A pause for a story...

Do you remember Sleeping Beauty?  I' not talking the Disney film, I mean the actual fairy tale.  Well, pull up a chair children, it's story time.

Sleeping Beauty, while featured (in a mildly altered form) in the Grimm's fairy tales, is pretty much a solidly French story.  Turns out, like most fairy tales, there are quite a few different versions of it floating around, but typically again, the core remains true, whilst the details flop all around.

Barest bones, there is a king and queen who are blessed somewhat later in life with a lovely little girl, their only child.  They invite everyone in the kingdom to come and celebrate and all local fairies come and bless little what's her name with multitudinous virtues--wit, beauty, grace, etc.  Unfortunately, the one person who wasn't invited was the wicked fairy, who crashes the party anyway and curses the child that upon the even of her adulthood she will prick her finger and die.  The best the good fairies can do is to transform death into 100 years of enchanted sleep, at the end of which she will be awakened by a kiss from her one true love.

That is the core of the story, that most people will tell you, if they remember it at all.  Here are some of the variations.  First, there is no certain name for the sleeping princess.  There is evidence that I can blame those Grimm boys for the cutesy "Briar Rose" of Disney fame.  Equally, "Aurora" is likely from Perrault, not the first to tell the story, but generally accepted as the most fundamental French source.  Actually, L'Aurore is possibly the name of the princess' daughter.  From more primitive versions you get names like "Talia" and "Moon".  Names are just the beginning however.  For instance, it is not set in stone that Rosamund (my favorite of the various names) was woken by a kiss from her prince.  This is where we get into that tradition of forgotten darkness in the original tales.  You see, early versions of the story describe two other possibilities.  On the one hand, the prince wakes the princess by raping her, and in the other, she remains asleep and he simply impregnates her.  She gives birth to twins, and it is one of them, sucking on her finger, who removes the enchanted flax and thus awakens her.  Odd, don't you think, that Disney didn't go with one of these options?  The story doesn't stop here though.  In fact, the whole rest of Rosamund's relationship with her prince is forgotten.  Once she is woken up, she marries the man and returns with him to his kingdom.  However, in typical princely fashion, he leaves her, and their two children, in the care of his mother and takes off on some sort of vague adventure.  In his absence, his mother (some sources call her his step-mother, others claim that she is part ogress) becomes overwhelmed with jealousy for her daughter-in-law and banishes her and her children into the wilderness.  This is not enough, however, and she ends up demanding first one child, then the other, and finally Rosamund herself be served to her for dinner.  Rosamund and children are spared by the whiles of the royal cook who fools the mother with various animal meats drowned in essentially the most delicious sauce ever (this part, the part where really good cooking saves the protagonist's life, seems so very French to me).  However, the mother eventually figures out that she's been duped and sets up a pit filled with snakes to throw them all into.  Fortunately, our gadding prince finally returns home at this point and puts a stop to his mother's shenanigans.  One version had the mother throwing herself into the pit upon discovery by her son.

Ultimately I don't particularly find these more archaic variations to have much bearing on the significance of Sleeping Beauty in contemporary society, simply because they are forgotten and hence essentially irrelevant.  But for just a moment it is interesting to give them a little thought.
*Disclaimer* Though I will give most of my ideas some cursory internet research (Wikipedia WIN) the bulk of my thoughts and interpretations are based solely on my own ideas, and in no way built off of either legitimate sources or real original thought.  Which is to say, it is quite likely that anything I come up with will either be egregiously misguided, or just plain out of date.  So sue me.  This is a blog for my own enjoyment, not a dissertation.  *Disclaimer*
Particularly, I am intrigued by the sheer mass of traumatic experiences in Rosamund's life, all of which are essentially out of her control.  The prevalence of inescapable fate in her story reminds me more of a Greek tragedy than anything else.  Generally we accept that fairy tales were told to teach some sort of moral, but her story seems much more a...not an explanation exactly, but a...justification of the harshness of fate.  I am hesitant to say this, as it is so purely based on my own fancy, but the complete powerlessness of Rosamund, as I said, the story feels like it has its roots in the same idea as Greek literature.  The people could not understand the vagaries of "luck" and chance, so they concocted explanations for these things.  The Greeks had gods; the French used fairies.  Either way, I feel like Sleeping Beauty comes from an particularly archaic culture that was trying to form patterns and construct meaning in a chaotic world.  In the end, good does prevail.  The prince comes home and restores order.  The princess is woken up and the evil queen is defeated.

A rose by any other name...

It's funny, when you live somewhere you never see what that place has to offer.  It takes a two day visit to see what you had all the time in the world to soak up before.  So it is that, for the first time in my life, I visited the Portland Rose Garden today.  What follows are some of my favorites.  It's rather obvious which color of rose is my favorite.  The remainder of the pictures shall be posted for your viewing pleasure on facebook.

To see the rest of my the pics from the rose garden check out the album on facebook (if it ever lets me upload them).  I also walked back up the mountain to the bus stop at the very top so that I could look at the wonderful houses they have in that area.  I have such an obsession with architecture.  Those pictures will come later...

A summer's day

Today was a superlatively good day.  I woke up after a satisfying 8 hours of sleep.  I came out to my living room and perused the internet for about 40 minutes.  Then, secure in the knowledge that none of my roommates would be in need of its services, I luxuriated in a long shower.  Feeling refreshed, I put on some cut-off jeans and an old t-shirt in preparation for the task ahead.  What task is that, you ask?  Simply a merciless rampage of cleaning fury centered upon the kitchen and front room.

The first, and most important step in the cleaning process is, of course, the selection of suitable cleaning music.  I happen to be in possession of one of the greatest Pandora stations ever made, however, so this initial step posed very little challenge to me.  A soundtrack of awesome was, therefore, hooked up to the Small Speakers of Loudness, joy was obtained, and I commenced to step two.

The second step of a cleaning rampage is almost as important as the first.  One must get organized!  When faced with the sort of horrifying carnage that was my kitchen this morning it is far too easy to get overwhelmed and shift from solid, results-achieving resolve into dithering non-effective distractability.  Thus, walking into the kitchen I realized that I was going to have to divide and conquer.  I'm pretty sure that we used right up to the penultimate dish Sunday night in the dispersal of delicious baked goods.  Hence, the mountain of dishes in the sink had to be sorted into manageable piles.  The kitchen itself was marked out into quadrants.  

Thus, bit by bit; quadrant by quadrant, I slowly worked my way over the entire kitchen in step three--actually getting down to work.  Dishes, counters and stove, little island, table, floor, garbage.  Each section completed before the next was begun.  This is the only way I can finish a big job.  At last, I stepped back and beheld the beauty of my work.  Here, where once there was a dark hole of filth and grime, instead shone a clean, bright open place of light and joy.  Things could be cooked and eaten here without fear of disease and death!  What a joy to behold.

As it turns out, I find the act of cleaning to be remarkably cathartic and soothing.  It is an instant gratification sort of activity, in which the results obtained are directly proportionate to the effort given.  I would qualify this with the exclusion of actual custoding jobs, in which the daily repetition of your work (finding the same spaces re-dirtied over and over again) strip it of meaning and satisfaction, rendering it as soul numbing as any menial job.  Hence, I shall continue to sporadically rampage against filth in my apartment, but avoid custodial employment in future.  And because of that decision, I could stand back from my work and bask in that beautiful 5 seconds of calm satisfaction that come to one who has just spent two and a half hours cleaning a kitchen.  Of course, after those five seconds have passed your roommate comes home and cooks herself lunch.  But whilst they last, your soul is really at peace.  

After I reveled in my kitchen for a few minutes I turned my attention to the living room.  I admit, here, to an ulterior motive.  My life has, historically, been plagued by the curse of the unrighteous.  Which is to say, I lay up treasures (see "anything") unto myself and they becomes slippery that I cannot posses them.  I can and will lose just about anything.  But in this apartment the problem has intensified ten fold.  I cannot even begin to count the number of things which have gone missing from my life, from the large bag of clothing which needed to be returned, to a blues CD, to 5 pens.  The clothing has been most pressing on my consciousness of late, as the money which it represents would be quite nice to have back.  Thus, not only was I attempting to clean, organize, and neaten this space, but also to discover some of my missing items.  I am happy to report success in the recovery of the very bag of clothing in which I was most concerned.  But that aside, I received a double portion of contentment upon completion of both rooms.  I could stand at my front door and look either right or left, and either choice would give me a clean, sparkling view.  To what extent was there peace in my soul and love in my heart?  I can't even say.  But you can be certain that it was vast.

Considering the heat of the day, I took the next two hours to eat lunch and rest a smidge.  Having rested, I set off to work.  As I drove, I realized that I felt a warm enveloping of satisfaction settling over me.  The best way to describe it is to say simply that, had my father popped into existence in the passenger seat next to me, and asked me what I'd done with myself, I would have been able to answer him completely guilt-free.  I cleaned my house in the morning, and in the afternoon I went to work.  What responsibility is this?  There is no shame in a day spent so.  Unfortunately, this realization led to another not quite so comforting--which was the rather pathetic novelty of such a day in my life.  But what is a realization like that, but an opportunity for improvement?  Here's to more days of productivity, and far less of sloth and uselessness!

But the piece d' resistance, the crowning moment of my day came while I was at work.  My shift passed more quickly than normal in my happy and contented mood, plus, about two hours in, I found myself blessed with a cool breeze from the doors behind me.  The store was slow, so I hazarded a quick expedition to ascertain the state of the weather.  Imagine my joy to behold a summer thunderstorm rolling in over the mountain, competing with the sunset to see which could make the evening more dramatic and beautiful.  As I came back inside I was delighted to discover that I could still hear the thunder rumbling around the valley.  Not long after it was time for my 30 minute break and, craving the fresh air, I decided to wander out to the wee patch of grass and soak some in.  Why have I never thought of this before?  And it was like a movie, for the first time in my life, I got to my car and closed the windows just as the first drops of rain began falling.  Then, as I walked into the building and put my stuff back into my locker, rain started pouring down so hard that you could hear it inside.  How perfect!  So instead of going back to work inside, I went back to work...outside.  I walked right back out the door I'd just come through, and around to the guest entrance across the front.  I came in speckled by raindrops and absolutely, thoroughly, and unequivocally happy.  Is there any more perfect end to a lovely summer's day than a sudden thunderstorm and cloudburst just as the sun is setting?  I cannot imagine one.

A clever mind...

So, the other day I was at work cashiering, as I do most days.  This woman came through my line with two wee girls, one I'd say about 6, and the other around 8.  As they always do, the children were drawn irresistibly to the aisle display of candy.  Desperate pleas for this or that candy quickly followed.  

The mother summarily dismissed all of these with a stern "No.  You don't need any candy" and then turned back to me and her purchase.  We chatted for a few moments as I scanned in her merchandise.  Some two or three minutes later we were done and the woman turned to collect her children.  We beheld her eldest seated on the floor, calmly licking a sucker she had apparently just unwrapped.

With a groan the woman snatched the sucker from her daughter and handed it to me with the instructions to charge her for it, and then throw it away.  Having done so, she finished packing up her things and turned to leave.  Her daughter stopped in confusion and demanded to know where her sucker was.  The mother explained to her that she was not going to get the sucker back.

The little girl stood in front of my register with an expression of confusion and disappointment on her face.  She looked at me, and then her mother and said with conviction

"But I licked it!"

A Trip Home

I came home this weekend.  I’m not normally one of those people who does the whole “I live in the best place in the world, and everywhere else sucks” thing because hey, I’ve been to quite a few non-sucky places in just my limited experience.  But I am going to say this.  While there may be any number of places in the world that are just as amazing as the Grande Ronde Valley, I would say that there is not a single place that is better. 

As I crossed the border into my valley I rolled my window down so that I could breathe in the smell of home.  It was literally as though a light, fresh perfume was wafting through my window.  The air smelled so sweet I couldn’t stop gulping one huge breath after another.  There was no smell of car exhaust, no smoke or dust.  It had just rained, so the only smell was that wet, fresh, clean scent of earth and plants and air and life.  The last 40 minutes of my drive were pure heaven…

As I stepped out of the car and looked around me at the still-wet landscape, breathing in that life-renewing air, I felt myself unwrinkle.  5 hours in a car, a week sleeping on a friend’s couch, two years living in college housing, all of it flaked away like dried mud.  I couldn’t bear the thought of going inside yet.

I happened to arrive just during those magical last few hours of sunlight when the entire world looks unrealistically beautiful.  I don’t know what it is about that sinking western light that gives every tree, chicken, and old car a thin sheen of gold.  It almost seems corporeal; sunlight pouring through leaves like a thick syrup, pooling and soaking them with warmth.  When lit by that light, everything looks precious and beautiful[i].

As I walked down streets I’d walked down hundreds of times in my childhood I felt like everything around me was hyper saturated in color.  The lingering drops of the rain glistened on leaves so green I doubted either their reality or the honesty of my eyes.  I think I saw every possible shade of green today.  Bright yellow-greens like sour candy for the eyes.  Leaves that flash silver in the breeze like dropped coins.  Deep golden greens that shimmer luxuriously.  The secrets of the soft, muted blue-greens tease the corners of your eye.  Solid walls of green; dappled greens bordered in the pure blue sky; shady, shifting unstable greens.  Punctuating this sea of greens is the soft lace of lilac blossoms, peonies exploding in such a delicious red that my mouth starts to water, and innocent, pink tulips.  You get a little drunk as your eyes devour such sights.

Periodically I would close my eyes—blocking out the glut of colors—to try and penetrate the chaos of sound woven into it all.  The crunch of my shoes on the gravel roads keeps snatching my attention so I stop moving altogether.  There, on the last block, is a sheep calling over and over again “Daaaaaaaad!  DaaaaaAAAAAAAAAaaaaaad!  Daaad!............DAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaad!”  No demanding child could be as persistent.  Now and then I hear the hum of a car driving past on Main Street.  The cacophony of birds delivering their evening monologues for the benefit of an indifferent world.  It demands a moment of effort to pick out the tapestry of sound into individual voices.  There’s one…two…four…six… nine…I lose count…I know I’m hearing more birds in these few minutes than I’ve heard in two years in Provo.  Performing in counterpoint, the chirping of crickets comes from every direction.  Rushing under it all, blunting the sharpness is the endless shush of Catherine Creek.  And then, best of all, drifting like smoke on the air is the ethereal wail and hum of the train across the valley at the foot of the mountain.  It is the sound that has lulled me to sleep since I was 9 years old and I cannot think of anything more comforting. 

I have a love affair with trees.  And Union is full of them.  There is a particular tree that rules this town, at least one on every street, usually more.  This time of year it is overflowing with thousands of delicate pink and white blossoms jostling for space amongst thick drooping green leaves.  Other trees have yet to gain their foliage and the black starkness of their limbs stands out against the lush abundance of their brethren like black strokes on a blank white page.  Studying the random intricacy of these leafless branches, so distinctive and severe, is a drug I can’t resist.  The lines of these branches were formed at random, and yet their curves, turns, and points are more graceful to me than any piece of art I’ve ever seen.  The soaring uprightness of a pine or an oak fills me with an unexplainable awe, while the stooping curves of a weeping willow abide by their name and inspire melancholy.  The subtle and the obvious differences between each individual tree and each separate type of tree fascinate me.  I believe there must be a tree growing in my soul. 

Sadly, even this overly wordy missive fails to capture the full essence of my home town.  I’ve only touched on the very beginnings of what could be said.  I’ve not mentioned the buildings that fill the town, or the feeling that suffuses it.  I haven’t even thought about the people who make it what it is.  Not to mention, this is a portrait drawn strictly to please.  Needless to say, there are many flaws glossed over, many problems idealized into non-existence.  And yet I can’t say that I have written anything here that isn’t completely true, at least to my experience this afternoon.  So I give it to you, my reader, and leave you to come to your own conclusions.

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[i] Unfortunately, the batteries in my camera died about 5 blocks into my walk.  This was a tragedy.  Eventually I turned to the limited camera in my phone.