More music that ought to be listened to

If you are interested in the glorious variety of the human voice I offer you a few more choice examples.

Nina Simone's throaty melancholic voice makes this song all that it is:

I don't think that song will ever stop moving me

Then, in a wonderful example of the difference voice and arrangement can make I give you this cover of Radiohead's "Creep" by Scala, a Belgian girls' choir.  Be warned, its a Radiohead song, so there are a couple uses of the F word.


Then there is this, from the movie Bright Star

the interweaving of voices and tones is certainly as beautiful and intriguing as any instrumental orchestra could ever be.

And speaking of the intermixing of voices, listen to this song on the highest quality you can (I promise it makes a difference) and listen to how beautiful each voice individually is and then how fabulous all of them sound together.  The two tenors singing in harmony, and then that great bass coming in beneath...oh!  I could listen to this song over and over my whole life

The Grand Tradition of Boy Sopranos...

The last two periods of my "The Role Gender in Music and Theatre" class we've discussed Boy Choirs.  Apparently, in early England the boys who sang in these choirs were so in demand that there was a royal writ allowing boys to be pressed into service in the choirs with or without their (or their parents') consent.  And it is an inclination which has remained.  To this day Boy Choirs are still a revered tradition.

What is it about those voices that makes them so appealing.  You can argue that it was simply the archaic attitude toward women that initiated the practice to begin with, but that doesn't really explain it's lingering tenacity.  Once women were allowed to sing in public and particularly in religious ceremonies, why did they continue the tradition of using young boys?

I don't have any particularly "deep thoughts" on this topic.  I just think it is an interesting question.  The appeal of that piercingly high soprano is a real one, I can attest to that.  I am a person who will always choose a bass over a tenor, an alto over a soprano.  And yet, when my uncle played this for me the first time I nearly cried.

But this is a good example.  Here we have both the voice of the adult woman soprano, and the boy.  The thing is...there is a difference.  Listen to this

and then compare it to this

I certainly would never say that the second is not beautiful.  But you can hear the difference.  The woman's voice is thicker, huskier, has vibrato.  It doesn't sound as pure.  That is it, right there I think.  The purity.  These boy choirs sing almost exclusively religious songs.  That piercing, unwavering tone is the closest we can come to how we think that music should sound.  

Or maybe I am way off.  I don't know.  Mostly I just wanted to post these songs because I think they're some of the most beautiful music I've ever heard.  I hope you listen to all of them all the way through.  And on that note, here are a couple of other versions of these same songs.  This one has amazing harmonies

And while I do prefer the boy soprano singing this song, Sissel certainly does a beautiful job of it.

Letter from the Return Desk

Dear Sir or Madam,

I know we've only just met the one time, but I really felt like I had to write you.  I was so impressed with the way, after only a few minutes, you had such amazing insight into me.  You, a complete stranger, saw me differently than my family and all of my friends...

When we first met, you seemed like anyone else.  You brought your daughter's gift in and asked to return it.  I asked you for a receipt and you informed me that your grandson's father gave it to him and he is no longer in the home.  You told me you have cancer.  You told me that you bought it from this very store but that you had a new credit card.  You told me that you already had a blu-ray player and that, having cut open the plastic wrapping, you realized that you didn't want this camera and needed to return it.  You told me you didn't have a receipt.

So I took your video game.  I scanned it in and I told you that, without any proof of purchase, I could take this pan set and give you back $26.99 for it.  I told you that normally these digital picture frames are sold for $40.

And this was when I realized that you weren't like most of the other hundreds of people I'd spoken to that day.  It became very clear that you had some insight into my character that most other people lacked.  First you showed me how poor my math skills are when you informed me that I was ripping you off for $20, when I thought it was just $12.  And that you realized I was ripping you off at all showed me just how shrewd you were.  And when I tried to apologize, an made excuses about how I had no control over the system and there was nothing I could do, you saw right through me.

You knew the truth and you told me exactly what I was.  You told me I was spiteful and malicious.  You told me I was dishonest.  You told me I was ruining your entire family's Christmas.  You told me I was evil.  I'm so impressed at how brave you were, seeing what a terrible person I am, that you could still tell me about it.  If you hadn't come along no one would ever have known what a shady individual I am.  I would have gone on fooling my co-workers and friends and family.  They all think that I'm a pretty decent person.  But you, you who had only just met me, you saw me clearly.

So, sir or madame, I just wanted to write you and congratulate you for your discernment.  I wanted to thank you for your honesty, for not letting tact or any other consideration stop you from saying what needed to be said.  Thank you for understanding that you were the only person with whom I had to deal, the only person who had a problem.  Thank you so much.

sincerely,

The girl at the return desk

Philosophy and Popular Culture

I researched it (via IMDB) and figured out that Napoleon Dynamite came out in the August before my Senior year of high school.  Though my dad tried to get me to go watch it in the theatre with him, I'd never heard of it so we went to see something else.  Bad decision.  I then got to spend the next 6-ish months listening to my friends quote it over and over and over until finally it came out on video and I watched it with my best friend Tonya.  I was lucky, I think, to watch it with someone who already thought it was hilarious.  Had I not, I'm not sure I would have appreciated it.  At least, not at first.  But I did, so...I did.  I, like the entire nation, was captivated by this tall, gangly, moon-boot-wearing, Jewfro'd anti-hero.

He is truly an iconic figure.  Just do an image search and look at the number of drawings, costumes, and caricatures.  And so, since he was created, I've watched with considerable interest the development of Napoleon's influence on popular culture.  Let me give you two examples.  A commercial, and this year's "epic" movie.  Stop for a moment and think...can you imagine either of those existing in pre-Napoleon society?  Since the phenomenon of Napoleon Dynamite pop culture has undergone a revolution.  The geek, the nerd, the odd-ball, and the character...they've all been glamorized and elevated to icon status.  Shows like The Big Bang Theory, Chuck, Pushing Daisies, The IT Crowd, and Community.  All of them are built around the celebration of characters who don't quite fit into the normal concept of "cool".  They're nerds and misfits.  But really...what are "nerd" and "geek" but words created to describe people who simply didn't fit the mould?


This is where I turn to philosophy.  I happen to be a huge fan of Carl Jung.  I've always been fascinated by his theories on archetypal characters (for those of you wondering where you've heard that phrase before, think this scene, at about 0:35).  Regarding art, Jung believed that there were two kinds.  There was the psychological and the visionary.  The psychological (or art pertaining to the world of human experience) he wasn't particularly interested in, and I won't waste time discussing it.  The visionary, however, was of great interest to him.  Visionary art dealt with things beyond human experience and comprehension:

It is a strange something that derives its existence from the hinterland of man's mind--that suggests the abyss of time separating us from pre-human ages, or evokes a super-human world of contrasting light and darkness.It is a primordial experience which surpasses man's understanding, and to which he is therefore in danger of succumbing.  The value and the force of the experience are given by its enormity.

The visionary artist catches a glimpse of this "unfathomed abyss".  Human experience being insufficient to explain it, he is forced to strive for something beyond human experience.  This is the point where Freud would step in and claim that these visions are the product of the artist's subconscious.  Jung, however contradicts this belief--

The truth is that it takes us away from the psychological study of the work of art, and confronts us with the psychic disposition of the poet himself...The vision is not something derived or secondary, and it is not a symptom of something else.  It is true symbolic expression--that is, the expression of something existent in its own right, but imperfectly known.

Of course, you may be wondering what all of this has to do with popular media and Napoleon Dynamite.  Stay with me, I'm getting there.


In his essay Psychology and Literature, Jung says the following:

If we consider Goethe's Faust...the question that we must answer is this:  In what relation does it stand to the conscious outlook of his time?  Great poetry draws its strength from the life of mankind, and we completely miss its meaning if we try to derive it from personal factors.  Whenever the collective unconscious becomes a living experience and is brought to bear upon the conscious outlook of an age, this event is a creative act which is of importance to everyone living in that age.  A work of art is produced that contains what may truthfully be called a message to generations of men.  So Faust touches something in the soul of every German.  So also Dante's fame is immortal, while The Shepherd of Hermas just failed of inclusion in the New Testament canon.  Every period has its bias, its particular prejudice and its psychic ailment.  An epoch is like an individual; it has its own limitations of conscious outlook, and therefore requires a compensatory adjustment.  This is effected by the collective unconscious in that a poet, a seer or a leader allows himself to be guided by the unexpressed desire of his times and shows the way, by word or deed, to the attainment of that which everyone blindly craves and expects--whether this attainment results in good or evil, the healing or an epoch or its destruction.

When Napoleon Dynamite was made, society was in the midst of one of these epochs.

Historically, he came towards the beginning of a time of huge societal change.  The digital age was undeniably in full swing, but the full significance of such an age were still being ironed out.  Web 2.0 was becoming a reality.  MySpace was at its peak, and about to begin its decline.  Facebook was still relatively unknown, limited to college students.  Google was only just beginning to claim domination of the internet from Yahoo and the already-on-the-verge-of-a-joke AOL.  You still needed an invite to use Gmail.  Twitter didn't exist.  Blogs were just starting to come into fashion (I think...I didn't have a huge internet presence back then).  The idea of social networking online--something that now seems as natural as breathing and checking facebook--was still just a hopeful glint in Mark Zuckerberg's eye.  

The realization of the true potential of the "world wide web" was finally happening.  The world was becoming truly connected.  Any information you could possibly want was just coming into the reach of your fingertips.  But ironically, with this explosion of connection came an almost paradoxical loss of identity.  Suddenly you were becoming one small grain of sand on a vast beach of other identical grains.  One friend in 637 (and that is a number on the lower side).  One tweet in a screaming crescendo.  One face in millions.  The more the connection to the world, and even just your own country...your own state...your own school, the more clearly you realized that you were a single soul amongst hundreds, thousands...billions!  What possible significance could you have?  What possible identity that wasn't the exact same as everyone else around you?

Napoleon Dynamite came at the very beginning of this revolution.  In a way, he anticipated it.  And he offered a solution to the problem.

Jung continues on in his essay to explain the inherent problems of these historical epochs.  Inevitably, they lead to imbalances in society.  As he put it "An epoch is like an individual; it has its own limitations of conscious outlook, and therefore requires a compensatory adjustment."  It is these imbalances that lead to the creation of the archetype.  

The Jungian Archetype.  This is one of my absolute favorite ideas in literary theory.  The archetype is a figure born of the collective subconscious.  The "collective unconscious" is exactly what it says--a collective pool of ideas that are universally understood while simultaneously avoiding any rigid definition.  This pool is populated by the archetype--a universally recognized figure rather akin to a Platonic form.  Think of the Hero, the Savior, the Physician, or the Mother.  These are figures recognizable even beyond cultural lines, appealing virtually universally to all mankind, but an archetype can be more societally specific.  Jung refers repeatedly to Goethe's Faust.  In the great works of visionary art an artist is tapping into this collective unconscious and finding the archetype of the age.  He cannot create anything else.  The era creates the archetype.  

It is not Goethe who creates Faust, but Faust which creates Goethe.  And what is Faust but a symbol?  By this I do not mean an allegory that points to something all too familiar, but an expression that stands for something not clearly known and yet profoundly alive. Here it is something that lives in the soul of every German, and that Goethe has helped to bring to birth.  could we conceive of anyone but a German writing Faust or Also sprach Zarathustra?  Both play upon something that reverberates in the German soul--a "primordial image,"...

More often than not, the archetype addresses some problem with the spirit of that particular Historical Epoch.

These primordial images are numerous, but do not appear in the dreams of individuals or in works of art until they are called into being by the waywardness of the general outlook.  When conscious life is characterized by one-sidedness and by a false attitude, then they are activated--one might say, "instinctively"--and come to light in the dreams of individuals and the visions of artists and seers, thus restoring the psychic equilibrium of the epoch.  

Which brings us back to Napoleon.  If you've been paying attention, you will be realizing right about now that what I am implying is that the movie Napoleon Dynamite is a piece of Great Visionary Art.  Maybe such a claim has just lost me all my credibility, but maybe not.  After all...why not?


As previously established, Napoleon came at the beginning of one of Jung's Epochs.  The homogenization of society was creating an ever greater imbalance.  The overabundance of connection and information was leading to a loss of identity and basic human awareness.  And into the breach stepped The Individual.  Quirky, odd, and independent from the demands of Homogenized Society.  In his humorously innocent exclamation "just follow your heart.  It's what I do." he offered an alternative to the culture of conformity that seemed almost inescapable.  Napoleon Dynamite became the balancing archetype to counteract the faults of this new era in history.
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Napoleon's guileless acceptance of himself opened the door.  The way to reclaim your identity from the masses was to embrace your quirks and your eccentricities--all those things you'd previously kept so carefully hidden from the world.  In a stroke the world became intoxicated with the freedom of weirdness unleashed.


Of course, the obvious argument against this idea is that Napoleon was simply not innovative.  There were shows previously that dealt with nerds, geeks, misfits, etc.  Niche markets and cult films have always existed.  But that, I would respond, is exactly the point.  Niche markets and cult films.  Before Napoleon, the nerdier things of this world remained quietly in the back rooms of society, enjoyed by those who enjoyed them, but tacitly ignored by the greater populace.  It was Napoleon who changed that, in two ways.  First, in the creation of "Nerd Chic".  Suddenly nerdy was the new cool.  And second, in the type of dorkiness he glamorized.  It is a dorkiness made up the random, the strange, the non sequitur, but never the truly bizarre or inscrutable.


The irony is that in this instance the creation of the saving Architype was, paradoxically, the harbinger of its own doom--at least in this particular culture.  Society was hungering after a Unique Hero to save it from Identityless Homogeneity.  This Unique Hero was instantly recognized in Napoleon Dynamite.  And, having recognized him, he was then put up as the model after which a person ought to form his or her own life.  Do you see the contradiction?


The problem came in the misunderstanding of society as to what was important of this new Ideal.  People assumed that it was the form of him--his randomness, his oddness--that made him so unique.  Thus, if they adopted the same sort of eccentricities with the assumption that they, too, would then be unique.  But what Napoleon was by nature these new imitators were by art, and eccentricity is no longer eccentric when adopted by the masses.  Where Napoleon was refreshingly genuine, a movie like Scott Pilgrim is tongue in cheek, bordering on smug.  Look at how nerdy we are; look at how much random we've wedged in; look at how counter-culture we can be.  In the attempt to break out of the sameness of a homogenized worldwide culture, all we succeeded in doing was creating a new type of unvarying super-minority.

The fact remains, however, that Napoleon stood out as an Archetypal figure.  He did answer the need of society so perfectly that he couldn't help but be recognized.  So what was it that marked him out so clearly.  I would suggest that it was the function rather than the form.  Which is to say, it was his philosophies that ought to have been emulated, rather than his particular method of putting them into practice.

"Just follow your heart.  It's what I do."

These words sum up the true value of The Individual.  Napoleon wasn't trying to be random or weird.  He was being himself.  Himself just happened to be hilariously random and weird.  But rather than try to also be random and weird, perhaps our the balance our Archetypal Individual was meant to convey was simply for all of us also to be ourselves.  Not defined either by conformity or rebellion, but simply by a true knowledge of ourselves.

A Woman's Perspective on a Man's View of the Ultimate Betrayal...

The beauty of the internet is the way it brings you into contact with things you never would have known existed.  Like the article about Ligers I discovered yesterday.  And then, from there, I was swept off to this little gem.  

On the one hand, I appreciated the way he approaches this.  He is very rational, very calm, and very frank.  When I read his article, fully expecting--based on the title--to become incensed , I found myself  examining the issues dispassionately.  I could evaluate his viewpoint objectively and weigh his evidence without bias. 

But then I remembered that we were talking about a man cheating.  And a woman needing to get over herself, take a look at things from his perspective, and then she'll understand that she was completely overreacting.  

Wait...what?

All of a sudden his detachment, his rationality, his "honesty", and his dry wit became unbearably insulting.

What was his opening statement?  Given the opportunity and complete freedom from any possible consequences every man would have sex with any woman he finds attractive.  Its just the way men are, he claims.  They like sex, they want sex, and if they can get it, no strings attached, they're going to take it.  Sex, to a man, is nothing more than an extremely pleasant physical sensation and has no connections whatsoever to any sort of emotional attachment.  

I've had enough discussions about this sort of thing with my guy friends that I will consider this much of his argument as...possible.  I don't like it, but I'm willing to admit he might have a point.  My problem rests more in the conclusion to which he brings this theory. 

If a married man has an affair with another woman, it doesn't mean that he loves his wife any less.  Quite the contrary--he still loves her every bit as much as he ever did.  In fact, his little fling is so inconsequential that women really need to stop getting upset and realize that this is their chance to build a better, stronger relationship with their man.  Don't hold it against him.  As soon as you realize how unimportant it all was to him you'll see that you were just being silly to take it so personally.  In fact, as you become all understanding and cool, you'll probably realize that that fling was actually your man's cry for understanding from you.  If you had been understanding enough, honest enough, open enough he wouldn't have had to go somewhere else to get all of his needs met.  

Wait...did you just imply that a man cheating is unimportant...and his wife's fault?  Setting the deeper implications of that argument aside for just a moment, I have to address this basic rhetorical fail.  You don't get to have that both ways Mr. Nicholson.  You can't argue the insignificance of sex to a man 

For the man it’s all the other way round. The act of sex happens outside himself. It’s something he throws away. It has no long-term consequences. So he can have his fling and still love you, unlikely though that may seem.

 and then turn right around and claim that he was satisfying important, powerful desires he's always been afraid of telling his wife about 

All I can say is, it may look infantile to you, but this is strong stuff. See it from his point of view. His waistline has expanded, his hair has receded, and he can’t always perform as he would like. He meets a woman who wants his body and likes him to talk dirty to her – My God! He’s born again! Just once, oh Lord, just once, let me live the dream!

Nope.  Either sex is important and "powerful" or it is something he "throws away".  Its not both.  Where did you learn logic?  

Am I being nit-picky?  Ok, I'll let your contradictory rhetoric go and just respond to the general idea.  Ladies, men just don't think of sex the same way as us and we'll save ourselves a lot of pain by seeing things his way.  He cheats on you and you forgive him and you build your more beautiful marriage.

So, what you're saying is that this should be a world without consequences.

No, really.  That's what you're saying to me.  Each time you tell me I need to be understanding, I need to see things from his perspective, what you're really saying is that my perspective doesn't actually matter.  Because if I could just get it into my head that my man can have sex with someone he doesn't love then I'll stop having to be upset and we can all be happy.  It doesn't matter that he had sex with someone he doesn't love.  Can you explain to me again Mr. Nicholson how this is supposed to be making me feel better?

What it comes down to is that morality, reason, and ethics are all one-sided.  Women need to understand men, but men don't seem to be under any kind of advisement to understand women.  A man doesn't need to consider that, while he may (or may not...) consider sex insignificant recreation, a woman considers it intimate and powerful (I'm going to go ahead and say "women" here and just hope it is a given that there are exceptions to every rule).  No, men are simply instinctive creatures who can't control their actions and women need to appreciate what its like and then they won't get upset.  

You know what, forget the women in this scenario.  The sort of implications being thrown around about men here are about as insulting as it gets...

A good man (and perhaps, I'm naive for thinking they exist ) wouldn't cheat on his wife even if he didn't think there would be any consequences simply because he would understand that, known or not, his act was a betrayal of the one he loved.  A good man wouldn't be able to accept that.  A marriage is a union that goes both ways.  A wife striving to understand her husband and vice versa.  

I'm not saying that if a man cheats on his wife then that's it, the marriage is over.  I've never been in such a terrible position, but I do think that it is possible for a woman to forgive her husband and for the two of them to build a stronger marriage.  But I can't accept that it is because the wife just got over herself and realized that she shouldn't have gotten upset to begin with.  No, for a marriage to survive such a serious blow it requires far more from both parties than you would have me believe Mr. Nicholson.  And while I agree with you that true romance is two people loving and accepting each other through both success and failure, I think that you don't quite understand your own flowery sentiments.  Love doesn't just mean that she will forgive him, but that he would never ever make her have to.

The Mob Mentality

Last night I went to my first concert.  Ok, my first "small-venue concert packed with people in a kinda sketch part of town".  One of those kinds of concerts.  It was an intriguing experience.

As it turns out, I'm rather claustrophobic.  Not horribly, fit-throwingly, mental break-down-y claustrophobic, but apparently emotional and stress-out claustrophobic.  There was a girl standing in front of us in the crowd who also seemed to have a hard time with the cramped quarters.  She took enough space for two people.  I didn't begrudge her a little breathing room...or at least I wouldn't have had she granted me the same.  However, at the slightest touch she would suddenly push back against you as though you were trying to strip her of her acreage, and at one point I was literally being smooshed between her jutting backside and the hip/groin/stomach area of the tall gentleman behind me (who generally didn't react when I was shoved into him, but at this point was pushing back on me I can only assume to let people across the room pass through the crowd).  The only feasible option to access my hands was to remove my arm from my body at the shoulder and withdraw it vertically.  It was this moment that I suffered the most intense attack of claustrophobia.  To my horror I discovered that my instinctive reaction to being pancaked between two complete strangers is to burst into tears.  This was not an acceptable response however, so I quickly began to cast my mind about to find some way to calm myself.

As my mother likes to point out, my traditional method of coping with emotions which are beyond my control is to dissociate and become analytical and academic.  She likes to imply that this is a defect in my personality, but I was deeply grateful to the habit in that moment.  After that initial burst of stress, I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths and allowed my rational brain to step in.  Suddenly, instead of focusing on the sharp hip pressing into my own, demanding ever more of the personal space I did not have to give, I was considering the concert-going experience (and thence mob-mentality) as a whole and that hip was data I could incorporate into an overall analysis.

First I considered the general "formula" of the modern-day concert.  The performers that night were Guggenheim Grotto and Ingrid Michaelson.  You wouldn't really call either of them hardcore or anything.  They both have heavy folk influences, though Ingrid balances those with only slightly less pop influence.  The point is, most of their music is fairly acoustic and mellow.  And yet even in a show like this it was absolutely expected that there would be something beyond simply the music.  Flashing lights, cloaks, SOMETHING.  Not to mention the sheer volume.  Several times I admit that I covered my ears.

As I examined my surroundings I became more and more bemused by them.  Why has this formula evolved?  I simply couldn't come up with a satisfactory answer.  I mean, ostensibly, the purpose of a concert is to hear the music, right?  But all the lights distract you, and the amps have been turned up to the point where they're actually obscuring the sound rather than improving it.  In every way, the spectacle on stage is actually detracting from the music to which you're listening to.

Not to mention the phenomenon that got me thinking about this in the first place.  There are hundreds and hundreds of people smashed into a very small space all to only kind of listen to some music.  Why do we do this?  But as I looked at the people around me--the friend I'd come with, the guy she knew that we ran into, that same girl with the sharp hips, Mr. Tall--all of them had huge grins on their faces.  Every one in the room was cheering and singing and loving every minute of this experience that should, technically, have been miserable.  We'd all been standing for hours, we were cramped and smelly, and our ears were being damaged by excessive sound.  But everyone around me was having a blast.  That was the answer.

The purpose of a concert is not, actually, to listen to music.  It is, rather, an exercise in voluntarily submitting, even striving for, the "mob mentality".  The flashing lights, the high volume, all of this over-abundance of stimuli are simply tricks that have evolved to make the process easier.  Essentially, a concert serves as an excuse and a means of filtration.  Ingrid Michaelson is playing?  Oh, well I'll go to that because I like her music--as do a bunch of other people.  In the enjoyment of her music we share a bond (be it ever so tenuous) and that is enough for me to join you for an experiment in community.  People at a concert are, for those two hours, forming a great writhing community that eventually gains independent existence of its own.  Once you become a part of such an organism the varying moods and tones of the crowd take the place of your own emotional response.

Don't mistake me, I don't actually think this is a bad thing.  At least, not in the context of a concert or Harry Potter release party or midnight movie showing.  I think forming random temporary bonds like that with complete strangers is likely quite beneficial if for no other reason than that it teaches us that anyone really can get along.  Feeling as though you have ties to your community and the people around you is what being civilized is all about really.

So then what about me?  Here I was, surrounded on all sides by this web of connected humans and I was all alone squished between them.  I can't even really say that I isolated myself as a coping mechanism for my claustrophobia.  Rather, I think I was anxious and full of anxiety because I was already feeling isolated mentally whilst simultaneously being lost physically in the pulsating masses.  It occurred to me at that moment that I almost never feel that "mob-mentality" bond.  Not on any level.  Not when I was a little girl and my group of friends would become possessed of the spirit of mischief and get carried away doing silly things or talking about boys, or whatever.  I remember myself as constantly standing in the back offering the ever-ignored voice of reason.  And not now either, when I'm at a concert or chilling with my friends.  I almost never get lost in the moment.

As I stood there and thought about all of this I felt a wistful sense of longing.  I wanted to join in...or rather, I wanted to want to join in.  I wanted to surrender control of myself to the group and feel connected to everyone in that room.  I wanted to be a part of a whole.  I couldn't figure out why I'm so disconnected from such experiences.  I still don't really know.  But now, looking back on that evening I'm ok with it.  I'm not entirely incapable of some version of this experience as one or two of my friends can attest to.  And in the end, if I'm not a participant I can be an observer, which is a role I've always preferred.  Because I didn't get involved I was able to see it all from a completely different perspective than most of the other people there, and that is not an invaluable thing.

Eventually my musings calmed me enough to endure the remainder of the concert, despite Bony Hip Girl and Mr. Tall.  Nonetheless, as I snuck out of the crowd early to snag a t-shirt for my band I couldn't restrain what probably appeared to be a rather seizure-like spasm as I finally passed into open air.  The liberty to move my limbs freely was truly a sweet one and I simply waved my arms about for a few minutes relishing it.

Reminiscing

So, as I was walking home the other day I happened to look down upon the ground at exactly the right moment to see a little pink tube of chapstick laying under a shrub.  Instantly a memory popped into my head from way back in my freshman year of college.

*cue rippley flashback screen*

So, my freshman year of college was spent in the dorms, specifically DT, U Hall, 2nd floor.  I came to a school that actually practices curfew, which in practical terms means that precisely at midnight all the doors into the buildings lock up tight and the only way to get in is if you have your ID card and you're supposed to be in that building.  Swipe the card and you're in...forget your card and you're basically SOL.

Pathetic as my life was my freshman year, I did manage to find a couple of friends who were willing to overlook my extreme social eccentricity and hang out with me.  We established my freshman year tradition of walking to the Dollar Theatre for the midnight movie (we walked because none of us owned a car).  These were good times.  Let's face it, a girl straight out of high school...the freedom of staying out till 3 in the morning with no parents to object was a heady thing.  I cherished those Friday nights.

I cherished them, that is, after I got the hang of my new dorm.  Our first expedition went well until I got home.  It was at this point that I realized that I didn't have my ID card.  And it was 3 am.  And both my friends were gone, to their own respective homes.  Ahhh.......

Lucky for me, I discovered that I had a fellow nocturnal creature on my floor--recall I was lucky enough to live on the second floor.  There was one light on.  But how to get her attention?  Being the intelligent, problem solving, straight A student that I am, I came up with a great solution!  Throw something at her window!  Now I just needed to find something to throw.

If you care to know, there was a shocking dearth of small rocks in the general vicinity of Deseret Towers.  All I could find on the ground was wood chips and they lacked the necessary mass to create any sort of sound on impact.  On to things on my person.  There was not much.  There were my keys and my chapstick.  The keys I thought perhaps too heavy, but the chapstick...

You have to understand something about this chapstick.  You see, while I was giddy with the freedom of college life, I still missed home.  Quite a lot.  To assuage my melancholy my mother sent me the first and only care package I was ever to receive from her (no point in coddling me, after all).  Within said package were useful things like chicken soup, lime green plastic cups, and a potato peeler.  My mother is a pragmatic soul.  Also included was a tube of strawberry chapstick--I'm not quite sure why it was there considering the fact that I had never used chapstick my whole life, but she thought it prudent to include.  Perhaps because I was so unfamiliar with the product, I was deeply struck by the flavor...strawberry!  Who'd ever heard of strawberry chapstick?!  You couldn't find that anywhere!  My mother must really love me to find strawberry chapstick to put in my package.  I will carry it with me everywhere as a talisman of her love!

Remember how I said I was a touch eccentric back then?

The point is, I had a sentimental attachment to this chapstick.  Ridiculous, yes; real, very.  So here I am at 3 in the morning, stranded outside of my dorm, with this tube of chaptsick in my hand, preparing to throw it at one of my dorm-mates' windows.  I haul back and throw and...it hits the brick next to the window and falls back to the ground.  No problem, I'll just go grab it and throw it again.........I'll just grab it........hmm.......I know its here somewhere.............Let me just look a little bit harder................perhaps if I get down on my knees I will see it more easily..................

It was at this moment that some nice couple, out enjoying each other's company perhaps a little later than necessary, walked around the corner to discover me rooting about in the shrubbery that surrounded the building.  Judging by their expressions, they had several ideas of what I was doing, none of which were remotely close to the truth.  However, bless their hearts, they stopped and asked me if I was ok and when I pathetically related to them the fate of my beloved chapstick--because this was IMPORTANT--they both came and squatted down and helped me look.  And yet, even with all three pairs of eyes looking, the chapstick remained lost.  Finally, in despair, I sent them away.

Of course, as soon as they were out of sight it occurred to me that not only had I lost my chapstick, but I was also still locked out of my dorm and now I was again without a projectile.  Aw crap.  But, putting my keene problem solving mind again to the problem, I quickly found a solution.  The beauty of living in the dorms your freshman year is that your RA gives you magnificently useful things to "keep you safe".  Like the Rape Whistle.  This clever little device is given you to prevent your imminent rape.  Because, on the off chance that your rapist approaches you from a distance and alerts you in advance "I'm going to rape you, so if you have any means of defending yourself or summoning aide, you should probably get that out now," you can pull out your trusty whistle from the depths of your pocket and blow gustily till he punches you in the face.  Yes, its a handy tool that no freshman girl should be without.

Being the good, rule following girl that I was raised to be, however, I had dutifully attached my rape whistle to my key chain.  It was not without some satisfaction, then, that I pulled it off that night thinking "you know, I thought this would come in handy some time,".  After several tries (I've never had particularly good aim) I finally managed to hit the window with the whistle...and after a few more, I managed it with enough force that I actually produced a sound.  An ID card changed hands, and I quickly let myself into my dorm.

The story doesn't end there, however.  You see, I could not abandon my chapstick so easily.  Yes, I really was still stuck on that.  Having gained access to my room, I procured a flashlight (and my own ID card) and returned to the shrubs to hunt.  15 minutes later I was still doomed to dry lips forever.  It was no good.  My chapstick had vanished from the face of the earth.  I was, needless to say, quite heartbroken.

But never let it be said that I gave up on something without giving it my full effort (ok, so I've done that several times...but this wasn't one of them).  The next day I sprang forth out of my bed with a mission.  I was going to go back down there in the daylight and reign vengeance down on those shrubs until they yielded up my strawberry chapstick.  I was determined.  I was energized.  I was powerful and nothing could stop me.  I marched forth out of my dorm and over to those shrubs with what I imagine was much the same sort of resolve a firefighter might feel as he returns to the burning building the third time to find the last stranded victim he knows is in there.  And there, lying innocently on the ground, with what I imagine to be the nearest thing to a smug grin an inanimate tube of plastic can manage, was my stupid chapstick.  It wasn't even hidden.  Nor was it in some alternate location to where we'd been searching.  No.  It was right there.  Right in front of my face.  It had caused me so much anxiety and now it thought it could just waltz back into my pocket as though nothing had happened.  Geez.  Some people's kids...

*Rippley flash-back effect brings us back to the present*

I didn't pick up that chapstick I saw under the shrub yesterday.  After all, someone might miss it.