i grew up in a house filled with religious artifacts (catholic, as you know, my family is very catholic). i'd walk through the front door and right past the wall of angels and saints, pause at The Sacred Heart of Jesus to make a quick sign of the cross and run up the stairs that were protected by a six-foot high crucifix. it's funny when friends visited for the first time, because their faces showed a combination of fear and wonder and even a little uneasiness. looking back, i can see how it could be intimidating and overwhelming for someone, religious or not -- my family also collects antiques and artwork of all sorts -- but i just stopped noticing it all. to me, it was just stuff in my house.

those things don't hold as much meaning to me as, say, the letter my grandmother sent me on my 21st birthday reminding me to find a mate (she used that word exactly) who will be gentle and caring, or the wooden name tag in the shape of a dove from a high school retreat where i volunteered last fall. those are the kinds of things that remind me of God, because they were represent moments when i felt His presence in my life. when i felt loved or loving. when i felt goodness.

i think maybe, also, that is why many of those Christian-related objects are so misleading. they come from the wrong place. the importance is replaced by catchy slogans. the meaning is lost in profit margins. and bumper stickers? i don't need a stinkin' bumper sticker to announce that i'm Christian.

i just try to lead a good life. i know that sounds simplistic, but i really don't think it's as complicated as people make it out to be.

and thus wrote christine on 12/29/2000. +

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the idea that some objects possess a sacred quality makes them attractive, in my experience. i almost need to encounter special artifacts and sacred places once in a while, because it's boring and unsatisfying to think that humans have covered the world with ordinary stuff and unremarkable buildings.

i save lots of stupid junk - like receipts and string and hallmark cards - for its sentimental value, because it reminds me of a time, place, person, or state of mind. or all of the above. and sometimes i save things because i figure that they will grow more special to me as time passes.

i was raised catholic, and like most people i know who were raised catholic, i ended up more or less agnostic. but when my whole family goes to church, (as we will on the rapidly approaching christmas eve), i always enjoy the experience. because regardless of what i believe, hundreds of people joined together in song and worship has a special quality that i can't - and wouldn't - ignore. a kind of huge and human and caring and unafraid feeling.

it's easy to throw away the junk that holds sentimental value for someone else, because it's usually hard to imagine what that sentimental value might be, how the particular sentiment might feel. but for me, religious artifacts are different, no matter what faith or sect they might be connected to. it would be hard for me to toss that medallion into the trash knowing that it might represent the huge unafraid feeling for the previous tenant of your apartment. for me, that's where most of the sacred quality comes from.

christian-related objects are everywhere these days, however - from what would jesus do t-shirts to little dashboard figurines - and they sort of water-down the artifacts with real importance. that bothers me quite a bit.

and thus wrote ryan on 12/20/2000. +

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where have the past few days gone? they've been spent doing less than glamorous tasks like lining the kitchen cabinets with contact paper and arranging (and rearranging) pots, pans and dishes. there are two things i know about the people who lived in my apartment previously: they were sloppy and they were religious. they left stained curtains on the windows, rotting food items in the refrigerator and layers of dust in the cabinets. they also left a poster of the Virgin Mary on the top shelf of my cabinet and a kind of medallion on the front door.

when i arrived one evening, my roommate asked me if i would tear the medallion down. "protect this home, dear Jesus," it said. she was afraid to because she thought she might be struck down by lightning. this, from the girl who just the week before claimed she was atheist. (later, i got her to admit she was agnostic, which makes the difference.)

it's funny, though. i took it off the door, but i had a hard time throwing it in the trash, and the poster in my closet, well, i just left it there and piled boxes on top of it. what is it about religious artifacts that makes it so difficult to throw them away?

and thus wrote christine on 12/19/2000. +

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i would imagine that i appear significantly more "together" in my writing than i do in real life. but i think i'm more patient now than i was a few years ago. it took me a long time to learn to separate those things i can control from the things i can't. and now, when it comes to things that i can control or create or change, i'm slowly learning how to move forward one step at a time, how to proceed without worrying about the size of the task. it's not exactly my specialty, though. most of my multi-paged college writing assignments were put off until the last minute because i just didn't know how or where to begin. ditto on finding a good job.

after writing down my thoughts, observations and stories on a regular basis for so many months, i've developed narrative instincts that i couldn't ignore if i wanted to. at times, my experience doesn't feel like my experience until it's been described or refashioned or casually mentioned in some kind of narrative. my life seems much less compartmentalized and unremarkable once i've connected incidents, ideas, and emotions together through the process of telling.

(thanks for the birthday wishes, christine. i had a nice dinner with my family: food and wine and presents. and now that i'm an elderly 23, i only hope that i can pass some of my wisdom on to the young people of the world. unfortunately, most of my wisdom pertains to burgulary and keg stands.)

and thus wrote ryan on 12/15/2000. +

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people have said similar things to me before, and i wonder why that is. i know patience. i see it in my parents, who put up with all our shit; i see it in my friend kate, who always seems to be struggling; i see it in teachers and waiters and salespeople. but i, i feel far from patient or calm. i want it all, and i want it now.

sure, if i'm at a store and they ask me to wait my turn, i can. or when i have to drive 10 miles an hour on the freeway because it's rush hour and there's no other way around, i do. and i don't complain, because it just wouldn't do any good. but when it involves my envisioning something -- a story, a project, a life change, anything -- and i can't have it yet, i get frustrated and i want to kick things and i just want everything my way right this instant please thanks.

maybe it's not that i'm patient and calm at all, but that writing soothes me and forces me to reflect, giving the illusion of such qualities.

when i tell a story, i get to take all the pieces from the pile and lay them out slowly and carefully until that they are exactly as i want them.
(and let's face it, everything i tell is how i want to tell it, not necessarily how it happened. i doubt that is much different for any other storyteller. we all view the world through our own eyes.) quite often, by the time i am done with the tale, i have processed everything. i have resolved the conflict, understood the puzzle, composed myself once again. so it just looks like i am cool, calm and collected, when really it took me so much (time and effort and caffeine) to get to that point.

even right now, as i type this, i am pretending to know what the hell i'm saying but i am totally distracted because i keep thinking i should really get to bed to make my 9am meeting, fretting that i said too much in an email i sent earlier and wondering why a boy hasn't yet written me back. i keep pausing to look at the clock and bouncing my right leg. they're these nervous habits i have.

(oh, and did i forget your birthday? if so, even if not, i wish you happiness in all shapes and sizes. you are wonderful.)

and thus wrote christine on 12/14/2000. +

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at age 16 i decided to try writing in my sleep: i taped a pen to the fingers on my right hand, strapped a pad of paper to my left palm, and climbed into bed. as i drifted off i kept repeating the word "writing" to myself, over and over, hoping that i could coerce my unconscious mind to leave me a message of some kind. i awoke the next morning delighted to discover that i had scribbled wavy lines all over the paper. and all over my sheets. and all over my forehead. aparently my unconscious mind had nothing interesting to say, it just felt like making a mess.

those kinds of noble failures are the best, though. i love really cool-sounding ideas that mostly fail but somehow end up being successful because they provide a small laugh, or lead to good story. i think i have more of such stories than i realize.

lots of little stories and big scribbles. it takes a great amount of effort, uncertainty and patience for me to construct and complete anything larger than a doodle or a joke, whatever the creation might be. i usually have a hard time writing a single paragraph, but often that difficulty isn't visible in the final product. i work slowly because i want every detail to be just right.

you've always struck me as a patient sort of person, you know. it's a certain calmness in the way you describe thoughts and events.

and thus wrote ryan on 12/12/2000. +

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i once heard that the best ideas occur in your sleep or sometime thereabout, so i decided i was going to tap my subconscious brilliance. i kept a notepad and pen beside my bed and vowed that the moment i awoke i would write down any and all ideas that came forth while i was sleeping. a few mornings later, i woke up at around 3am with story ideas (i was working at the college paper at the time) scrambling through my head. i fumbled for my pen and jotted them all down.

when i got up to start my day later that morning, i checked the notepad. i couldn't read a damn thing--just scribbles.

i am glad you had the vision, because god knows i never would have. lately i feel like even when i try to imagine, or conceptualize, or create, i come up with a bunch of scribbles.

but maybe that is why we are here. you always help me see things more clearly. effortlessly, it seems, you complete the picture, when i'm still busy trying to color inside the lines.

and thus wrote christine on 12/8/2000. +

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seven months ago i dreamt that i was sitting at my computer, posting to a site called communion. it was a continuous conversation between the two of us. i don't often remember my dreams, but i remembered that one, and after seven months i'm finally putting my dream into action. this might be the first creative project of mine that began as an image floating through my sleeping brain. it's quite a beautiful beginning. i wish that i had the time, energy and drive to put my ideas and dreams into action the moment they appear. sometimes i'm tired, or bored, or downright lazy, and that results in a lack of action. but i'd say that just as often, i choose to keep brainstorming new plans, stories, images, characters, humor and possibilities -- instead of putting existing ones into effect. i guess it's because imagining is fun and easy, and sometimes the scenarios i create in my head seem more real than the real world.

and thus wrote ryan on 12/6/2000. +

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