Crazy Is As Crazy Does

When I was a kid, a crazy man shot the president in an attempt to grab the attention of a well-known young actress - someone he'd never met, and someone who, in a quirk of irony, seems to prefer the company of women to men.  The nightly world news, which had only recently lost the most trusted man in America due to mandatory retirement, fed me detail after detail of the event, frightening and fascinating me in equal measures.  Until that time, I hadn't known that a man could be shot in the head and survive.  Of course, the nuance of quality of life escaped me at the time, but I remember distinctly how I hoped the president's press secretary would pull through, just as it worried me that the president himself might die.  Just after dinner each night, I tuned in to get my nightly update.

While I couldn't particularly fathom Hinkley's brand of crazy, I definitely understood why someone would target the president.  He was a powerful man, the leader of our country, and if those concepts were somewhat hazy for me, I had at least been exposed to them at school.  Lincoln and Kennedy, murdered in public by their own crazy assassins - need I say more?

The original function of a mosque wasn't simply for worship, but also for studying the Qur'an.  Here are students, known as taliba in Arabic.

Just a few years later, another man, one with a first name that sounded like a type of fish, also came under attack.  No one shot at him (at least, not to my knowledge) but a whole group of religious people condemned him, and one of their national leaders issued a fatwa against him.  As far as I could understand, none of it made any sense.

This guy, Salman Rushdie, was an author.

Of fiction.

He wrote fantasy-type stuff, and although I had no problems recognizing that the power held by political leaders made them obvious choices for harm, I didn't understand the basic premise governing the outpouring of religious outrage that CBS World News televised from the Muslim corner of the globe.

The pen being mightier than the sword might ring true in this case, except that the author had to go into hiding when the Ayatollah put a price on his head.  A writer may have great power, but the wielder of the sword does, too, and I think that is a more realistic lesson to learn about the whole spin we in the western world place on the power of ink.

Alley of old Cairo.

So why am I writing this?  Am I expressing my own power through the written word?

Maybe, although that wasn't my primary intention.  I just heard a blurb about Rushdie the other day, and it took me back to my impressions of the good old days, when an American president got shot and lived to tell about it, and an author went into hiding because he feared for his life.  Nothing like a little controversy to make a girl nostalgic.

I think in the present world of 24/7 news-as-entertainment that it's worth pointing out that the details of these stories stick with me because I recognized their gravity.  The stark details of real news presented by an anchor man who seldom voiced an opinion on the stories he presented gave me the parameters I needed to know the difference between fiction and fact, and although the news media didn't recap every half hour, I knew enough.

Minaret of one of the many mosques in Cairo, Egypt.  Minarets, taller than other buildings, show people where to go for worship, much the same way steeples were incorporated into western churches for the same purpose.

For what it's worth, I ran across Satanic Verses at the local bookstore tonight.  Anything that stirs up such emotion deserves a closer look, so I bought it.  I just happened to be browsing, and there it was, waiting for me.  Maybe the pen is more powerful, after all.  The book endures, and it still has the power to attract an audience.

As soon as I read it, I'll let you know what this audience of one thinks of the book so powerful that it frightened a Muslim leader into issuing a death threat against an author.

Sometimes a Detail Makes the Art

I admit it - I'm an eclectic when it comes to music, but very little modern pop (even when labeled indy!) finds its way into my auditory canals because I just don't listen to anything but NPR or my own music in the car.  But I recently saw this video for Tegan and Sara's Call It Off, and I think they might be interesting enough for me to check out.

Music is one of those funny things, so subjective that sometimes we can't even say why we love a song, artist or band.  Yes, I'm that girl, the one who cries because the words or the music or even the voice is so beautiful that I can't contain my emotions.  I've fallen in love with songs because they make me feel like a badass, and I've hated songs because the artists sounded like they were whining or singing through their noses.  I can't stand anything by Willie Nelson for just that reason, although I'm sure he writes beautifully.

And I've noticed a trend in my own choices lately, sparked by a road trip with my husband, in which he played DJ and chose stuff from his music player instead of mine.  He tends to choose male singers and bands, while I generally opt for female vocalists.  I'm not sure if this relates to my ability to sing along, or if I just feel a stronger connection to other women.  For him, I know a lot of it has to do with the technical and intellectual side of things, the composing, the arranging and so on.  As a classically trained pianist, I can appreciate that side of music, but it can leave me cold.  As with other forms of art, a musical piece can be written very well technically and still have no soul.

One day this week, however, I saw this video and I fell in love, not because of the music, not because I have anything in common with these two young women, not because I thought the lyrics were  particularly outstanding.  To be truthful, I really couldn't understand what they were saying the first time I watched.  No, I probably wouldn't have even listened to the entire song had it played on the radio because it wasn't what I heard that got my attention.

I fell in love because I was so entranced by the way her mouth moved while she was singing.  I can't explain it beyond that, other than to say she just seems so earnest.  That's what I love about art.  One little detail can zap you so completely that all the other details making up the whole fall by the wayside because they only exist to showcase the one that took hold of your heart.

Thank you, Tegan and Sara.  I'd forgotten how beautiful something so simple could be.

I Hate Diets, Even Though I Know They're Good for Me

I've been on a diet of late, but probably not the kind you're thinking of.  My diet didn't involve calories or watching my carb intakes, although I want to make it clear here that I try to eat a healthy and nutritious balance of yummy wholesome foods.  No, my restriction has been on writing.

In case you haven't noticed, I haven't posted here in nearly three months.  Three months!  I can't believe it, but I'm sure google keeps a good calendar, and so I must accept the facts.  But that doesn't mean that I haven't been writing.  It just means I have had to watch my time and focus all my energy on a different type of writing.  I am happy to say, however, that I am (mostly) finished with my MA thesis, and am looking forward to getting back on the blogger wagon.  I wonder what a blogger wagon would look like . . . maybe  purple, with lots of comment buttons and links to favorites?  Who's to say?

At the university, they can't take any chances.  God forbid the students take personal responsibility and exercise a little common sense and keep their arms and legs out of the way of the elevator doors.  But at least they said thank you.  

Writing my thesis has been both frustrating and rewarding, and I've learned a lot about myself, most of which has nothing to do with the actual research that was the focus of my argument.  But, and I say this with more feeling than I know how to portray, I am relieved that it's finally over.  My thesis advisor is a nice guy with nothing but the best of intentions, my professors have all been supportive, and my fellow classmates have made this semester bearable.  But the research and the writing have taken all my spare time and turned me into a very boring one-note over the past few weeks.  My husband won't even let me talk about my subject anymore because he's heard it all, ad nauseum.

Now all I have to do is some revision stuff, defend my thesis to my committee, and take my written comps, and I'll be an official holder of an MA in history.  I have been looking forward to this for months, because it means I can get back to living my life.  You know, the fun stuff, like vacuuming, and dusting, and folding the laundry, and about a million other things.  Just in time for the holidays.  And the big move.

Oh, didn't I mention?  My husband got a new job, and it requires a move to another city - another state, actually, although I don't consider Kentucky and Tennessee to be all that different.  While I am even more excited about this than I am relieved about the end-in-sight of my thesis, I have to laugh.  The timing couldn't be better, since I'll be at a loose end after the middle of December.  But it really would have been nice to blog a bit when I had nothing else demanding my attention.

I guess I can't complain too much.  Didn't I just say I couldn't wait to get back to living my life?  Nothing more real about living than finding a new home, selling the old house, figuring out a way to make too much junk fit in too few boxes, planning for the future with my favorite hunny-bunny.  

Cincinnati Art Museum, Ancient Exhibits.  Pottery with heart-shaped leaf motif.  I picked this in honor of my husband.  I'm sure he'll be quite honored that I'm being all gushy-mushy.

But if you feel the urge, hop on over for a packing session.  As for me, well, I'm letting my belt out one notch.  Living lean by focusing on serious, scholarly writing has taken its toll on me, and I'm overdue for a bit of indulging myself.

I even read a little bit of fiction last night, but don't tell anyone about my guilty pleasure.  Maybe I'll blog about the book in future.  It certainly is worth a post.  All the best experiences in life are.