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September 29, 2005
Facebook: the site that keeps you clicking
So the bright young things have a new way to be virtually connected: facebook. Part yearbook, part xanga profile, facebook is a fascinating combination of narcissism, voyeurism, and serendipitous discovery. The magic key is a school-related e-mail address. If yours doesn't end with the domain of a registered college, you're out of luck.
Intrigued by the hubbaloo, Noel and I set up profiles; we've been clicking amusedly through ever since. The lure of the facebook experience is difficult to completely unpack. There's the selfish joy of self-disclosure without the upkeep demanded by a blog. (You can fill out as many or as few of the profile questions as you wish.) You can search for and reconnect (however superficially) with old high school buddies who went to school in California while you stayed in Tennessee. You can create "groups," mini-communities of other facebookers who share your interests, however obscure they may be. After all, every school needs a "People Who Like Norse Mythology Way Too Much" club. And, I admit, it's nice to find out that there are, indeed, two other people who listen to the Decemberists.
But there's also the weird, junior-high-inspired experience of "Jane says your her friend. Confirm or reject?" (Though, unlike junior high, she never has to know if you say "no.") Couple that with the inevitable pressure -- and occasionally unofficial contest -- to see who has the most "friends" and you may just experience freshman year flashbacks.
As interesting as the current social implications are, I'm even more intrigued by what could be the next generation of facebook. This "online community" could -- and likely soon will -- integrate other "personal stuff aggregators" like Flickr and Last Fm. The fun comes when you realize that those services remove some degree of user control. If your facebook profile was to randomly rotate every Flickr photo you have tagged with "me," it would be harder to make sure that the cute boy in your literature class only sees that sultry prom pic you like so much. And even though you claim to be the biggest Wilco or Arcade Fire fan, everyone -- thanks to Last Fm -- will be able to see that you just spent the last two hours listening to Dave Matthews Band.
Ooh.
Posted by elissa at 08:16 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
September 27, 2005
Less Barely, More Legal
The Husband becomes a little less "barely" and a little more "legal" today, firmly planting himself in his mid-twenties. This also marks the second year of my attempts to be a mini-Trekkie for the sake of my best friend. Now that he's more accomplished in the ways of bourbon and such, I decided that he was ready to receive one of these, monogrammed, of course.
Happy birthday, best friend. I love looking at this painting from a year and a half ago, knowing that so much of the hopeful joy packed into those four panels now overflows in my shared life with you. "The Lord is good to those who wait on Him, to the soul who seeks Him."
Posted by elissa at 05:23 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
September 23, 2005
Friday Food: Greener Green Beans
Stir Fried Green Beans
(This will probably only fly if you like your green beans green and crispy)
Two generous handfuls green beans/pole beans, etc.
1 heaping tsp minced garlic
2 Tbs olive oil
- Chop off the ends of your beans and cut them in half if necessary.
- Heat the olive oil in a wok or frying pan on medium-high.
- Add garlic and stir briefly. Add green beans and stir fry until they become a brighter green and/or begin to blister slightly, usually 3-5 minutes.
As Noel can attest, I make these all the time. Sometimes I also sprinkle them with lemon juice or add toasted almond slices. I like 'em crunchy!
Posted by elissa at 04:33 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
The Fragile Species (is apparently not gorillas, as previously thought)
“The Fragile Species” -- Frist Center for the Visual Arts. Nashville, TN. Through September 25.
Suspended by a web of threads, a papery, translucent blouse and skirt -- Barbara Yontz’s “Especially Considering Exposure” -- hover at the entrance to “The Fragile Species." The clothes seem simultaneously antique and ethereal: silken and wispy but still yellowed and brittle. This ghostly heirloom, with its secret and surprising origin, is a prime example of the ways that this show, at its best, is simultaneously confessional and reticent.
The exhibition sets out to contemplate “human frailty,” and the approaches range from intimate self-disclosure to whimsical flights of fancy and ironic comments on greater humanity’s finitude. The works are grouped into five rooms, and each room is prefaced by curatorial texts that introduce a common thematic element within the smaller gallery.
The pieces in the first room revolve around trauma, both emotional and physical. Erin Hewgley’s “Use It,” a latex sculpture of an inverted, headless, armless torso, is among the most striking. Meticulously rendered, the classically beautiful figure grows increasingly difficult to view as signs of violence and damage become more apparent. The limbs, hips, and head seem to have been ripped away, leaving raw, dripping edges and grotesquely crumpled stubs. The pain communicated is poignantly authentic, and, after reading that the artist herself was a rape victim, it becomes even more specific.
Barbara Yontz, whose delicate skirt and blouse hang at the beginning of the show, has two other pieces further into the exhibition. These forms are more evocative than representational and are fashioned from the same papery substance -- a material which, we are now told, is actually hog intestine. It’s an unsettling connection: the exquisite gossamer concoctions suddenly tie us to animals, to bodily functions, and to death.
Some of the most captivating pieces cluster in the exhibition’s final room. Lain York’s “Fing” is a gorgeously textured, layered painting that melts colors, symbols, and features into a “mask” that recalls African tribal crafts but also resonates with the contemporary viewer. Billy Renkl collages miniscule square fragments of maps into silhouetted children’s profiles, turning national borders into an outline of innocent features. And Mark Hosford’s brilliantly colored silkscreens are so visually entrancing that they have little need for their accompanying texts. The graphic, dynamic figures within could tell as many stories as the viewer can imagine.
Generally, the show boasts an arresting visual presence; many artists seem fixated on the possibilities of texture, and others use scale as a semantic ally. Thus, despite the breadth of media and presentation, the overarching aesthetic weaves the pieces with each other and with the undeniably intriguing theme. Unfortunately, the theme of frailty occasionally – and ironically – becomes a bludgeon, as the visitor is confronted almost constantly with texts that precisely spell out how the work “should” be interpreted. By giving primacy to the artists’ statements of meaning rather than descriptions of process, the individual placards run the risk of being irksome or, worse still, repressive and didactic.
While the exhibit aims to “explore” life’s transience but the human spirit’s resilience, it’s interesting to note how uncomfortable these artists seem to be with this human condition. The notion of frailty is embodied as something fascinating but fearful, a reality that is unquestionable but also undesirable. Even so, the range of optical pleasures left me delighted that my material body can see and feel, small and vulnerable as it may be.
(Read the extended entry for more descriptions of individual pieces)
Continue reading "The Fragile Species (is apparently not gorillas, as previously thought)"
Posted by elissa at 03:34 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
September 21, 2005
Field Trip Day!
No work today, hurrah! Instead, I get to go here and see this with these folks.
Sweet.
Posted by elissa at 09:05 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
September 20, 2005
Hurt
It's fall, a season still so novel to me that it always inspires delight. But, this year, autumn seems to have brought something else along with the rusting leaves and cooling air. There's a vague ache, a persistent soreness of the soul. This year, my life is lightly touching or softly brushing by lives of others that are soaked in painful loss. Some hurts are recent, others are years old but still throbbing.
Mrs. Duble, Noah's grandmother, has asked me several times in recent weeks: "Does this make you and Noel scared? Troy and Sarah were like you and Noel, with everything going for them. Does it scare you to think this could happen to you?" Anticipating the hurt makes me wince, but I tell her, honestly, that I'm not afraid.
In his book The Four Loves, C.S. Lewis says this about the nature of love:
To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket --safe, dark, motionless, airless-- it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only place outside of Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell.
As I've listened to and watched the responses of "those who mourn," it's clear that they would never trade loving and knowing the person they lost for a painless existence. They risked -- and experienced -- tragedy, but escaped damnation. In loving and being broken, they became more like Jesus who, because He knew the Father completely, suffered unimaginably when the Father's face turned away. These friends have also resisted the temptation to protect themselves from further injury. Even as they wrestle with the void of their loss, they persist in take risks with their hearts by continuing to long and love.
When I pray for these people I am humbled. It is an honorable joy to intercede for ones who have silently and unknowingly given me courage by walking in obedient faith.
Posted by elissa at 11:45 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
September 16, 2005
I Make Friends with a Homebrewer
"Hi there!"
You need to realize two things before you venture up to the Chattanooga Homebrewers' Club table at the 2005 Southern Brewers Fest. One, the men under the tent have been there all day, and two, they truly do enjoy what they um, brew. The friendly neighborhood brewer across the table from me was a grinning middle-aged man with a pink nose and red-tipped cheeks that matched the tropical flowers strewn across his Hawaiian print shirt. He smiled broadly and silently.
"Hi," I replied. Obviously some conversation needed to occur before I could get some of their precious liquid in my now dry commemorative plastic stein. "How are you doing?"
"Oh, great, great," he effused, still grinning.
"Yeah? What's responsible for that?"
He chortled. I gestured towards their beer list, a large piece of white posterboard with Sharpie-scrawled entries. "Which one of these is yours?"
He beamed and pointed out his IPA and "Skotch" ale. "But that stuff," he told me solemly, pointing to the "Orange Ale," is crazy. You either love it or ya hate it."
"You love it, don't you?"
"Oh yes."
I handed him my cup.
Posted by elissa at 04:08 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
September 15, 2005
Painting Memory
Last night, we walked to an old haunt of ours, a bluff on mountain that boasts a sweeping view of the city. The edge of the cliff bleeds into the textured darkness of the mountain and then splits into a swath of sparkling city lights. It's beautiful.
Two years ago, that bluff came to symbolize many of the hard, frightening things that God was gently, insistently pushing through my heart. Each time Noel led me there, each time I dangled my feet off the universe's rim, He made me less and less afraid. It was startling, breathtaking, occasionally painful, and demanded to be remembered. So I painted it; a water, pigment, and paper memorial.
I still love that painting, but I am overjoyed, too, to realize that the solitary, tense figure is no longer me. When we stood on the bluff last night, we stretched out our arms to the glittering valley below. Now Chattanooga, the twinkling strip that reached from outstretched fingertip to fingertip, is my home, and the man whose arms reached even wider is my husband. We are still trusting, He is still faithful.
(And, ironically, that painting now hangs in the school librarian's home.)
Posted by elissa at 05:17 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
September 12, 2005
In Which My Attempt to Appear Hip Falls Flat (or) Decemberists, Come Quickly!
Towards the end of our discussion of Melville's short story "Bartleby the Scrivener," this happened:
Don't you all think that "Bartleby the Scrivener" would make a great name for a Decemberists' album? (I am met with blank stares.) Wait, does anyone even listen to the Decemberists?
Two students saved me from utter despair and total face-loss by raising their hands. I ordered the rest of the class to look up the band as part of their homework. Maybe today I will recommend that they download this and cement myself in their minds as the substitute prof that listened to "weird things."
Oh yes, believe your ears. That's the Decemberists doing a cover of Bjork's "Human Behavior."
(Thanks to Casselculture for the tip)
Posted by elissa at 01:39 PM | Comments (4) | TrackBack
September 10, 2005
Friday Food: I Cook With Beer
For some reason or another, the family fridge did never contained beer during my growing up years. Now that I'm married, and a fairly steady and varied stream of high-quality, hop-derived beverages flows peacefully from our refrigerator, I've become enamored with the idea of cooking with this formerly alien substance. I mean, apparently, there's a fairly honored tradition of cooking with beer that I just missed during my formative culinary years. So here: 3 beer recipes that I dig. One because it's a local dish, one because it's made my life easier, and one because it's just that good.
Sam Choy's Miso Hibachi Chicken
Two to three pounds of chicken breasts/thighs; or, a whole deboned chicken
Marinade:
One half-cup miso (fermented soybean paste)
One half cup smooth peanut butter
One half cup shoyu (soy sauce)
One half cup beer
Two tablespoons minced fresh ginger
One tablespoon minced garlic
Combines marinade ingredients and marinate chicken overnight in refrigerator. Grill over charcoal. Serve with hot rice!
Keep reading for beer pizza crust and Guinness brownies!
Continue reading "Friday Food: I Cook With Beer"
Posted by elissa at 09:21 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
September 08, 2005
The First of Many a Student Quote
"Oh, so I am a superwriter!"-- an ESL student after realizing that she had misunderstood the professor and written two drafts instead of the required one
Posted by elissa at 04:32 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Blessed Chain of Association
Since it would never do for a professor to be too optimistic, I'm trying to maintain some semblance of appropriate cynicism. Still, I can't help but be excited about the things that I'm reading from my Basic Writing folk. It's not that their drafts have exhibited spectacular coherence, correct syntax, or engaging style. They haven't. But, in their freewrites thus far, there have been delightful moments of discovery in the middle of muddle. Stuff -- wonderful, insightful, amazing stuff -- keeps appearing in the most unexpected places. One draft about basketball took a surprising turn towards unpacking a difficult home life. Another freewrite started off discussing the author's prowess at Playstation 2 Madden and ended up talking about being mistakenly pulled over and handcuffed on his way up to Covenant for the first time.
Perhaps part of the appeal lies in just how unpretentious their prose really is. They hand in drafts about racial profiling, voodoo, relationship abuse, and religious riots written in a matter-of-fact tone. It's so clear that they each have *something to say* rather than just an experience to relate. It's so easy to want them to become better writers. And it's so daunting to realize that such improvement is now partly my responsibility. I think I've found a job I love.
Posted by elissa at 04:30 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
September 06, 2005
Unwanted Expertise
One of the first goals of Basic Writing is to convince students that they will be better writers if they write about an area of expertise. Somehow, the natural flow of information has been oddly and artificially altered in the world of the academic term paper. Only there does information routinely flow from a person who knows less (a freshman Old Testament student) to a person who knows more (a professor with a Ph.D. in Old Testament). I'm hardly calling for the erradication of the "research paper," nor is it an all-encompassing dismissal of students writing standard expository prose on an assigned subject. But, for these kind of freshmen -- students who dread writing because of past failures -- telling them to write an academic paper about something they know well often proves liberating and fascinating.
So, we tell them to make a list. "What are your areas of expertise? Give me five things." The lists from the American students generally tout their athletic backgrounds, their ability to make friends easily, or the ease with which they drive a stick shift. The lists from the international students highlight their knowledge of their homeland's history, culture, or food. There are generally a couple of items that pique my interest on each list, and I encourage the students to write a draft on those unique topics. I'm expecting drafts on everything from untying knots to writing in Chinese.
The last list I received was from a young African man who had arrived at school almost a week late. He handed me his list, scribbled in pencil on a small yellow piece of notebook paper:
- Poverty
- Riots
- Strikes (student and worker)
- Being a TCK
- Being African
I told him he could choose whichever one he wanted.
Posted by elissa at 01:44 PM | Comments (4) | TrackBack
September 05, 2005
Daddy, I Want a Cownose!
Posted by elissa at 10:56 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
The Life Aquatic or at Least Saline
As I walked through the doors of the Tennessee Aquarium's Ocean Journey building with the rest of the Weichbrodt clan, the air conditioner blasted a familiar scent towards me. No, not fish poop. Salt.
The ocean -- even from a distance -- was never a mono-sensory experience. The splashing, churning rumble or lazy, repetitive slapping would build in volume as you walked across the increasingly sandy grass, past a low lava rock wall, and finally sinking into the white billows of sand. The beach front cottage where we honeymooned was full of the ocean announcing its constant arrival and departure, covering car motors, children's voices, and wandering chickens in its foaming.
You could smell it, too. Kona winds, wafting warm and sticky from the southeast, brought the ocean's smell inland. The combination of a rising temperature and olfactory suggestion practically demanded that you retire to the beach immediately. Once there, your nose and eyes would sting with each wind, not harshly, but as a pungent reminder of where you were.
Of course, you could also taste it. Powdery salt grains gathered from your lips taste different than Morton's iodized salt or even the residue left behind by a french fry or potato chip. (Try not to spoil my euphoric paean by reminding me that the vast array of bacteria and decomposing sealife probably contribute to this unique flavor.)
I miss its constant presence. It's still strange to be in an elevated place -- in a skyscraper or on the mountain -- and not be able to glimpse some ocean in at least one direction. While a student at Covenant, there were many times when I would glance off the bluff, half expecting to see the blue ridges rippling towards me in even sets.
I grew up in Hawaii, and aquariums make me homesick.
Posted by elissa at 08:03 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack