eateggs

The difference between the Christian who fears and polemically attacks Harry Potter and the 5th grader who reads and enjoys the same is this: whereas the 5th grader (rightly) understands spells, witches and sorcery as belonging to the magical realm of Children’s Literature, the Christian believes in their literal and “evil” existence.

Although– would Harry Potter be the only example of the Christian believing in the literal truth of what the rest of the world understands to be farcical literature?

I. Hate. Computers.

Heh. Which makes it particularly damning to stare into the face of the reality that, in all probability, my career is going consist primarily of staring at a computer screen for eight hours a day, semi-donnishly producing an endless litany of documents and … pseudo-documents (heh. Don’t worry, Jade– I totally just made that word up. I don’t know what a pseudo-document is, either =) )

If only there was a way to go from concept to deliverable without the “stare at computer screen for four hours to develop a conceptual model” stage– ah. That would be grand. Any way about it, I’m becoming increasingly familiar with Microsoft Word. For example, I’ve recently discovered that the “Styles and Formatting” bar is exceedingly useful. Not only can you do all of your formatting with a few clicks, but then, once everything is formatted, you can automatically do things like have Word generate a Table of Contents, or export to a PowerPoint slideshow with all your slides already set up… Needless to say, everything I’ve typed in the last couple days has had an entirely superflous TOC.

Wait. What am I saying? How’s that a bonus? How is that an upside? An upside should be a day in the park, a free beer at the end of the road race, your 10th smoothie free at Ruby Juice. NOT “ooh, I discovered a new way to use Word more efficiently.” What’s wrong with me? Sheesh.

Edit: You SEE?! This is why I hate computers.

I was totally about to post a “ou est mon pantalons?” post, but then I found ’em.

Whew. That was a close one. *sign of relief*

So. This is the time of the year when I, typically, would do a “end of the semester wrap up post” where I would wisely and judiciously sum up the successes and failures of the previous semester. Not wanting to break tradition… here we go.

There’s good news and bad news about last semester. The good news, I suppose, is that I didn’t fail any of my classes. See: didn’t tank my GPA. Score. The bad news, conversely, is that I didn’t learn much from my classes. In fact, I don’t think I learned a damn thing–but maybe that’s just what I get for never going to class? (heh– I could make a joke at Ken’s expense right now… but because I value his friendship, I’m going to withhold.)

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some Kanye West to listen to. Nothin’ wrong with bein’ a drop-out. I swear. =)

Actually, I’m somewhat robbed of a sense of accomplishment. I mean, oh, the injustice. Heh. I’m still waiting on my grade from fall semester to arrive– I have a pretty good idea of how I did, but there’s one class I’m not sure about (heh, my Thai class– go figure). But … well, I’m not surprised. That’s why I started following up on my grades back in February– between the office at Thammasat where the motto is “work? what do you think this is? an office?!” (see: sah-nuk, or “fun”) and Nick Myers in the Study Abroad office, who’s motto is “what? you’re a student? oh, yeah. grades? Don’t sweat it. Um. Yeah. I’ll follow up on that. Why don’t you send me an email to remind me, and then check back in a month,” I’ll be lucky if I ever get my grades transferred from Thailand. Psh. It’s all good– it’s not like I learned anything, anyway. =P

Seriously, though– fall semester could start tomorrow and I couldn’t be more ready for it. For all intents and purposes, I took a year off from school. And I’m ready to be back. So ready to be back. Four months. Count the days.

In that ethereal world between waking and sleep, I hear the low, crescendoing rumble of an airplane. The power is out; has been out; the darkness is profound. The power-outing storm swells against my window. If not for the growing roar, I would hear heard the pit-a-pat of white wind-borne pellets of frozen atmosphere, being rebuffed against my window.

Don’t be absurd, reasoned the half-waking mind. It’s just a big truck–like a UPS truck, a semi–driving down the road. But then, while these thoughts were still forming I felt it, intensely, more than I heard it. Impact. Collision of a huge and incredible force against terra-firma, deafening, shaking my bed, shaking the heart within me.

Suddenly wide awake. My god. What was that? It’s dark–pitch black–so I grope my way to the window, where my hands find the cord and pull open the shade. I’m cold, in my boxers. I look in vain in to the black oblivion, expecting to see flames and burning wreckage. I see is blackness. Profound blackness. Maybe it’s out of my field of vision.

Headlamp. It’s by my bed, someplace. Grope my way to the bed. Grope blindly through the clothes on the floor. Gotcha. Light. Thank god. Wow, that’s bright. Already, I feel so much better.

But what was that? I wasn’t dreaming. I know I wasn’t. Something crashed. Let’s go. Pants. Check. Shirt. Christ! Oh, just lightning. Sweatshirt. Check. Cell-phone, to call help. Check. Camera, to document. Check. Keys. Socks. Beanie. Ok, let’s go.

Headlamp lights the way, piercing the darkness. Pull the cord, drag open the heavy garage door by hand, breaking the seal against the blowing white ice and wind. Start the car, turn on the headlights (thank god! light!), back out. Get out, re-seal the garage, back out of the driveway.

A solitary car, two beacons of yellow-light, in a snowy tempest. The incongruity is almost palpable: the only light, the only life in a post-apocalyptic, war-of-the-worlds world. It’s eerie, the utter lack of life. In my car-capsule, warmth, light, I’m sealed against the outside world. The only survivor in an otherwise dead empty and black landscape.

I drive toward the direction the explosion came from. Brilliant bursts of lightning occasionally illuminate the deserted, lifeless landscape, in the midst of the tempest, heightening the effect.

At the top of a ridge, I stop to look out. There’s light from the direction of the military base. Of course. They produce their own electricity. And as I look, in an instant the landscape is illuminated and I’m struck blind. The only thing I can see is the white outline of the bolt of lightning, seared into the coronas of my eyes, fading. In the absence of sight, every other sense is overwhelmed by the terrible explosion of thunder. This too, felt more than heard.

Some hours or seconds pass, and I regain my sight. My headlights once again push back the oppressive darkness, and I drive on. I circle the neighborhood, and note a candle. It’s darker now, as the frozen heavens fills the space between with even greater intensity. The lightning’s illumination is lessened. Not satisfied by the absence of an obvious source of the crash that pulled me to a cruel and surreal reality, I slowly turn toward the highway to continue my search.

Again! Illumination and blindness, and an explosion so close and powerful it loosens the lashings of my soul within me. Again, the seared image of immeasurable power, but this time so close: the next ridge over, and no further. I regain hold of reality, but now in the iron grip of fear. Self-preservation kicks in. My hands grip the wheel, and turn my car towards safety and security. Somnambulating, Mark and car pull slowly into a driveway; the cold surrounds but doesn’t touch him as he once again breaks the seal of the garage, cold fingers forcing a gap between garage-door and ground, room for hands, break the seal, open the door.

Wake up in my room. My headlamp still wards off the darkness. It must have been lightning, I reason. Wake up in my room, sunlight streaming in through the window. The shade is still up. Must have been thunder, I reason.

But I’m still not satisfied. I’ve been haunted on these high plains by sounds unnatural, powerful and inexplicable before.

After our early dinner, I strolled out alone. .. As I passed the church, I felt a sublime compassion for the poor creatures who were destined to go there, Sunday after Sunday, all their lives through, and to lie obscurely at last among the low green mounds. I promised myself that I would do something for them one of these days, and formed a plan in outline for bestowing a dinner of roast beef and plum pudding, a pint of ale, and a gallon of condescension upon everyone in the village.

(Dickens, Great Expectations)