I don't follow many non-friend Twitters. However, one of my non-friend Twitterers just twittered about my friend and basically blew my mind apart with awesomeness. 
Caitlin was actually the first (and to some extent, still the only) person I ever went on a road trip with. We drove from San Diego up Highway 101 and spent a bit of time in San Francisco then spent a week with our friend Christa who was staying with her Dad in the awesomely small town of Susanville, CA. While there, Caitlin painted a mural inside Christa's house. We stayed up late at night writing satirical pop songs (I still know most of the words to "90's Girl") and watching "Say Antyhing". (Actually, come to think of it- any Bennington people who remember my "stand-up" routine of fake indie girl band- that song "I'll be True" was written that week- Kim, you know what I'm talking about--oh the history!!) 
Also, the only time I've ever been to Chicago was to visit Caitlin at her Dad's house. It's pretty amazing the more I think about it, how many places are marked by Caitlin's presence in my memory and her art in actuality. (Not to mention to full page in the back of my 8th grade yearbook where she drew an unbelievably accurate picture of the guy I like-liked.)
The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne
Texts of Terror: Literary-Feminist Readings of Biblical Narratives by Phyllis Trible
I saw District 9 on opening night. My two concluding statements: "I loved every minute of watching that movie" and "I officially despise this movie"
We are faced early on with the blatant human disregard for the alien species, as we see them nicknamed, murdered, abused and displaced with flippancy by the South African community. This exposition part of the film is really quite stunning and disturbing- you see an unassuming paper-pusher of a man explain how the alien eggs (unborn children) burst like popcorn when they're burned, while he oversees the systematic destruction of a whole pod of eggs. He's giddy and childlike--his innocence to the horror he's committing is freakish, and the audience, understandably and appropriately, gasps. The parallels throughout the film regarding the aliens as refugees, slaves or genocide victims are hardly subtle. It's clear that as we watch, we are supposed to shrink in horror at the similarity between the atrocities being causally committed by humans against aliens and our own cultural histories and present tenses regarding outsiders, minorities and the oppressed. 
But this is where the film gets dangerous or at least grotesque. The film never leaves the perspective of the oppressors. The aliens (clear stand-ins for oppressed cultures) are helpless, stupid, volatile and violent. In one of the first noticeable non-"archival" scenes in the film, we see two aliens scrounging for scraps. They are noticeably wearing clothes, (cue the viewer: all aliens look alike but this one's wearing clothing so you can recognize it- maybe this will be a main character). Next, a toddler sized alien appears, talking to the boldly dressed alien, (cue the viewer: this alien has a kid, so this is definitely the main character, and you are now going to sympathize with it because there's a little cute alien to go with it). I nearly "ugghhed" out loud when these aliens shortly reappeared in a new scene, confirming the stereotyped character coding.
Next, when the main alien character interacts with the humans, they all notice that he is smarter than the rest of the aliens. As I watched, I waited for when the film would explain that the aliens are intelligent, and it’s just prejudice framing them all as stupid animals. But this never happens. Not one reasonably sentient alien besides "Christopher" and his son ever appears. The film never alludes to why Christopher seems able to survive without killing others over cat-food (another offensive trend in the alien lifestyle- they inexplicably love cat-food (ahem-Crack) and will do anything for it). Christopher is merely the ONE alien who isn't a dumb-insect-riot monger-addict.
In hearing the alien's name, the audience chuckles or is confused by his Anglo name, Christopher Johnson. At first I thought this was appropriately upsetting, and a set-up for when we'd get to learn his true name. But we never learn his non-"Ellis Island" or oppressor-given name. It's never addressed. And maybe that would be an okay element of ambiguity/mystery in the narrative, were it not for all the other disappointments as far as the cultural parallels.
The worst element of all, however, is the fact that after being continually manipulated, abandoned, beaten, threatened and taken advantage of by the main human character, (including his son being essentially kidnapped), "Christopher" then turns to Wikus and refuses to leave him behind. While this reflects well on Christopher's integrity and shows-up Wikus's cowardice, what I really think it reflects is an oppressor's version of the scenario. It's basically a story of a beaten and abused slave turning to save their master from drowning. Of course that's the white people version of the story. To frame the story in such a way that the abused alien risks twenty times more on behalf of the white man than the white man risks for him, creates a self-aggrandized catharsis for us, the powerful and privileged, to get to watch a story of wounded, marginalized people wholeheartedly forgiving our oppression. It is the noble savage thanking us in a pure British accent, for domesticating him and teaching him how to behave. It's horrific. 
Further, while the aliens are clearly the more sympathetic characters, the film ends focused on the pathos and tragedy of the human character having been transformed into an alien. We are left with the image of lonely Wikus the now-alien, rather than the victory of Christopher, escaping to free his people. We don’t even get to know if Christopher was successful in his mission. The end made me so furious, that it erased my entire experience of enjoying the previous two hours. Shouldn’t Wikus’s new identity as an alien/outsider, be his literal and figurative character transformation? The story was so clearly headed in this direction. But we never see Wikus repentant of how he’d treated the aliens (of which he is now one). We only see his survival instinct and his guilt. What’s the point of changing the oppressor into the shape of the oppressed if he is never made aware of his violence? Though I’m all for subverting viewer’s expectations in narrative tropes, this is one case where I felt gross when left with the aborted trajectory. If feeling gross at our identification with Wikus was the goal, then the film shouldn’t end with him making a tin flower for his wife. Really.
Proust Was a Neuroscientist by Jonah Lehrer
A Shining Affliction: A Story of Harm and Healing in Psychotherapy by Annie G. Rogers
Here she is in the last twenty minutes of her life with unmarked wrists.
j.fresh gawking in the first minutes of being inked. Or else she's gawking at the fact that actor Seth Rogen apparently does tattoo art on the side. Seriously, this is Seth Rogan, but he told us to call him Jason. 
Freshly inked (and vaselined). Jenn didn't realize until Jason pointed it out, that the dove design she chose is based on one of Picasso's doves.
Post-tattoo Chipotle time. Jenn's bandage made her look a little recently-suicidal, but she couldn't have been more pleased with the result.
Smallish. Roundish. Brownish.
Can you find me in this one? Not hard. I'm the one who looks very focused and professional.
Rollerskating in the basement around age 5. And one of the classically cruel haircuts I was subjected to throughout my childhood.
Proof that I am Scandinavian.
After sixty years, Jimmy Carter has severed his ties with the Southern Baptist Convention, finally, over issues of women's subjugation. While I kind of want to pump my fist in the air and say "Fuck YEAH!!!!"... what I really (want to) hope for is that hearts and minds will be opened to realize the folly of equating gender with spiritual capability, leadership or value, not to mention, the Image of God. May Jimmy Carter's integrity in this act serve not to help others jump ship, but to alter paradigms and ignite repentance regarding the violence (spiritual, emotional, physical, social, psychological) that has been done to women in the name of Jesus. That is not the Gospel.
Last Week was full of them. 
I will miss seeing them every week, but hopefully, I will not be dissapearing entirely.
Freya was baptized this Sunday. (That's right, baptized not dedicated. We went whole hog. It was awesome). And before the service that night, I ended up having one-on-one Abby time. She needed to buy makeup for her dance recital in a few weeks, so that felt like a perfect Auntie Kj & Abby outing. 
There's something about the smell of a McDonalds cheeseburger on a Saturday morning, like makes me feel like anything is possible. Fortunatley, Abby did not love the cheeseburger but loved the playground instead. We were there for over an hour.
Freya's baptsim was was fun, meaningful, loud, playful, chaotic (with kids everywhere) and memorable. Matt and Rebecca managed to pack house-left with tons of friends. I was blessed to be joined by three of my important women. I was so thankful that I could be there and stand as sponsor for Freya, and also to have been asked to lead prayer during part of the service. 
It's been such a full week emotionally, relationally, spiritually, and this isn't even all of it. But these are the things I have pictures for. Needless to say, my heart's been on overload.
Erin, I Love you and am so proud, happy, excited, anticipatory, humbled, impressed, crazy-freaking-joyeous. I cannot wait to curl up with your beautiful words about the women (fictional and actual) that have shaped us. You are a true heroine!
Freya is being baptized this Sunday, 5pm at Church of the Beloved in Edmonds. 
I'm so thankful, grateful and excited to be a part of this. I was in New York when Abby was born, baptized and most everything else. 
How could you not love these sassy, suspicious, BEAUTIFUL girls? 
The Wordy Shipmates by Sarah Vowell
Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen
Our Mars Hill Graduate School motto, at least a third of it anyway, ate up four black printer cartridges this term, causing me to actually resort to taking screen capture images of articles so they'd print as color ( I have an endless supply of color cartridges- but not black) . I also, definately, turned in a dark blue assignment on the last day of 'Mission in a Global Context' since that's the class that ate the most of my black ink.
I just watched 98% of the people I started with, graduate on Saturday. The Fellowship has not failed, but we are going our separate ways. Now, but a few of us sit here, with our pints in hand, looking silently at one another knowing what we have been through, and that only we are left to remember it. 
We are the remnant- and will stand together next year- but this time we'll get to board the ships at the Grey Havens, instead of watching our Frodos all head out to sea like they did on Saturday.
It's been a rich, beautifull, complicated three years. We've got one last year together.
Which is why I decided to read it. After about the ninth reference, somewhere between Frankenstein and Middlemarch, I thought i might as well see what all the chatter is about.
I was amused to find that scholarship on Vicar of Wakefield is still in debate as to whether it's satire or sincere. The highly sentimental and ridiculous plot, matched with the idealistic and oblivious narrator, make it difficult to imagine anyone reading the novel seriously- but people did/do. I think that's the mark of genius satire; you've satirized something so well that those whom you are satirizing actually think it's great. Thus, most of my encounters with Vicar references are tongue in cheek, winking at the reader whenever introducing a character who loves it- you pretty much know they're either simple, shallow or stupid.
Which isn't to say the book is stupid- it brilliantly challenges a world-view based on romantic concepts of providence and prudence that turns a blind eye to personal responsibility and social accountability. The very fact that horrendous things keep happening to the characters, only to be turned into blissfully wonderful endings with no effort at all, points to the absurdity of expecting one's life to follow the pattern of the moralistic tales of the period. 
Vicar of Wakefield, painted in its its pastoral colors of goodwill and virtue, actually serves as a foil to the real hardships encountered in daily life- causing the reader, almost bitterly, to wonder why real life isn't like this. Don't let the sweet stupidity of the characters fool you- this book is actually warning you not to be as sweet and stupid as its characters. I think that's why it makes for such good inside jokes by the likes of Jane Austen, George Eliot and Charlotte Bronte- women who could not abide vapidity or surface morality. 
Texts above are: Little Women by Louisa May Alcott; The Professor by Charlotte Bronte; Frankenstein by Mary Shelley; Villette by Charlotte Bronte; Emma by Jane Austen
