One of the brightest highlights of the trip for me was getting to reconnect with two of my Alpha Phi Omega brothers from St. Francis. Although we've kept up with each other via Facebook, I haven't seen either one of them since 1985.
After my Capitol experience, I walked to Union Station to meet Bob outside of the Barnes & Noble store. I thought that this was very appropriate since one of the greatest things about Bob is how intelligent and well-read he is.
Before we met, he briefed me about a change in his life, so that I wouldn't be caught off guard. It seems that he suffered from Guillame-Barre Syndrome about ten years ago and was paralyzed for 9 months. His walk is now labored and assisted by a walker, but his wit was as sharp as ever. We talked about our jobs and families. He has two boys, one of them has Asbergers syndrome. I was struck by the fact that despite the very serious and real hurdles he's faced since we last met, his optimism and joy for life is as radiant today as it was in our college years.
He talked with me about my writing, which is one of the things he remembered and admired most about me. Those remarks inspired me to do more of it. He now works as a research librarian for the Department of Transportation-- perfect job for me. He delighted me with personal Kennedy stories-- rides on the train with Rory and talks with her often. He also mentioned that he sat near Ted Kennedy often at Mass and shook his hand during the Rite of Peace. Wow.
I went directly from my visit with Bob to a short distance away, where I met Gerry in Chinatown. He took me to an Irish bar there. Again, much conversation about our lives and families. He's still very into liturgical music, as is his son. Other than the grey in his hair and beard, he looks the same. Laughed a lot about pledging Alpha Phi Omega-- a slutty gal in our circle (who shall remain nameless), hell night, air band, etc.). He works now as an IT resource for the FBI. Yes, he knows secrets.
It was so wonderful to see these dear friends and I'm looking forward to meeting their families on my next visit.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
The DC Diaries - Of Government and Art
On Thursday, I once again took the Metro, this time to the White House Visitors Center. It was under revision, so it was being temporarily housed in a trailer. I was a bit disappointed in the gift shop. I wanted a tour but learned that you have to plan ahead through your state representative for it. Oh well. So I contented myself with just taking exterior pictures from as close as I could get.
From there I walked to the National Archives. While walking through the streets of DC on that day on on the previous days of my visit, I noticed that there is no frou-frou here-- no tacky shops of Joe's Chicken Shack #11 (well, maybe they're here, but I didn't see them). Everything feels important. Every building embodies a sense of gravitas.
The National Archives were beyond belief. I was thrilled to see a special exhibit on the Cuban Missile Crisis but bummed that I couldn't take pictures. Blown away by the iconic chairs that Khruschev and Kennedy sat on to sign their agreement. Saw personal notes in Kennedy's hand.
Then to the main room-- dark and cold and silent as a tomb. Saw the Constitution, Bill of Rights and Declaration of Independence. Talked to a security guard about conservation (the documents are shrouded in argon gas). He was very friendly and informative and I was awed.
Next to the National Gallery, which is in fact two buildings. It was massive and I was overwhelmed. I just saw a fragment of it (some Wyeth works) and chuckled a bit that they now have the Lichtenstein show that was just in Chicago. Couldn't spend a lot of time there because I had plans with friends that afternoon and I wanted to budget my time.
Next was the Capitol. Took an hour long tour with a group of about a dozen folks-- hailing from Poland, Australia, Latvia, England, Ireland. The tour guide was kind of bitchy and kept yelling at Ireland for straying too far. She eventually got tired of being treated like a child, so she took off on her own. Would've liked to do the same but I'm not sure it was an option.
The Rotunda was fantastic. I kept picturing Kennedy's coffin lying in state. It was mostly about the statues. I really wanted to see the Senate and House chambers. U.S. citizens need to go get a pass from their representative, but ironically it is much easier to gain entry if you're a foreigner. So me and a guy from Spokane became fast friends with a gal from Latvia (she's here for 10 months studying forestration) so we could tag along with her. Couldn't get into the Senate, but sat in the balcony of the House. Disappointed to not see any business being conducted (our tax dollars at work!). It's much smaller than it looks on TV.
From there I walked to the National Archives. While walking through the streets of DC on that day on on the previous days of my visit, I noticed that there is no frou-frou here-- no tacky shops of Joe's Chicken Shack #11 (well, maybe they're here, but I didn't see them). Everything feels important. Every building embodies a sense of gravitas.
The National Archives were beyond belief. I was thrilled to see a special exhibit on the Cuban Missile Crisis but bummed that I couldn't take pictures. Blown away by the iconic chairs that Khruschev and Kennedy sat on to sign their agreement. Saw personal notes in Kennedy's hand.
Then to the main room-- dark and cold and silent as a tomb. Saw the Constitution, Bill of Rights and Declaration of Independence. Talked to a security guard about conservation (the documents are shrouded in argon gas). He was very friendly and informative and I was awed.
Next to the National Gallery, which is in fact two buildings. It was massive and I was overwhelmed. I just saw a fragment of it (some Wyeth works) and chuckled a bit that they now have the Lichtenstein show that was just in Chicago. Couldn't spend a lot of time there because I had plans with friends that afternoon and I wanted to budget my time.
Next was the Capitol. Took an hour long tour with a group of about a dozen folks-- hailing from Poland, Australia, Latvia, England, Ireland. The tour guide was kind of bitchy and kept yelling at Ireland for straying too far. She eventually got tired of being treated like a child, so she took off on her own. Would've liked to do the same but I'm not sure it was an option.
The Rotunda was fantastic. I kept picturing Kennedy's coffin lying in state. It was mostly about the statues. I really wanted to see the Senate and House chambers. U.S. citizens need to go get a pass from their representative, but ironically it is much easier to gain entry if you're a foreigner. So me and a guy from Spokane became fast friends with a gal from Latvia (she's here for 10 months studying forestration) so we could tag along with her. Couldn't get into the Senate, but sat in the balcony of the House. Disappointed to not see any business being conducted (our tax dollars at work!). It's much smaller than it looks on TV.
Saturday, February 9, 2013
fiction based on the news
So, I protested my last writing assignment on principle. That doesn't mean I didn't do it. I found an article in the Sun-Times about Brandon Saad's first goal, so I used that as the jumping off point for the story below. Fiction based very loosely on a few facts. Give it a read if you are so inclined.
October 27, 2000. A glorious pumpkin-colored sunset danced playfully with the skeletal, almost leafless, tree branches on a fall evening in Western Pennsylvania. Halloween was but a few days away and Brandon was celebrating his 8th birthday.
Inside, the ice rink smelled faintly of old popcorn and sweaty socks as he tightened the laces of his hockey skates. The milky ice and echoing catcalls of his teammates urged him to hurry. Coach Brian clasped him on the shoulder with a meaty hand and Brandon clamored over the skate-scarred bench. His shift.
As he did every game, he tapped his stick one-two-three times on the ice and invoked the name of Jaromir Jagr, his hero. He felt good, in sync with the ice, the puck, his linemates. Brightly colored sweaters, like the plumage of winter birds in the tropics, flashed past as he zinged the puck towards the net. The stunned goalie, Jason (he was in Brandon’s cub scout troop), barely had a chance to react as the puck fluttered the twine before resting definitively in the back of the net. Another goal, his 8th of the season already. Eight goals. Age eight. Brandon smiled.
October 27, 2008. Boardman, Ohio was not too far from Gibsonia, Pennsylvania, but for Brandon, the intense competitiveness of the NAHL made it seem as distant as an alternate universe. He missed his parents and his friends at home, not to mention his auburn-haired girlfriend who smelled of Angel perfume and whose quirky smile offered the sweet promise of memorable kisses.
The voice of his teammate broke his reverie. “Hey, Saad, better eat something. It’s gonna be a long bus trip and coach said we ain’t stopping.”
Brandon deftly caught the foil-wrapped beef and cheddar sandwich tossed his way. “Thanks, Mike,” he retorted, “So sweet that we live in the home of Arby’s.” Everyone laughed.
“Lemme stick a candle in it,” his teammate joked in response. Today was Brandon’s 16th birthday.
The bus belched acrid fumes as it wound its way down the ribbon of highway towards their next game. Brandon leaned his head on the smudged window and gazed absently out the window at the passing landscape. In addition to being slightly homesick, he was tired. Tired of the endless practice, the constant striving to improve skating, stickhandling, being in the right place at the right time.
Sure, he knew he was a cut above the rest (later that year he would be the NAHL’s Rookie of the Year and achieve status in First All-Star Team), but he was a teenager who sometimes longed for the opportunities that his non-hockey peers took for granted—endless nights listening to Metallica on satellite radio in someone’s basement rec room while surreptitiously swilling Iron City beer absconded from the bowels of a refrigerator. Being able to come home from school and flop bonelessly on the couch with his dog and languish in front of “The Simpsons” reruns.
Still, pursing a dream of professional hockey took perseverance. He hoped that in the end his sacrificed adolescence would be worth it.
June 24, 2011. The harsh lights of the Xcel Center in St. Paul, Minnesota made Brandon feel like a tiny, struggling insect trapped under a microscope. It was draft day. Beside him sat his father, fugitively mopping his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief. His mom was there, too, wearing the blue dress she paid full price for at J.C. Penneys in Monroeville Mall last week.
Suddenly his tie felt like a noose. He wormed his fingers into the knot and loosened it just enough to stop the claustrophobic sensation. Around him other young men sat up straight like anxious maidens, hoping not to be the last chosen to dance at Homecoming.
It was a Barnum and Bailey’s riot of color as NHL executives tantalizingly presented their jerseys to the lucky ones. Much like the Kentucky Derby, the chosen strutted and preened in their new sweaters. What colors will I wear? Will I be fastest, strongest, toughest? The first round was over, and with it his anxiety increased.
Brandon’s palms moistened and the butterflies in his stomach turned into a swarm with each successive announcement from a plethora of NHL bigwigs.
Round two and Stan Bowman took the podium. After the requisite showboating, thanking the fans and congratulating the Cup winner, he paused dramatically and solemnly intoned, “The Chicago Blackhawks are proud to select, from Pittsburgh, Brandon Saad.” For a brief moment, he couldn’t move until his mother prodded him with her sharply manicured fingernail.
He approached the stage in a dreamlike fog. Around him, a cacophony—clapping, whistling and hugs. The row of front office suits seemed like a receiving line at a wedding, full of welcomes and backslapping. At the end awaited the coveted symbol of an NHL career—the blood red Indian head jersey. He reached for it with trembling hands and pulled it on over his dress shirt and offending tie. “Congratulations, kid,” Stan Bowman said. “We expect great things out of you.”
February 5, 2013. HP Pavilion in San Jose was awash in teal as far as the eye could see as the locals geared up to support their Sharks. However, the visiting Blackhawks were on a roll, setting the league on fire with a record-breaking start to the lockout shortened season. The mood in the Hawks dressing room before the game was one of joviality and a little bit of thankfulness for having a slight respite from the cold that was blanketing Chicago. Rolls of tape flew through the air and laughter punctuated the room as the team underwent their final preparations.
Amidst it all, Brandon Saad adjusted his helmet strap and looked down at the proud Indian head logo adorning his sweater. Bobby Hull. Stan Mikita. Al Secord. There was a lot of history in that swatch of embroidery. Not only did he bypass the minor leagues this season, he was playing on an elite line with some of the most notable and talented Blackhawks forwards. Life was indeed turning out just the way he had hoped. He was thankful for the confidence that his coach, teammates and management placed in him. He and the team seemed invincible.
With a fanfare of stick tapping and jostling the team took the ice, full of swagger. The Sharks had a different idea. Within the first few minutes of the game, the visiting team found themselves with a 2-0 deficit. Spirits were starting to sag on the Hawks bench. The season was short—momentum meant so much and every second of every game counted. Sensing the ebbing demeanor of his team, Quenneville motioned for a time out to rally his troops.
Brandon felt the discomfort somewhat more than his teammates. Since being drafted by the team in 2011 and notching stellar minor league numbers last year and early this year, he knew that the Hawks were looking to him to complement their big guns and to provide some firepower of his own. True, his efforts had been beyond reproach, but the holy grail, that first NHL goal, had so far eluded him.
After their chat with the coach, the Hawks took to the ice with renewed vigor. Ten minutes into the first period, Jonathan Toews slid a pass to Brent Seabrook. Seabrook skillfully flicked it to Saad, who was camped out to the right of the net.
Reflexively, Brandon fired a slap shot. The same shot he had practiced thousands of time from childhood until the pre-game warmup. But this time, NHL sirens raged and red lights flashed as the San Jose faithful grew silent. Sharks goalie Antti Niemi, knowing the puck was in the net, glanced behind him to verify the fact, slumped his shoulders and shook his head.
Saad punched the air in jubilation. His first NHL goal achieved. Marian Hossa came over and playfully rapped his helmet with his gloved hand and other teammates huddled around him to offer their praise and congratulations. “Way to go, kid,” Jonathan Toews uttered, “we’re getting great things out of you.”
October 27, 2000. A glorious pumpkin-colored sunset danced playfully with the skeletal, almost leafless, tree branches on a fall evening in Western Pennsylvania. Halloween was but a few days away and Brandon was celebrating his 8th birthday.
Inside, the ice rink smelled faintly of old popcorn and sweaty socks as he tightened the laces of his hockey skates. The milky ice and echoing catcalls of his teammates urged him to hurry. Coach Brian clasped him on the shoulder with a meaty hand and Brandon clamored over the skate-scarred bench. His shift.
As he did every game, he tapped his stick one-two-three times on the ice and invoked the name of Jaromir Jagr, his hero. He felt good, in sync with the ice, the puck, his linemates. Brightly colored sweaters, like the plumage of winter birds in the tropics, flashed past as he zinged the puck towards the net. The stunned goalie, Jason (he was in Brandon’s cub scout troop), barely had a chance to react as the puck fluttered the twine before resting definitively in the back of the net. Another goal, his 8th of the season already. Eight goals. Age eight. Brandon smiled.
October 27, 2008. Boardman, Ohio was not too far from Gibsonia, Pennsylvania, but for Brandon, the intense competitiveness of the NAHL made it seem as distant as an alternate universe. He missed his parents and his friends at home, not to mention his auburn-haired girlfriend who smelled of Angel perfume and whose quirky smile offered the sweet promise of memorable kisses.
The voice of his teammate broke his reverie. “Hey, Saad, better eat something. It’s gonna be a long bus trip and coach said we ain’t stopping.”
Brandon deftly caught the foil-wrapped beef and cheddar sandwich tossed his way. “Thanks, Mike,” he retorted, “So sweet that we live in the home of Arby’s.” Everyone laughed.
“Lemme stick a candle in it,” his teammate joked in response. Today was Brandon’s 16th birthday.
The bus belched acrid fumes as it wound its way down the ribbon of highway towards their next game. Brandon leaned his head on the smudged window and gazed absently out the window at the passing landscape. In addition to being slightly homesick, he was tired. Tired of the endless practice, the constant striving to improve skating, stickhandling, being in the right place at the right time.
Sure, he knew he was a cut above the rest (later that year he would be the NAHL’s Rookie of the Year and achieve status in First All-Star Team), but he was a teenager who sometimes longed for the opportunities that his non-hockey peers took for granted—endless nights listening to Metallica on satellite radio in someone’s basement rec room while surreptitiously swilling Iron City beer absconded from the bowels of a refrigerator. Being able to come home from school and flop bonelessly on the couch with his dog and languish in front of “The Simpsons” reruns.
Still, pursing a dream of professional hockey took perseverance. He hoped that in the end his sacrificed adolescence would be worth it.
June 24, 2011. The harsh lights of the Xcel Center in St. Paul, Minnesota made Brandon feel like a tiny, struggling insect trapped under a microscope. It was draft day. Beside him sat his father, fugitively mopping his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief. His mom was there, too, wearing the blue dress she paid full price for at J.C. Penneys in Monroeville Mall last week.
Suddenly his tie felt like a noose. He wormed his fingers into the knot and loosened it just enough to stop the claustrophobic sensation. Around him other young men sat up straight like anxious maidens, hoping not to be the last chosen to dance at Homecoming.
It was a Barnum and Bailey’s riot of color as NHL executives tantalizingly presented their jerseys to the lucky ones. Much like the Kentucky Derby, the chosen strutted and preened in their new sweaters. What colors will I wear? Will I be fastest, strongest, toughest? The first round was over, and with it his anxiety increased.
Brandon’s palms moistened and the butterflies in his stomach turned into a swarm with each successive announcement from a plethora of NHL bigwigs.
Round two and Stan Bowman took the podium. After the requisite showboating, thanking the fans and congratulating the Cup winner, he paused dramatically and solemnly intoned, “The Chicago Blackhawks are proud to select, from Pittsburgh, Brandon Saad.” For a brief moment, he couldn’t move until his mother prodded him with her sharply manicured fingernail.
He approached the stage in a dreamlike fog. Around him, a cacophony—clapping, whistling and hugs. The row of front office suits seemed like a receiving line at a wedding, full of welcomes and backslapping. At the end awaited the coveted symbol of an NHL career—the blood red Indian head jersey. He reached for it with trembling hands and pulled it on over his dress shirt and offending tie. “Congratulations, kid,” Stan Bowman said. “We expect great things out of you.”
February 5, 2013. HP Pavilion in San Jose was awash in teal as far as the eye could see as the locals geared up to support their Sharks. However, the visiting Blackhawks were on a roll, setting the league on fire with a record-breaking start to the lockout shortened season. The mood in the Hawks dressing room before the game was one of joviality and a little bit of thankfulness for having a slight respite from the cold that was blanketing Chicago. Rolls of tape flew through the air and laughter punctuated the room as the team underwent their final preparations.
Amidst it all, Brandon Saad adjusted his helmet strap and looked down at the proud Indian head logo adorning his sweater. Bobby Hull. Stan Mikita. Al Secord. There was a lot of history in that swatch of embroidery. Not only did he bypass the minor leagues this season, he was playing on an elite line with some of the most notable and talented Blackhawks forwards. Life was indeed turning out just the way he had hoped. He was thankful for the confidence that his coach, teammates and management placed in him. He and the team seemed invincible.
With a fanfare of stick tapping and jostling the team took the ice, full of swagger. The Sharks had a different idea. Within the first few minutes of the game, the visiting team found themselves with a 2-0 deficit. Spirits were starting to sag on the Hawks bench. The season was short—momentum meant so much and every second of every game counted. Sensing the ebbing demeanor of his team, Quenneville motioned for a time out to rally his troops.
Brandon felt the discomfort somewhat more than his teammates. Since being drafted by the team in 2011 and notching stellar minor league numbers last year and early this year, he knew that the Hawks were looking to him to complement their big guns and to provide some firepower of his own. True, his efforts had been beyond reproach, but the holy grail, that first NHL goal, had so far eluded him.
After their chat with the coach, the Hawks took to the ice with renewed vigor. Ten minutes into the first period, Jonathan Toews slid a pass to Brent Seabrook. Seabrook skillfully flicked it to Saad, who was camped out to the right of the net.
Reflexively, Brandon fired a slap shot. The same shot he had practiced thousands of time from childhood until the pre-game warmup. But this time, NHL sirens raged and red lights flashed as the San Jose faithful grew silent. Sharks goalie Antti Niemi, knowing the puck was in the net, glanced behind him to verify the fact, slumped his shoulders and shook his head.
Saad punched the air in jubilation. His first NHL goal achieved. Marian Hossa came over and playfully rapped his helmet with his gloved hand and other teammates huddled around him to offer their praise and congratulations. “Way to go, kid,” Jonathan Toews uttered, “we’re getting great things out of you.”
Monday, February 4, 2013
The power of the pen
Other than this blog, I don't often allow myself the luxury of creative writing. Mindful of my New Year's Resolution to stride boldly down the path of self-improvement, I found a course online that seemed perfect. Two sessions a week, accessible whenever (so as to not interfere with my painting, socializing and other activities).
Am I ever disappointed! First of all, the lessons are trite. One of them involved about 4 pages of reading. What did I learn? That if you want to write well, you should read lots of material in your genre. Really? Groundbreaking stuff.
Secondly, the course guidelines caution us against pettling our wares (Avon, used cars, etc.) on the message boards used to share our writing assignments with our peers. Perfectly understandable. Why, then, does our instructor, at every opportunity (yes, even in response to a totally unrelated assignment on personifying a color), tout the books she's written about death and dying?
The kicker came in the last assignment's instructions. We were advised to go to our local newspaper and use an article as a starting point for a piece of creative writing. Hmmm. I've done that before, in Fr. Bede's class at St. Francis, and it was an interesting exercise. My bubble was burst when the instructor issued a caveat-- we're not to write about anything "disturbing." Say what? Not only do I live in Chicago and-- duh-- EVERYTHING in the paper is disturbing, but did I fall asleep and wake up in Afghanistan? Is there a pile of burning books in my backyard?
I could not let this go without questioning a little thing called "free speech." So this is what I submitted for my assignment:
I will do this week’s assignment, but I will not submit it because I fear that I am misunderstanding the instructions, particularly, “Please keep in mind that if you choose to submit your writing, the topic should be without violence, etc., and issues that may trouble some of your peers.” What exactly is the “etc.” and how am I to know what will “trouble” my peers?
I know that a few of my classmates are from other countries, but the quote above seems in contrast to another quote, this one from America’s Bill of Rights, in which our founding fathers rebelled against the prohibition of free speech. I’m confused. It seems as if the assignment, by limiting our topics in such an arbitrary way so as to not “trouble” someone else, we would be denying a right that many fought and died to protect.
Thank goodness Anne Frank or Edgar Allan Poe didn’t have to worry about troubling their readers. I’m thankful, too, that the Bible is not subject to a restriction on literary violence, especially with verses such as these: Isaiah 13:16 "Their children also shall be dashed to pieces before their eyes; their houses shall be spoiled, and their wives ravished." or Exodus 32:27 ". . . Thus saith the LORD God of Israel, Put every man his sword by his side, and go in and out from gate to gate throughout the camp, and slay every man his brother, and every man his companion, and every man his neighbour."
For my assignment, I do not intend on writing a murderous, curse-world filled diatribe full of perversion. However, I feel uncomfortable with the thought that my words would be censored if I somehow hit on the “etc.” that is not clearly defined in the assignment’s instructions.. I guess I’m more aligned in my viewpoint with Voltaire, when he said, “Think for yourselves and let others enjoy the privilege to do so, too. “
Am I a smartass? Guilty! But I have a serious problem with having my rights stomped on. Yes, be creative, but let some random person confine me to a box of acceptibility? Wow. The instructor did indeed respond to my submission by once again inviting me to submit only G or PG rated material. A few of my peers also posted a reaction to my essay-- in favor of my arguments, so I'm feeling pretty good about it now. I'm sure I've made an enemy of my instructor and she won't be recommending me for a Pulitzer prize any time soon, but I stood up for what I believe in. The freedom to do that, my friends, is what makes this country great.
Am I ever disappointed! First of all, the lessons are trite. One of them involved about 4 pages of reading. What did I learn? That if you want to write well, you should read lots of material in your genre. Really? Groundbreaking stuff.
Secondly, the course guidelines caution us against pettling our wares (Avon, used cars, etc.) on the message boards used to share our writing assignments with our peers. Perfectly understandable. Why, then, does our instructor, at every opportunity (yes, even in response to a totally unrelated assignment on personifying a color), tout the books she's written about death and dying?
The kicker came in the last assignment's instructions. We were advised to go to our local newspaper and use an article as a starting point for a piece of creative writing. Hmmm. I've done that before, in Fr. Bede's class at St. Francis, and it was an interesting exercise. My bubble was burst when the instructor issued a caveat-- we're not to write about anything "disturbing." Say what? Not only do I live in Chicago and-- duh-- EVERYTHING in the paper is disturbing, but did I fall asleep and wake up in Afghanistan? Is there a pile of burning books in my backyard?
I could not let this go without questioning a little thing called "free speech." So this is what I submitted for my assignment:
I will do this week’s assignment, but I will not submit it because I fear that I am misunderstanding the instructions, particularly, “Please keep in mind that if you choose to submit your writing, the topic should be without violence, etc., and issues that may trouble some of your peers.” What exactly is the “etc.” and how am I to know what will “trouble” my peers?
I know that a few of my classmates are from other countries, but the quote above seems in contrast to another quote, this one from America’s Bill of Rights, in which our founding fathers rebelled against the prohibition of free speech. I’m confused. It seems as if the assignment, by limiting our topics in such an arbitrary way so as to not “trouble” someone else, we would be denying a right that many fought and died to protect.
Thank goodness Anne Frank or Edgar Allan Poe didn’t have to worry about troubling their readers. I’m thankful, too, that the Bible is not subject to a restriction on literary violence, especially with verses such as these: Isaiah 13:16 "Their children also shall be dashed to pieces before their eyes; their houses shall be spoiled, and their wives ravished." or Exodus 32:27 ". . . Thus saith the LORD God of Israel, Put every man his sword by his side, and go in and out from gate to gate throughout the camp, and slay every man his brother, and every man his companion, and every man his neighbour."
For my assignment, I do not intend on writing a murderous, curse-world filled diatribe full of perversion. However, I feel uncomfortable with the thought that my words would be censored if I somehow hit on the “etc.” that is not clearly defined in the assignment’s instructions.. I guess I’m more aligned in my viewpoint with Voltaire, when he said, “Think for yourselves and let others enjoy the privilege to do so, too. “
Am I a smartass? Guilty! But I have a serious problem with having my rights stomped on. Yes, be creative, but let some random person confine me to a box of acceptibility? Wow. The instructor did indeed respond to my submission by once again inviting me to submit only G or PG rated material. A few of my peers also posted a reaction to my essay-- in favor of my arguments, so I'm feeling pretty good about it now. I'm sure I've made an enemy of my instructor and she won't be recommending me for a Pulitzer prize any time soon, but I stood up for what I believe in. The freedom to do that, my friends, is what makes this country great.
The DC Diaries - A Lot of Places in Little Time
After departing Arlington Cemetery, my original thought was to head back to the Metro and ride it to the Mall. However, upon noticing that the Washington Monument wasn't too far in the distance and that I always like to do a little running when I go places, I took off over a bridge over the Potomac to take in the sights from a runner's perspective.
I vaguely remembered the Lincoln/Washington/Reflecting Pool from a high school trip, but it packed so much more of a punch as an adult. I walked to the end of the reflecting pool to catch the Vietnam Memorial and WWII Memorial. I was struck by how similar the area appeared to Chicago's Lincoln Park. But... so few people! I thought very much of Grampy as I took a picture of the Massachusetts pillar at the WWII Memorial.
From there, the Smithsonian museums were so close that I hit them in the order I happened upon them. First was American History. From my weeks of research, I knew exactly what I wanted to see and where it was. There was no way I could see everything, so I zeroed in on my "must-see" microcosm. Stuff like the ruby slippers from the Wizard of Oz, Archie Bunker's chair and the first ladies' inaugural gowns. Washington's army uniform left me breathless. Seany would love this.
Next was National History. Here, the focus was on the Hope Diamond, butterfly garden and bug zoo (ever thinking about my painting series) and of course the mummies because I'm in love with Egyptology.
Backtracked a bit to see the Holocaust Museum. There was a lot of reading that I confess I pushed through because I had such a tight agenda. I was struck by the horror of it all-- who couldn't be? Especially the bunks from Auschwitz and the shoes they collected from the interred.
Next, Air and Space. Again-- following my stringent "to-do" list-- Apollo and all the space stuff, then the Wright Brothers.
Last but not least was the American Gallery of Art and the Portrait Gallery. Flat-out blew me away. I wanted to spend more time there but was slightly concerned about navigating the Metro after dark. A very sweet older man-- a docent-- helped me find the best route-- even chasing me down in a gallery when he found an even better route. Once again, I was heartened by the kindness of people here. They really go out of their way to help.
The U.S. presidents' portraits were amazing-- especially JFK's-- as was the courtyard-- spendid and magnificent. Finally, the gift shop. Even though it weighs a ton, I was compelled to buy the catalog of the permanent collection as well as some very quirky-- and cheap-- jewelry.
After successfully navigating the Metro, I emerged at Pentagon City Maill. It was a zoo so I didn't stay long. Went to Lush and bought some bath bombs for a relaxing tub-time and had a glam meal at the Golden Arches. The hotel shuttle situation (or lack thereof) pissed me off and I really don't like to wait, so I took a cab. Spent the evening drinking overpriced wine and making plans for seeing two college friends the next day.
I vaguely remembered the Lincoln/Washington/Reflecting Pool from a high school trip, but it packed so much more of a punch as an adult. I walked to the end of the reflecting pool to catch the Vietnam Memorial and WWII Memorial. I was struck by how similar the area appeared to Chicago's Lincoln Park. But... so few people! I thought very much of Grampy as I took a picture of the Massachusetts pillar at the WWII Memorial.
From there, the Smithsonian museums were so close that I hit them in the order I happened upon them. First was American History. From my weeks of research, I knew exactly what I wanted to see and where it was. There was no way I could see everything, so I zeroed in on my "must-see" microcosm. Stuff like the ruby slippers from the Wizard of Oz, Archie Bunker's chair and the first ladies' inaugural gowns. Washington's army uniform left me breathless. Seany would love this.
Next was National History. Here, the focus was on the Hope Diamond, butterfly garden and bug zoo (ever thinking about my painting series) and of course the mummies because I'm in love with Egyptology.
Backtracked a bit to see the Holocaust Museum. There was a lot of reading that I confess I pushed through because I had such a tight agenda. I was struck by the horror of it all-- who couldn't be? Especially the bunks from Auschwitz and the shoes they collected from the interred.
Next, Air and Space. Again-- following my stringent "to-do" list-- Apollo and all the space stuff, then the Wright Brothers.
Last but not least was the American Gallery of Art and the Portrait Gallery. Flat-out blew me away. I wanted to spend more time there but was slightly concerned about navigating the Metro after dark. A very sweet older man-- a docent-- helped me find the best route-- even chasing me down in a gallery when he found an even better route. Once again, I was heartened by the kindness of people here. They really go out of their way to help.
The U.S. presidents' portraits were amazing-- especially JFK's-- as was the courtyard-- spendid and magnificent. Finally, the gift shop. Even though it weighs a ton, I was compelled to buy the catalog of the permanent collection as well as some very quirky-- and cheap-- jewelry.
After successfully navigating the Metro, I emerged at Pentagon City Maill. It was a zoo so I didn't stay long. Went to Lush and bought some bath bombs for a relaxing tub-time and had a glam meal at the Golden Arches. The hotel shuttle situation (or lack thereof) pissed me off and I really don't like to wait, so I took a cab. Spent the evening drinking overpriced wine and making plans for seeing two college friends the next day.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
see me in cyberland
I've been spending a lot of time painting lately, and also a considerable amount of time making my art viewable to friends and family who aren't Facebook users.
For a long time I had been toying with having a website, but I didn't know how committed I'd be to it, so I didn't want to invest in a domain or a professional to build it. So I, essentially, took the website-in-a box approach.
It was fairly idiot-proof to set up and I'm pleased with the layout and functionality. However, it rapidly became obvious to me that the biggest stumbling block I have is that the photographs of my work are bad. I mean, really, really bad. Full disclosure... my photo equipment consists of an iPhone camera and that cheapo little thingie that Ashton Kutcher peddles, and my photography skills are zero, zilch, zip. However, I have friends who have cameras worth more than my dental work and skills to match, so hopefully I'll soon correct that deficit.
So here it is. Take it for a ride and see what you think-- http://lindaflanagan77.wix.com/art. Oh, I've also created a Facebook page for my art (https://www.facebook.com/pages/Linda-Flanagan/460142480720132), so "like" that if you are so inclined.
Now I need to get back to the canvas.
For a long time I had been toying with having a website, but I didn't know how committed I'd be to it, so I didn't want to invest in a domain or a professional to build it. So I, essentially, took the website-in-a box approach.
It was fairly idiot-proof to set up and I'm pleased with the layout and functionality. However, it rapidly became obvious to me that the biggest stumbling block I have is that the photographs of my work are bad. I mean, really, really bad. Full disclosure... my photo equipment consists of an iPhone camera and that cheapo little thingie that Ashton Kutcher peddles, and my photography skills are zero, zilch, zip. However, I have friends who have cameras worth more than my dental work and skills to match, so hopefully I'll soon correct that deficit.
So here it is. Take it for a ride and see what you think-- http://lindaflanagan77.wix.com/art. Oh, I've also created a Facebook page for my art (https://www.facebook.com/pages/Linda-Flanagan/460142480720132), so "like" that if you are so inclined.
Now I need to get back to the canvas.
The DC Diaries - Arlington National Cemetery
While planning my trip, this was one of the sights I looked forward to the most, in large part because of my fascination with the Kennedy family and my desire to visit and pay respects to their final resting places.
It was my first time navigating the DC Metro system and I found it clean and pleasant. The weather was overcast, which I found fitting for the outing. I was struck by how desolate the place was. Not a lot of people visiting. The tour guide was pleased to see me and told me that I was their only customer for the day so far and that they were very grateful for my business.
As expected, I got very emotional at the Kennedys' site. RFK and Teddy's gravesites are very unremarkable. I touched Teddy's headstone and felt a strong emotional bonding. The eternal flame moved me deeply. In my mind's eye I could see Jackie looking upon the flame and mourning her husband, gone too soon.
Next stop was the Tomb of the Unknowns. Again, amazingly free of tourists. The solemnity was awe-inspiring. I stuck around to see the changing of the guards, which I vaguely remembered from my visit to DC as a teenager.
The tour guide, after leaving me at the Tomb of the Unknowns, told me that I was free to roam the grounds at will, and catch any bus I happened to come across. I took some time looking at random graves of people who had died for our country, but who were just... people. Took a few pictures of graves, which I want to research some day to see what I can find out about the individuals.
The vastness and solitude of the cemetery was beyond belief. By consulting the map, I found the Challenger and Discovery memorials. Felt a momentary panic when I realized was on my own -- really alone-- in this vast place with no one in sight and (most importantly) no clue how to get back to the visitor's center. Finally, I met up with my original tour bus-- they expressed equal concern for me and mentioned that they had actually radioed the other bus to see if they had seen me. I found their genuine concern touching. They made an unscheduled stop for me to see a memorial to terrorist victims-- flight over Lockerbie, etc.
I spent a lot of time there, gazing upon row after row of stark white tombstones against the dull gray winter landscape. I was glad there were no other people.
It was my first time navigating the DC Metro system and I found it clean and pleasant. The weather was overcast, which I found fitting for the outing. I was struck by how desolate the place was. Not a lot of people visiting. The tour guide was pleased to see me and told me that I was their only customer for the day so far and that they were very grateful for my business.
As expected, I got very emotional at the Kennedys' site. RFK and Teddy's gravesites are very unremarkable. I touched Teddy's headstone and felt a strong emotional bonding. The eternal flame moved me deeply. In my mind's eye I could see Jackie looking upon the flame and mourning her husband, gone too soon.
Next stop was the Tomb of the Unknowns. Again, amazingly free of tourists. The solemnity was awe-inspiring. I stuck around to see the changing of the guards, which I vaguely remembered from my visit to DC as a teenager.
The tour guide, after leaving me at the Tomb of the Unknowns, told me that I was free to roam the grounds at will, and catch any bus I happened to come across. I took some time looking at random graves of people who had died for our country, but who were just... people. Took a few pictures of graves, which I want to research some day to see what I can find out about the individuals.
The vastness and solitude of the cemetery was beyond belief. By consulting the map, I found the Challenger and Discovery memorials. Felt a momentary panic when I realized was on my own -- really alone-- in this vast place with no one in sight and (most importantly) no clue how to get back to the visitor's center. Finally, I met up with my original tour bus-- they expressed equal concern for me and mentioned that they had actually radioed the other bus to see if they had seen me. I found their genuine concern touching. They made an unscheduled stop for me to see a memorial to terrorist victims-- flight over Lockerbie, etc.
I spent a lot of time there, gazing upon row after row of stark white tombstones against the dull gray winter landscape. I was glad there were no other people.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
The DC Diaries - Day 1 - Getting there
About a month ago, I took a solo trip to Washington, DC. It was significant to me for a lot of reasons and I journalled about it as it was happening. In my next few posts, I'm going to do my best to recount the flavor of what was indeed a magnificent trip.
It started with my sister Kimberly, who works for TSA and attends weeklong meetings at the Pentagon periodically. Since they allow them a suite and guests are welcome, more than once she offered to take me along. This time I said yes.
Shortly before the trip, she texted me to tell me that their plans had changed and the trip was postponed. I had already gotten the time off from work, had my airline ticket booked and had the trip built up in my mind-- what I would see, where I would go. My disappointment was palpable.
In a very unLindalike gesture, I decided to go it alone. This was out of the norm for me for a couple reasons. Number 1, I had never travelled by myself. Number 2, I haven't flown since high school, when I flew from Pittsburgh to Boston to visit my grandparents. I'm afraid of flying and it literally makes me sick due to a head injury I sustained in age 13 (something about the air pressure). For me it was a real challenge to some of the boundaries I had in my life.
Luckily, by changing the flight dates, I was able to procure a hotel room with the entire package costing only a couple hundred more than the original flight itself. Perfect!
Tuesday morning, December 4. I didn't have to be up til 8, but I was out of bed at 6. Nervous energy, so I did what soothes me best-- painted. Also IMed with my friend Gerry to make plans for meeting the next day. Took an anti-anxiety drug (prescription, of course).
Kimmy drove me to the airport. It was just what I needed to calm me even further. I really needed her larger-than-life personality to distract me and I was so grateful for her generosity. My other sister Teresa and my friend Mary had also been texting me all morning offering me encouragement.
When we got to Midway, I asked Kimmy if she wanted to come into the airport with me to wait a bit. She then mentioned that she couldn't be seen there, because she had actually called off sick that day. Kimmy! I was early, of course, so I ate a burger and had a couple of Sam Adams. There was a bit of a snafu at the pre-check... I had intended on carrying on my luggage but they made me check it. I did not like being separated from my clothes one bit.
3:30 PM. Cruising altitude 39,000. Going over Lake Michigan was amazing. The sky and clouds were amazing. I had a sense of being part of something majestic, larger than myself. Oddly enough, I was very calm. 300 miles from Dulles and my world felt full of wonder.
I had a window seat, number 15, right above the wing. I ate two miniscule packages of peanuts and waited for a diet coke. I briefly considered another beer but with the atarax and two Sam Adams in my system from Chicago, I figured it was wise to keep my wits about me. I'd be a stranger in a strange land and that felt a little intimidating
I was mesmerized by the dividing line between blue sky and the flat plane of clouds. I remember wishing I knew exactly where I was. Listened to 7th Heaven on my iphone. 30 songs in 30 minutes. It got a little bumpy with turbulence, but again, surprisingly, I wasn't afraid. I remembered Kat telling me that most flights going in and out of DC have air marshals on them and I looked around a bit to try to figure out who it was. Stayed in my seat with the seatbelt firmly buckled the entire time.
With about 30 minutes left of the flight, I started thinking about my next steps. I hoped that the luggage retrieval and finding the shuttle to the hotel were easy. It was a bit daunting for a newbie, but at the same time I was giddy with the excitement of it all.
We were ready for descent. Bumpy. We'd be landing on time, despite leaving a little bit late. Moot point because no one was there waiting for me. In retrospect, I should've tried to arrange that. It would've been nice. Before the descent, we turned. It was a weird sensation-- the sun was reflecting a pink/orange color off the clouds. I kept thinking of Ronald Reagan's speech when Challenger exploded-- "they slipped the surly bonds of earth to touch the hand of God." I felt that way.
As we got lower and lower, I saw patchwork fields in brown, ochre and green. It looked pretty rural. The captain said "welcome to Washington, DC," but it still felt like a farm to me. Lots of snaky rivers. Forests. Heard the landing gear come down. We're a long way from Chicago. All the turns didn't feel very nice.
Found the luggage and shuttle without incident. The shuttle bus was a trip. I assumed it would go directly to a few big hotels downtown, but it was more or less a taxi in van format. Took desolate looking roads to drop people off in neighborhoods. How very odd.
Checked into the hotel and got a warm cookie. Dumped my luggage off in the room and went exploring. The hotel had a revolving bar on the roof and I wanted to get my first glimpse of the monuments. On the elevator, I met a woman named Katie -- she's a speech therapist from Virginia who was there with her husband for business. We decided to have a drink together while she waited for her spouse, so we had a Blue Moon and talked about our lives and hopes for the trip. My first 360-degree look at the city-- Pentagon, Washington Monument, the Capitol-- was surreal.
Ordered my dinner (chicken sandwich and fries) from room service and watched "Abby's Ultimate Dance Competition" on tv. Went to bed early. I had a lot to do the next day.
It started with my sister Kimberly, who works for TSA and attends weeklong meetings at the Pentagon periodically. Since they allow them a suite and guests are welcome, more than once she offered to take me along. This time I said yes.
Shortly before the trip, she texted me to tell me that their plans had changed and the trip was postponed. I had already gotten the time off from work, had my airline ticket booked and had the trip built up in my mind-- what I would see, where I would go. My disappointment was palpable.
In a very unLindalike gesture, I decided to go it alone. This was out of the norm for me for a couple reasons. Number 1, I had never travelled by myself. Number 2, I haven't flown since high school, when I flew from Pittsburgh to Boston to visit my grandparents. I'm afraid of flying and it literally makes me sick due to a head injury I sustained in age 13 (something about the air pressure). For me it was a real challenge to some of the boundaries I had in my life.
Luckily, by changing the flight dates, I was able to procure a hotel room with the entire package costing only a couple hundred more than the original flight itself. Perfect!
Tuesday morning, December 4. I didn't have to be up til 8, but I was out of bed at 6. Nervous energy, so I did what soothes me best-- painted. Also IMed with my friend Gerry to make plans for meeting the next day. Took an anti-anxiety drug (prescription, of course).
Kimmy drove me to the airport. It was just what I needed to calm me even further. I really needed her larger-than-life personality to distract me and I was so grateful for her generosity. My other sister Teresa and my friend Mary had also been texting me all morning offering me encouragement.
When we got to Midway, I asked Kimmy if she wanted to come into the airport with me to wait a bit. She then mentioned that she couldn't be seen there, because she had actually called off sick that day. Kimmy! I was early, of course, so I ate a burger and had a couple of Sam Adams. There was a bit of a snafu at the pre-check... I had intended on carrying on my luggage but they made me check it. I did not like being separated from my clothes one bit.
3:30 PM. Cruising altitude 39,000. Going over Lake Michigan was amazing. The sky and clouds were amazing. I had a sense of being part of something majestic, larger than myself. Oddly enough, I was very calm. 300 miles from Dulles and my world felt full of wonder.
I had a window seat, number 15, right above the wing. I ate two miniscule packages of peanuts and waited for a diet coke. I briefly considered another beer but with the atarax and two Sam Adams in my system from Chicago, I figured it was wise to keep my wits about me. I'd be a stranger in a strange land and that felt a little intimidating
I was mesmerized by the dividing line between blue sky and the flat plane of clouds. I remember wishing I knew exactly where I was. Listened to 7th Heaven on my iphone. 30 songs in 30 minutes. It got a little bumpy with turbulence, but again, surprisingly, I wasn't afraid. I remembered Kat telling me that most flights going in and out of DC have air marshals on them and I looked around a bit to try to figure out who it was. Stayed in my seat with the seatbelt firmly buckled the entire time.
With about 30 minutes left of the flight, I started thinking about my next steps. I hoped that the luggage retrieval and finding the shuttle to the hotel were easy. It was a bit daunting for a newbie, but at the same time I was giddy with the excitement of it all.
We were ready for descent. Bumpy. We'd be landing on time, despite leaving a little bit late. Moot point because no one was there waiting for me. In retrospect, I should've tried to arrange that. It would've been nice. Before the descent, we turned. It was a weird sensation-- the sun was reflecting a pink/orange color off the clouds. I kept thinking of Ronald Reagan's speech when Challenger exploded-- "they slipped the surly bonds of earth to touch the hand of God." I felt that way.
As we got lower and lower, I saw patchwork fields in brown, ochre and green. It looked pretty rural. The captain said "welcome to Washington, DC," but it still felt like a farm to me. Lots of snaky rivers. Forests. Heard the landing gear come down. We're a long way from Chicago. All the turns didn't feel very nice.
Found the luggage and shuttle without incident. The shuttle bus was a trip. I assumed it would go directly to a few big hotels downtown, but it was more or less a taxi in van format. Took desolate looking roads to drop people off in neighborhoods. How very odd.
Checked into the hotel and got a warm cookie. Dumped my luggage off in the room and went exploring. The hotel had a revolving bar on the roof and I wanted to get my first glimpse of the monuments. On the elevator, I met a woman named Katie -- she's a speech therapist from Virginia who was there with her husband for business. We decided to have a drink together while she waited for her spouse, so we had a Blue Moon and talked about our lives and hopes for the trip. My first 360-degree look at the city-- Pentagon, Washington Monument, the Capitol-- was surreal.
Ordered my dinner (chicken sandwich and fries) from room service and watched "Abby's Ultimate Dance Competition" on tv. Went to bed early. I had a lot to do the next day.
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