The Secret World of Fashion Plates

Sharon Marcus, Between Women: Friendship, Desire, and Marriage in Victorian England. Princeton University Press: Princeton, 2007.

In Between Women: Friendship, Desire, and Marriage in Victorian England, Sharon Marcus presents an insightful reinterpretation of femininity and sexuality in nineteenth-century England.  Marcus structures her study around three forms of female relationships: friendship, marriage, and desire between women (most often identified as homoeroticism rather than homosexual desire).  She argues that contrary to popular belief, women were not the frail, downtrodden creatures that most studies and literature have portrayed them to be.  Rather, according to Marcus, relationships among women gave them an agency they would not otherwise have had.  Marcus writes that while “[f]riendship reinforced gender roles and consolidated class status … it also provided women with socially permissible opportunities to engage in behavior commonly seen as the monopoly of men: competition, active choice, appreciation of female beauty, and struggles with religious belief” (p. 26).  Marcus also claims that homoeroticism among women was acceptable and, indeed, expected of women, asserting that “female homoeroticism did not subvert dominant codes of femininity, because female homoeroticism was one of those codes” (p. 113).  This female homoeroticism was played out through anything from fashion plates, to children’s dolls, to tales of corporal punishment bordering on the pornographic.  Though some saw these lurid tales about dolls and punishment as being scandalous, it is Marcus’ opinion that, for the most part, these forms of eroticism were designed to incite in women a desire for femininity, which would then help them to attain “the feminine virtues of sympathy and altruism that made women into good helpmates” (p. 26).

Marcus’ greatest strength is the structure and underlying argument for her study.  She insists that previous studies of this subject have missed the dynamics described above because the scholars who wrote them relied upon legal and medical sources.  Instead, Marcus uses lifewritings (diaries, letters, and the like), in addition to elements of popular culture like literature or fashion plates and magazines, in order to delve into the personal worlds of the women she is studying.  Marcus also wanted to eschew the common interpretation of female relationships as being defined against men, that is to say, that there is a central theme in the field that assumes that “the opposition between men and women governs relationships between women, which take shape only reactions against, retreats from, or appropriations of masculinity” (p. 11).  In addition, lesbianism and female friendship are often conflated and assumed to be only a rejection of a male-dominated society and a forced heterosexuality.  Marcus argues that this interpretation devalues the significance of relationships between women in and of themselves because they are viewed as existing solely as a reaction against oppression, rather than something that women may have found beneficial on an emotional, spiritual, or social level.  In shifting the meaning of female friendships, Marcus is able to give these women an identity that does not have to be defined in a dichotomous relationship to that of a man.

While her sources are many and varied, Marcus relies, unsurprisingly given her literary background, on popular literature of the time period to illustrate her point.  This is where we find her interpretive framework losing some of its resiliency.  While Marcus persuasively uses classics like David Copperfield and Middlemarch to show how female friendship is used as an integral element in ‘marriage plots’ in order to get the heroine happily married off in the end, there are times when her interpretations perhaps stretch the real intent of the author or the intuition of the reader.  When Marcus examines Great Expectations, she insists that all of the critics that have gone before her have missed an obvious theme of the novel; that of desire between women, and that this theme plays itself out in Pip’s desire to be a part of this female relationship as a female himself.  Marcus writes that “[j]ust as the desire to punish cannot be expunged from even the most moralistic doll narratives, which chastise girls for having punished their dolls, Pip’s sentimental mother-daughter relationship with Miss Haversham cannot fully displace the sadism and fetishism of the original dyad she formed with Estella” (p. 188).  Likewise, her use of fashion plates, while fascinating, is not wholly convincing because she has no proof that her explanation of their imagery – pointed shoes as a symbol for the clitoris, for example – was how the audience of middle class women were seeing these images.  While this alone does not debunk her argument, the strength of her interpretations of both the literature and of fashion plates can be called into question.  Interpretations of this nature are subjective and it is difficult to tell what historical actors thought of these things and whether or not they had the enormous impact upon the gender and sexuality of their audiences that Marcus argues they did.  However, despite these drawbacks, Marcus’ work is ultimately an innovative and thought-provoking study and the assumptions upon which it rests will provide a springboard for further work in gender studies as well as historical scholarship broadly.

My Apologies

It has been an absurd amount of time since I have written an entry. Not to say that I have not sat at a computer, opened up the “add new post” page and started one, realize I was just yammering and not very coherently, take a break, come back at the end of the day, decide I’d rather just go home and watch bad television, and do just that.

I think I have a problem with believing that any of my points have any true validity. It blows my mind that people even read this thing, aside from friends who know who I am. I don’t think of it so much as a self esteem issue. Perhaps it’s the idea that there is some sort of universal truth out there that I’m constantly trying to find, so obviously my opinion can’t be it. Not to mention, when you question everything, you inevitably begin to question yourself.

Anywhoozle, I was listening to the radio yesterday on my whopping one mile car ride from work to home, and a conservative radio host (a man) was talking about a girl suing her college for not letting her hold a pro-life rally on campus. The college didn’t let her, said something about it being related to a hate crime, and so she sued. And she won. Although it wasn’t about the money. But I’m pretty sure she still took it.

And the conservative radio host went on and on about how “pro abortionists” (never pro-choice) get to say whatever they want, whenever they want. That colleges are filled with pro abortionist propaganda, and that some have free abortions right there on site. So why is it wrong that this poor girl just wants to pass out flyers?

I was home by now, so I stopped the car, sat there awhile, and I tried to understand what this man was saying. I knew I was angry, but I wasn’t quitesure why. It couldn’t be the point that he was pro-life because I really am okay with people choosing their own paths in life. I respect and applaud any woman who gets into the situation of an unplanned pregnancy, takes time to educate herself, looks at both sides of the coin, and decides she’s going to have the child and raise it in a happy, healthy home.

I’m okay with people taking time out of their day to pass out pamphlets filled with information that they deem vital. Whether it is something I believe in or not, I may even be envious of the fact that they believe in something so much they stand on street corners, leaving themselves vulnerable to the ridicule of strangers.

And, although I am far from conservative, I can empathize with the difficulty of being one on most American college campuses.    

So I sat there still, stewing. Trying to put my finger on my anger. Finally I tried to envision what this man was saying. A pro-life advocate, quietly standing in a college campus square, passing out flyers, and telling people to have a nice day whether they took the publication or not. The idea of this was quite a 180 from what I have come to see in our sprawling metropolis as it relates to pro-life protestors.

She herself said she was having a rally. You don’t have to go to the college for permission to simply pass out leaflets. I’ve seen women with their children (who are strangely not in school on a Wednesday morning) filling the streets of downtown Atlanta, with posters of aborted fetuses, chanting and yelling together. A friend who works at a women’s health clinic is in the middle of a 40 day protest rally going on outside of her offices, where women are being harassed going in and out. Of course, this clinic is for all medical issues, yes, including abortion, but what does it say to uninsured women who are going to this facility for an annual gynecological exam to be called out as baby killers?

I then tried to think of pro-choice rallies. I haven’t seen nearly as many. It could be because I haven’t been looking hard enough. The ones I’ve seen have mainly been held at government buildings. You know, the place where these laws are made.

But could you imagine if “pro abortionists” did the same things as those who advocate pro-life? Screaming and shouting outside of a church during Tuesday evening Bible study? Holding up signs of women with the degrees they acquired because they decided they would rather finish college than continue with an unplanned pregnancy? Or maybe posters of women in therapy for rape, crying, with a baby bump under their dress? What would one think if a group of people who are pro-choice filled the streets of the private sector to let out their message?

This is where I found the source of my frustration.

Perhaps there isn’t a grand universal truth, that I will, undoubtedly, search for until my last dying breath. But I do know there are some universal generalizations that can be made of humankind. A major one being: Not everyone is going to have the same opinion as you, but everyone is going to believe their opinion is right. This does not mean you respect a person with differing views any less.  

I would never ask a person with conflicting views to change his or her mind. But I would ask, nicely, to change how one chooses to approach a situation. If you believe in your heart of hearts that abortion is wrong, a sin, and whoever does it is going to hell, then please do not ever have one. I will never ask you to. And, really, the only person who probably would ask is the future father.

And if you feel many are uninformed about abortion, pass out pamphlets. Those who are interested will read. Those who aren’t will throw it away. You did your job. You tried to save them from eternal hell-fire.

Jesus never bombed a clinic to get his point across. Nor did he murder someone because he thought it was for the greater good. (I know these are extreme situations and very few ralliers fit into this realm, but these situations also have extreme consequences.) From what I learnt, love and patience for others were a constasnt throughout his teaching. Neither of which, for the record, are the same as abusing someone with hate speech and graphic pictures because they are doing something you do not agree with. Nor is it guilting someone into becoming a mother by placing false advertising (“pregnant? confused? we can help.”) and then forcing her to hear the heartbeat of a fetus and see it flickering on an ultrasound.

The first time I saw and heard my daughter’s heartbeat was probably the happiest day of my life, but I could not imagine the utter confusion and turmoil this would cause a young woman with nowhere to go and no one to support her.

I hope people realize that pro-choice means just that. I believe 100% that everyone has a choice in what they do with their lives, and to live with those consequences, whatever they may be. This is the reason I believe that, while many of these methods are flawed morally and ethically based on your own scripture, one has the right to act as they wish.

But please do not try to equate pro-choice advocates actions’ to those of prolife ralliers. One would hope that a choice is a rational, informed decision. Very few ask the same of a calling from God.

~Krystle (can I get a welcome back?)

*please not I am only speaking of those who rally for pro-life.

Open Season

Why is it that anyone and everyone is allowed to insult Catholics without any repercussions whatsoever?  And if we defend ourselves, why is it apparently nothing more than a regurgitation of the ‘lies’ we’ve been told our entire lives?

I bring this up because I recently saw an episode of Penn & Teller’s show, Bullshit (truer words were never spoken), in which they focused on the Vatican.  Now, you ask anyone who knows me and they’ll tell you that I am not easily offended, but this show was nothing short of vile.  The majority of what they were saying was, if not flat out false, grossly distorted information.  If one can even use the term ‘information’ to describe the filth.

What is it about us that riles so many people up?  I know the abuse issue is what many reference, but it almost seems to be a symptom.  Most people point to it and say ‘see, this is what we’ve been saying all along,’ or something to that effect.  I read something that someone had written today about all priests being inherently evil and they used the sex abuse scandal as evidence.  As if every priest that ever was has been a pedophile or some kind of sexual deviant and that there is something intrinsic in the nature of a priest that would make him so, and that the scandal only proved their point.

Well you know what?  I take offense to that.  I am not a priest – obviously enough – but I am offended on behalf of all of the priests I know.  I take offense because they are all good men whose task is hard enough without every other idiot accusing them of child molestation or rape or whatever else it is they can come up with.  I honestly don’t know how they (priests, that is) do it.  The obligations of the priesthood aside, the way they are treated in the media, history, and in popular culture broadly would be enough to send me running.  Honestly, can you imagine someone hating you just because of the job you do?  And I don’t mean jokingly (lawyers come to mind), but real, vivid hatred.  Can you imagine that someone would automatically think you a pedophile if you told them you worked at a bank?  I’m sure there have been bankers who have been pedophiles.  I’m sure there have been doctors and lawyers and bakers and candlestick makers.  But no one tells you not to buy bread anymore.

So why?  Is it religion?  Protestant ministers have been found guilty of child molestation, why are Catholic priests different?  Is it the celibacy thing?  Are those who are celibate perceived to be predisposed to sexual deviancy?  Or is it because they are all priests of the same Church?  Or some combination thereof?  I’ve heard both argued quite fervently.  The former is preposterous if one has any knowledge of the way pedophilia works, and the latter, well, I think that is truly the heart of the problem.

The Catholic Church is a global organization.  Some might go so far (and be so ill-informed) as to say a multi­-national corporation.  People like to talk about how rich the Church is and how greedy all of her priests are.  Those same people might not have seen that the Vatican City State is running on a $1 million dollar deficit this year, but that’s beside the point.  They point to all the churches and vestments and other ecclesial accoutrements and ask why we don’t just sell them all and give all the money to the poor.  Well, how about we sell the White House?  Buckingham Palace?  The Crown Jewels?  This is, essentially, what is being suggested.  ‘Liquidate all assets and stop being a hypocrite.’  That’s the message I’m getting, at least.

And here’s why we can’t just throw up a For Sale sign in St. Peter’s Square.  It isn’t owned by anyone.  Well, that’s not entirely right.  It’s owned by the whole Church.  His Holiness can’t get up one morning, ring up Century 21, and make them an offer they can’t refuse.  These things make up the patrimony of our faith.  They are physical representations of the continuity of the Church and they are owned by all Catholics, both living and deceased.  And they are not for sale.

Here’s the thing, though, I’m not even bothered that the Church has her detractors.  It is unsurprising that she and her faithful would be hated.  It is the public and unapologetic nature of the pronouncement of that hatred that gets me.  Not that I think that bigotry in any sense is right, but were anyone were to go out and say the same things about Jews or Muslims that are said about Catholics, they would be ostracized.  Quickly.  And why is that?  This is what I don’t get.  Is it history?  Mankind is flawed and people make mistakes, and sometimes those mistakes are tragic.  Am I to be held accountable for what people did 500 years ago that I had no control of?  Or for what a priest I don’t even know may have done?  Life is not fair, no one need remind me of that, but how do people get off scot free from public defamation of character with only what amounts to folklore to back up what are oftentimes absurd claims?  It boggles the mind.

There is a lot more to say here.  I could talk about how sick I am of men (Catholic or non-Catholic) questioning how a woman could be a member of a faith that supposedly oppresses women, or how I’m going to scream at the next person who calls the Holy Father a Nazi, or how tired I am of people who call themselves Catholic though they clearly disagree with or even hate most of being Catholic really means.  But I won’t.  I really just want some answers.  Why are honest, decent, caring, devoted, holy men like my priests objects of scorn and derision?  Why am I, as a single woman, to be pitied for being duped into a religion that allegedly sees me as worthless in my current state?  And, finally, why is there a perpetual open season on my Church? 

Beauty in a Jar

I don’t know about anyone else, but I hate taking my makeup off at night.

I used to be one of those people who scoffed at women who couldn’t leave the house without their face and hair completely done up.  Now I can’t even go to the grocery store without at least some eyeliner on.  I probably spend about twenty minutes a day putting on makeup.  I use at the very least six or seven different products – be it foundation or eyeliner or blush or what have you.  I literally give myself a new face.

Which brings me to my initial statement – I hate taking my makeup off at night.  I hate it because I have to look at my face.  The circles around my eyes, the ruddy coloring, the wrinkles, the pores, the dry skin – it all comes back as I clean off the day’s creation.  The foundation that gave me my blank palette, the eye shadow that gave my eyes depth, the eyeliner that gave them shape, the mascara that lengthened my eyelashes, the brow shader that made my eyebrows even, the blush that gave me cheekbones, the lipstick and liner that created my lips; it all comes off.  I wear a mask each and every day and I can’t leave the house without it.

Most of it is lack of self-esteem.  I would describe my face as a train wreck.  Some of it, though, some of it is the protection it provides.  No one actually knows what I look like.  If they don’t know what I look like, then they certainly can’t know me.  Not really anyhow.  It helps me keep everything skin deep.  At this point in my life, the most intimate act I can think of is allowing someone to see me without my makeup on or my hair done.

Yet another facet of the disguise: my hair.  Wash, dry, straighten, style.  Drying and straightening alone takes a good thirty minutes.  And then the products go in, followed by the bobby pins or barrettes or hair clips or whatever it is I decide to shove into my head on any given day.  My nails are always painted, usually a French manicure so that my fingers look longer and my nails look healthier.  And then come the clothes.  Pencil skirts with wide waistbands to flatten my stomach, button-up shirts cut to give me shape, and four inch heels to make my legs look longer, leaner, and stronger.

All of these things create a persona.  This person you think you know is not me.  This isn’t my face or my hair or my nails or my body.  Though sometimes I’m not sure which one is the real me.  Am I the business woman with the French twist and sweater vest that everyone sees at church and school?  Am I the rockabilly/punk rocker people see at concerts?  Am I the flirt with the low cut shirt that I appear to be at bars and clubs?  Or am I the nondescript girl with no makeup, pony tail, and the t-shirt and pajama pants that I perpetually wear at home?

Jesus, I sound like a feminist going through an existential crisis.

How HGTV has ruined my life.

I am a fanatic HGTV watcher.

House Hunters? OUT OF THIS WORLD!

Divine Design with Candice Olson? BITCH IS CRAZY BUT HER FINAL MAKEOVERS ARE BREATH TAKING!

Even Design on a Dime can work wonders.

But HGTV has sent me into a downwards spiral of expecting amazing things to happen within, at the very most, a one hour time span, and, basically, for free.

*sighs*

Unfortunately, I’m beginning to realize that that is not always the case.

My husband and I bought a house a little less than a year ago. It was a foreclosure, so the price was right. It was a good space, has a huge front porch, and a big backyard for the pups. An amazing starter home.

But some things had to be done. There was peach on every wall. There was disgusting mildewed carpet that professional cleanings weren’t fixing. And there was HGTV telling me that I could do it all, all by myself, with no money!

We painted every room but one, the one that wasn’t painted peach. We had new carpet installed, which cost far more than HGTV ever let on. We painted the cabinets in the kitchen and added new hardware. We put a fence up in the backyard, the price almost made me faint. And with our stimulus, thanks Papa Barack, we got the sectional I have literally wanted for years and a huge area rug which lessens the impact of our adorable yet filthy animals on our fancy white (yes, i’m an idiot) carpet.

But then I watch HGTV and I see so much more that needs to be done. We need a new bedroom set. Wait, scratch that, we need A bedroom set. In fact, we need a bedroom like this:

Do you see how all the tones are muted, yet together they make a statement? It’s a quiet, tranquil place. A retreat from the rest of my hectic everyday life.

It’s all the things I didn’t even realize a bedroom was supposed to be until I started watching HGTV. It is also one of crazy ass candace olsen’s creations. And this is why I love her. 

And if she’s reading this somehow, someway, I would love for her to come to my home, pro bono, and make my bedroom a masterpiece. It can be taped and made a complete tax write off. Please?

Anyway, I know it’ll be awhile until we’re there. With baby on the way, the only furniture we’re thinking about is that which will be in the nursery. Although the husband says he’ll just clear out one of his drawers and the baby can sleep in there. Because, damnit, we’re good parents.

But one day, I will have the house of my dreams. I will have that bedroom. Our bedroom now is a little too small, which is why I fantasize about expanding onto the back of the house, converting the attic that basically runs the entire length of the house into the greatest master suite known to man, this may have to be by way of raising the roof, literally, a few feet, and maybe even adding a deck to the new second story. All of this will give me room to change our current master into a formal dining room, for all of the entertaining we will one day be doing, changing the back room into the laundry room, and having two bedrooms with a jack and jill bathroom added to the first floor. Even better, make our house three stories, nothing but living area at the bottom, two large bedrooms with the jack and jill bathroom on the second level, with my husband’s much needed man room, and then, on the very top, the piece de resistance: a candace olsen master suite.

All done in an hour and paid for by a network.

Wait a second, I do nice things, think I can get on Extreme Makeover: Home Edition?

Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam

(Translation: For The Greater Glory of God)

Come this fall, I will start applying to schools for my doctorate.  It is a daunting task that looms rather menacingly in my near future.  After spending both my undergraduate and the first leg of my graduate years at Georgia State University, I feel the implacable need to move onwards and upwards.  Rather literally, as it happens.  Out of all the schools I plan to apply to only one of them is in the South.

But more importantly, I’m applying almost exclusively to Catholic universities.  Loyola, Georgetown, Boston College, Fordham, Marquette, and Catholic University are my current prospects.  (Northwestern and Emory are the non-Catholic loners.  Godless heathens, the lot of them.)  At first, I wasn’t entirely sure why I wanted to do so.  That changed, however, after the campus visit I had a couple of weeks ago at Loyola in Chicago.  The Madonna della Strada chapel dominates the landscape of the Lake Shore campus and the bell tower tolls the hour to all the students.  (An interesting side note: the science building stands just as tall as the chapel and directly opposite the chapel in the main thoroughfare of the campus.  You’d almost think they did it like that on purpose.).  I realized then that what I want is a physical Catholic presence at the school I attend.  While there is a church down the street from the Georgia State campus (I would like to say, however, that the priest there plays fast and loose with the text of the Mass), the idea that there is a chapel on campus that is undeniably attached to the school is attractive.

Perhaps I want these physical signs because I feel as though they would ensure that I will not experience the same kind of distaste, uninterest, flippancy, and at times downright prejudice towards my research as I have received at Georgia State.  I hate to put it like this, but there is a very liberal bias (not that I’m surprised) that pervades the history department.  People like me who study religion, and Catholicism in particular, not to condemn it, but rather vindicate it, are not widely regarded as serious scholars.  The problem, it seems, is that the field is not conducive to writing history in that way.  Most of the Catholic historians out in the world now – and by that I mean historians who are Catholic – leave theology by the wayside in their religious histories.  They don’t take it into account when they examine the actions of Catholics in years gone by.

All the same, and to get me back on point, I somehow feel as though I can expect a more welcoming environment for my studies at a Catholic school.  Whether this is true or not I’ve no idea, but I’d like to think that professors who teach at Catholic universities, whether they themselves are Catholic or not, have a certain sympathy for the Church.  And it isn’t that I’m not getting support from Georgia State per se, it’s that, well, I’m not on a certain level.  I feel as though I’m being pushed away from my religious beliefs in my work.  As though I have to set them aside to write history.  This approach is anathema to my purposes.  But can I be sure that this won’t happen at a religiously affiliated school?  I don’t know that I’d be able to find out because there are so few people doing religious history at the doctoral level who are doing it in the way I want to, which is to say, in keeping with and in support of the teachings of the Church.

When I told my advisor that I’d done a campus visit at Loyola and that I was seriously considering going there, he didn’t seem entirely pleased with my choice of school.  His job, he contends (and rightfully so), is to get me into a school that will give me a fighting chance at landing a job at least within the first couple of years out of school.  However, he wants me to apply to schools based almost entirely upon their academic reputation.  Some of those may include schools like Notre Dame or Boston College because of the professors they have in their history departments, but I know that Loyola is not on his list.  To give an example, I mentioned to him that I wanted to apply to Emory and his response was that it wasn’t in the top 25 schools in the country.  I checked the US News & World Report rankings and found them to be ranked within the top 30.  I’m almost positive that when we have our discussion he’s going to say he wants me to apply to UNC Chapel Hill or NYU or University of Chicago.  Besides the fact that I’m not good enough to get into those schools, I can’t shake my desire to attend a Catholic institution.  Unfortunately, I don’t think that I can explain that to him, and even if I could, I’m sure he will try to talk me out of the notion.  I may apply to those schools to appease him, but when I get rejected or wait listed at those schools and if I get accepted at the ones I really want to attend, I will accept their offers first.

At any rate, I will be speaking with both my priest and my advisor in the coming weeks to sort out this jumbled mess.  It will mostly concern these issues, but I also have the ever-increasing desire to move in a more theological direction.  I have over the past couple of years become intensely interested in liturgy.  Unfortunately this interest did not manifest itself along historical lines; no, instead, it decided to throw a wrench in my plans and drive me to theology.  Why can’t things ever be simple?

Attaining Fullness

"Hell" by Hieronymus Bosch

In an attempt to make myself smarter I am reading Charles Taylor’s massive tome A Secular Age.  Given the fact that I am only on page 31 of 776, I will obviously not be addressing the broader argument of the book (though I am reasonably aware of what it is).  Rather, I want to concern myself with a two page passage from the introduction that is a rather beautiful look at the need to find a space in our lives in which there “lies a fullness, a richness; that is, in that place (activity or condition), life is fuller, richer, deeper, more worth while, more admirable, more what it should be” (Taylor, p. 5).  Taylor does not necessarily mean this in a religious context, however, he says that “the change [he wants] to define and trace is one which takes us from a society in which it was virtually impossible not to believe in God, to one in which faith, even for the staunchest believer, is one human possibility among others” (Ibid., p. 3).

It is reminiscent of Lucien Febvre’s argument in The Problem of Unbelief in the Sixteenth Century: The Religion of Rabelais in which he responds to Abel Lefranc’s assertion that Rabelais was an atheist.  Febvre counters with the claim that in that time period it was impossible for Rabelais to have been an atheist, regardless of what one might glean from Rabelais’ writings (which I highly recommend).  It was impossible, as both Febvre and Taylor argue, because God was simply present and that belief in God was axiomatic.  Febvre writes that “the mental equipment available in the sixteenth century made it as good as impossible for anyone to be an atheist” (Febvre, p. xxiii).  Taylor calls this mode of living, this form of belief, if you will, an “immediate reality” in which “moving to fullness just meant getting closer to God,” however, “what has happened in our civilization is that we have largely eroded these forms of immediate certainty” (Taylor, p. 12).  This move from a “naïve framework,” that is to say one in which a belief in God was not questioned, to a “reflective” one has resulted in a society in which there is a “presumption of unbelief” (Ibid., pp. 13-14).  As far as I can tell from Taylor’s argument so far, this to him is a negative development because it renders the attainment of fullness infinitely more difficult, especially in the case of believers because their once solid foundation for their belief has been destroyed and as such it makes it all the more harder to have a concrete sense of their belief.

But back to my original line of inquiry.  He opens his discussion on the attainment of fullness with an excerpt from Bede Griffith’s autobiography.  Though somewhat lengthy, I believe including it in full will be fruitful for my purposes.

One day during my last term at school I walked out alone in the evening and heard the birds singing in that full of chorus of song, which can only be heard at that time of the year at dawn or at sunset.  I remember now the shock of surprise with which the sound broke on my ears.  It seemed to me that I had never heard the birds singing before and I wondered whether they sang like this all year round and I had never noticed it.  As I walked I came upon some hawthorn trees in full bloom and again I thought that I had never seen such a sight or experienced such sweetness before.  If I had been brought suddenly among the trees of the Garden of Paradise and heard a choir of angels singing I could not have been more surprised.  I came then to where the sun was setting over the playing fields.  A lark rose suddenly from the ground beside the tree where I was standing and poured out its song above my head, and then sank still singing to rest.  Everything then grew still as the sunset faded and the veil of dusk began to cover the earth.  I remember now the feeling of awe which came over me.  I felt inclined to kneel on the ground, as though I had been standing in the presence of an angel; and I hardly dared to look on the face of the sky, because it seemed as though it was but a veil before the face of God. (Ibid., p. 5)

I read this on a plane on my way to Chicago and found myself stuck on the page, reading and re-reading it, unable to move on.  How can one not want to have such an experience, unsettling though it may have been?  How can one not want to find a crack in the line between the “visible and invisible” (to quote the Credo that I recite every Sunday)?  These are “moments when the deep divisions, distractions, worries, sadnesses that seem to drag us down are somehow dissolved, or brought into alignment, so that we feel united, moving forward, suddenly capable and full of energy” (Ibid., p. 6).  Moments like these can help us to orient ourselves towards this goal of fullness.  However, Taylor continues:

[T]his sense of orientation also has its negative slope; where we experience above all a distance, an absence, an exile, a seemingly irremediable incapacity ever to reach this place; an absence of power; a confusion, or worse, the condition often described in the tradition as melancholy, ennui (the “spleen” of Baudelaire).  What is terrible in this latter condition is that we lose a sense of where the place of fullness is, even of what fullness could consist in; we feel we’ve forgotten what it would look like, or cannot believe in it any more.  But the misery of absence, of loss, is still there, indeed, it is in some ways even more acute. (Ibid. p. 6)

Once I was able to tear myself away from the previous passage, I found myself fixated on this one.  I know this is often said in jest, but it’s like he’s in my head.  He has described the emptiness I feel better than I ever could hope to.  This emptiness creates “a sense of damnation, of deserved and decided exclusion forever from fullness” (Ibid.).  Perhaps this is why I feel a profound sadness every time I go to Mass.  And perhaps it is why I go as much as I do and then have periods when I don’t want to go at all.  When I do go I pray that for once I will find that sense of peace that should come along with it, but most of the time I don’t even know that I believe in who I am praying to.  I suspect this is something like what Taylor meant when he wrote that this age of secularity has created a stumbling block for believers to, well, believe.  But perhaps that is nothing more than an excuse, blaming others for my lack of faith.

I think I should close with the prayer that often crosses my mind in my struggle to properly dispose myself for Mass: “Lord, I believe, help my unbelief.” (Mk 9:24)

Gettin’ Hitched

I’ve noticed a disturbing trend lately.  All of my friends are getting married.  That’s not really disturbing in and of itself, but what makes it disturbing is their nuptials’ impact on me.  I want to get married, damnit.  Yeah, I know I need one of them how-you-say boyfriends first, but that’s a mere trifle!  I already know my colors (lavender and emerald), the flowers (roses), the dress (down to the fabric-covered buttons), the cake (vanilla, three tiers, cascading flowers), the bridesmaids’ dresses (emerald, no bare shoulders, thank you), the groom’s attire (yes, there will be a cravat), and what church it would be in if I should be in Georgia when/if I get married (sorry, STA, St. Peter Chanel is my pick) and yes, there will be a Mass so don’t think you’re getting out of there in twenty minutes or less.

But why is this happening to me now?  I’ll only be 25 in September, what’s the rush?  I will admit that I am a bit of a closeted romantic, if the wedding description above didn’t give that away, but I have so much stuff I have to do before I allow my attention to be diverted.  It’s not like everyone I know has blissful marriages.  I’m pretty sure no one does, but that’s not really my point.  So, why do I feel this irrepressible urge to be attached to someone?

Frankly, I blame society.  I know there’s supposed to be this biological urge to couple in order to procreate, but I don’t want kids, so that’s not the issue.  The issue is that we’ve created this paradigm in which happiness is determined by one’s relationship status.  If you are single, you are obviously unhappy and your only goal is to be one half of a couple.  And I’ve totally bought into it.  I don’t understand people who are together for ages and just don’t get married.  If I were to date a man for more than three years and he didn’t propose, his ass would be on the curb.  I suppose my religion enters into it, but I haven’t been to a Catholic wedding since my aunt got married a good twenty or so years ago.

All I ever see on TV are ads for eHarmony, match.com, chemistry.com, the list goes on.  You have to find the one or you’ll be miserable and alone and if you pay us we can do the work for you.  Coupling has become a commodity.  Sure, matchmaking has been around for ages, but these companies take it to a new level.  This ain’t Yenta.  They match people on “deep levels of compatibility” and make guarantees that you’ll be satisfied with your purchase or you’ll get your money back.  It’s turned dating into this fever pitch quest for ultimate happiness.  Sure, at this point in my life I wouldn’t date just for fun, but damn, this is just too much pressure.

I’m sure some of this has to do with the happiness associated with the knowledge that one is attractive to the opposite sex.  It is no coincidence that dating site commercials are followed by diet program/pill/surgery commercials.  Everyone has to look better so they can attract more men or more women so that they have a better chance of finding THE ONE.  That makes it sound like I don’t think that people can’t have true “soul mates.”  I do think that there are perfect matches, but I don’t think there’s someone for everyone.  I think that for some people there isn’t anyone.  And the older I get, the more I fear that I’m in that category.  I want to be married by the time I’m 35.  I know, ten years seems like plenty of time, but, then again, when I was 15 I was pretty damn sure I’d be married by 25.

For the moment, I’m resigned to the always the bridesmaid never the bride curse because the very prospect of the “dating scene” just makes me tired.

The FBI likes to burn Christians…

… and other fun quips by Tony Alamo!

This is Tony Alamo. Tony Alamo is the most recent in an ever growing line of Evangelical leaders to fall from grace.

The only difference is that this 74 year old is going down swinging, which may make him the most fun to watch.

Also he’s in court on counts of sexual abuse. He allegedly took young girls across state lines to have sex with them.

At first I didn’t get the idea of him taking under-aged girls over state lines to have sex with him. I mean it’s not like there’s some state in the union where a 74 year old can have sex with a twelve year old. At least, not that I knew of.

However, the young ladies who are accusing him of these acts say that anytime he was out of town, he would send for them to go to whichever state he was in, simply for him to perform sex acts. Or if they happened to be in another town, he would make them return to Arkansas for what will from now on be referred to simply as “the grossness.”

You may not know much about Tony, but he is delightful!

A few fun blips:

• born Bernie Lazar Hoffman

• he attempted to be a musician and failed

• believes the Pope to be the Antichrist

• He was brought up as a Jew and, as a result, places an emphasis on converting Jews

• created and manufactured a line of Tony Alamo-brand sequined denim jackets, a business that eventually landed him in jail after being convicted of tax evasion

• According to Alamo, while he was in a meeting at a Beverly Hills investment firm, Jesus came to him and told him to preach the second coming of Christ.

(all information obtained at http://tonyalamochurch.com/)

So Alamo has the usual ridiculous background that most “prophets of God” have. His ex-wife claims that he would “marry” these girls, some as young as 8, and then the grossness ensued. The majority of the girls were from families who were involved in his cult church cult. They were told they had to do “what the Lord told them to do.” (And I guess by Lord they meant Mr. Lazar)

Anyway, although the charges Tony is facing are absolutely disgusting, and make my skin crawl just thinking about them, his attitude throughout this whole ordeal is making this one amusing case.

His defense team is horrified of him testifying. He swears he will. They swear if he does, it will be “against their better advisement.”

He yells things from the defense table about the FBI and Waco.

*SIDENOTE*

*Why he would want to group himself in the same category as the Branch Davidians, I don’t know. David Koresh said he was the Second Coming of Jesus. That was in 1993. You say you’re waiting for the second coming of Jesus. It’s 2009. You showing sympathy and understanding for another cult, simply undermines the ENTIRE IDEA of your own “church.”*

They have hours of jailhouse tapes. One he tells a girl to clean up a mess or she has to leave his church. Another girls and women (presumably his 67 wives all huddled around one receiver) are giggling as he discusses whether or not his charges are the same in Texas as Arkansas.

His supporters have set up a twitter account and are calling the FBI demonic.

And apparently he finds nothing that he did wrong.

Well Bernie, it seems your religious compass is pointing in the polar opposite way as that of the American government. You will most likely be going to prison.

But while you spend the rest of your life in the slammer, cursing the FBI, maybe spend an hour or two each day reading the Bible you’ve been thumping for the last decade or so. And even if you aren’t around for the second coming, I’m pretty sure you will still come up with some revelations.

Like that doing the grossness with a number of under aged girls and using the Lord’s name to get them into bed, gets you roughly an eternity or so of burning.

And maybe while you’re still here, you’ll get some grossness of the angry male on male prisoner persuasion while you’re tearfully praying for the rapture.

-krystle

Thinking Thoughts is Hard

I have always been one to have a jillion thoughts racing through my head at once. That’s one of the reasons my panic disorder can get so debilitating at times.

How are we going to pay for this? I hate my job. Did I leave my flat iron on? What is the mass appeal of Gossip Girl? How could my ass have possibly gotten fatter? Will Speidi ever break up? Should I get the salad or the burger and chocolate shake? What if there’s a gas leak and I come home to two dead dogs and a very dead hamster? My new check card expires in 2013, but the world is going to end in 2012, will it still be valid?We’re all going to die and there’s not a thing I can do about it.

Then the panic attack sets in.

But lately, lately, I have been drawing the most unusual, chronic blanks. I have never had this happen when it comes to the category of simple thought.

There are few if any swimming in this head of mine.

And I’m not quite sure how I feel about it.

I have heard of this happening. I have heard that, while pregnant, women begin to get forgetful. And the further along you are, the more you just sort of stop thinking about things. By the middle of your 3rd trimester, you’re basically useless.

There’s some scientific notion that this was a way for a mother and child to start bonding before the baby’s here. Basically the mom retreats into some… I don’t know, metaphorical cave, stops worrying (really, thinking) about the world around her and it’s just her and baby.

All well and good. And I was prepared for that to happen, but good lord, I’m barely into my second trimester and I’m already borderline retarded. I can’t remember anything. Words escape me. I walk into rooms not knowing why about 9834 times a day. I can only focus on 1/2 a thing at a time.

Multitasking is some unknown concept.

I do know that sometimes trauma can have this affect on you as well. And events of the last week can definitely be thrown under the trauma category, but I’ve been through this before. And THIS has never been the result.

But you know what?

I think a part of me is reveling in it. Sure I’m frustrated that it takes me a minute and a half to remember the word “reveling” but I also like that in the last four months, I’ve probably only thought about the utter destruction of this small planet… five times?

It’s usually five times a day.

So does that mean I win?

I’m not sure. I like not having this constant fear of doom upon my head. I like being able to go to sleep without two hours of never ending questions that can never be answered or solved. Especially not by a 25 year old woman just praying for sweet sleep while worrying about Little Kim from N. Korea and whether or not he’s really sickly, or if he’s just parading around his android while he’s hidden in a cave somewhere… getting stronger… faster…

But I highly doubt this change is permanent. I know some people say that after pregnancy your hormones sort of reset. You go back to the days of 12 hour pms and quick, fun periods.

I don’t know if resetting my hormones will erase roughly the last decade worrying about… everything I have no control over. I just can’t imagine lying in bed at night and not worrying at least once every few months about what would happen if the ceiling fell in on top of me AT THAT VERY SECOND and then worry about it so much, I seriously contemplate sleeping on the couch.

I suppose, while writing this entry, I have come to the conclusion to embrace this vacation from what has become my reality. Forgive me if entries become infrequent and not quite worded as before. Know I mean the word “doubt” even if I spell is “dought.” Still smile and wave at me when you see me out in public, even if I look at you as if I don’t know who you are. If you’re not sure if it’s me or not, I will be the one walking up and down the aisles at the grocery store, not buying anything, just smiling and touching things. Fear not. I’m not necessarily “high” as much as “with child”.

I had a brilliantly clever way of closing this entry, but I forgot it.

-krystle