, yet is despised by the girl), all in pursuit of somehow wooing Silvia. When she finally and fully rejects him, he tries to rape her. Comedy gold. Valentine stops the crime, quickly forgives his friend, and then everyone pairs up--Julia has been around, dressed as a boy, hoping to prevent Proteus from wooing Silvia--except Thurio who says, "I hold him but a fool that will endanger/His body for a girl that loves him not" (5.4.130-131), and leaves frustrated. The play itself is frustrating: Not only is Proteus slime in almost every scene after the beginning, but Julia is unfailingly faithful and loving, despite the abuse of her trust her boyfriend is determined to perpetrate. Valentine is stale and uninteresting, casually sexist and a bit of an idiot. Silvia is sharp in that she knows what she wants, but she's robbed of any lines after line 58 of the final scene--which goes on for more than a hundred more lines--and so we never hear how she feels about Valentine so quickly forgiving the man who assaulted her. The entire thing is enough to make you wonder what all the fuss is about with this Shakespeare fellow. While Shax will have flawed characters in other parts, there are more nuances, possibilities, vagaries, and realities that he brings out that are either underdeveloped or completely missing from this play. I've read The Two Gentlemen from Verona before*, seen it once, and now studied it more closely. I don't think I'll need to do that again any time soon. --- * I've read all of Shakespeare's plays at least once. This is my reread of the entire canon. ==== Hey, friends. I have been releasing essays on my website for a couple of years now at a pretty steady rate. I'm happy to do so, as it benefits me as a writer and (I hope) you as a reader. I also think that, as a writer, it's okay if I believe that my work has some value monetarily as well as emotionally. To that end, I've created a Ko-Fi account, which is basically a way to give an online tip to a creator whose work you appreciate. The idea is, you can buy them a cup of coffee. (That's what the name of the website sounds like, if you're curious.) I'm not charging for any of the content on my website; instead, if you'd like to toss me a cup-le (see what I did there?) of bucks to show your gratitude, that would be cool. I'd totally appreciate that appreciation. If you don't? No problem. We can still be friends. As always, thanks for reading! For my Fantasy Literature Winterim, we are reading the first of the Harper Hall trilogy of Anne McCaffery's Dragonriders of Pern series. The book is called Dragonsong and I love it a lot. It was my first introduction to the world of Pern, and it's a brilliant piece of writing. While it lacks some of the complexities and richness of the adult novels, its quality of writing and worldbuilding are top notch. And though McCaffery's ability to write fantastic characters and intriguing stories waned as she aged, I always wholly and fully recommend the Dragonriders of Pern series to anyone looking for worthwhile stories. In fact, I've mentioned the series a number of times here before.
What I couldn't help but marvel at was the way in which McCaffery weaves the details of her world into a compelling story. Menolly, the main character of this book, is a young girl in a backwater Hold where her talents are wasted. A number of injustices happen to her, all of which only serve to make the reader care even more about the young woman, and her eventual successes--through the generosity of others, as well as some timely luck--are enough to make even my desiccated heart palpitate with hope and optimism. Reading it with my class, however, has been the real joy of this particular pass (that's a Pernese pun, for the record). If you want to pick up Dragonsong and read it as a very soft fantasy, skip the Foreword. If you want to read it as it was originally conceived of, as science fiction, reading the Foreword will provide the necessary context. Most of my class wanted to read it as fantasy, so they skipped it, allowing the entire world to be unfolded as the story progressed. McCaffery has a lot of intricate details that allow new visitors to jump in and learn more about what's going on. Additionally, there are big, world-sized problems that are happening in the background to Menolly's story that provide the plot of other books, which tucks Menolly's arc into a broader tapestry. As one of my students pointed out, a Mary Sue character feels like the entire universe is created specifically for her, while a better-written character feels like she is a part of the world. Menolly is definitely in the latter category, where her contributions, though small, end up having large-scale ramifications further down the road. It leaves me in perpetual jealousy that McCaffery did such a stellar job with this series. Especially as I'm struggling with my own writing--questioning whether I should abandon the hobby altogether, in my darker moments--it's both encouraging and frustrating to see how to tell a good story and build a unique world at the same time. The encouraging part is that it can be done; the frustration is that I can't seem to do the same. Still, if nothing else, rereading the first Harper Hall book, which is built on a bedrock of solid worldbuilding and crafted with an expert eye toward character and story, is a private joy that I too often neglect. ==== Hey, friends. I have been releasing essays on my website for a couple of years now at a pretty steady rate. I'm happy to do so, as it benefits me as a writer and (I hope) you as a reader. I also think that, as a writer, it's okay if I believe that my work has some value monetarily as well as emotionally. To that end, I've created a Ko-Fi account, which is basically a way to give an online tip to a creator whose work you appreciate. The idea is, you can buy them a cup of coffee. (That's what the name of the website sounds like, if you're curious.) I'm not charging for any of the content on my website; instead, if you'd like to toss me a cup-le (see what I did there?) of bucks to show your gratitude, that would be cool. I'd totally appreciate that appreciation. If you don't? No problem. We can still be friends. As always, thanks for reading! |
AuthorWould you like to support my writings? Feel free to buy me a coffee (which I don't drink, but I do drink hot chocolate) at my Ko-Fi page. Thanks! Archives
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