From Russia With Love

"Shukhov looked hopefully out of the corner of an eye at the milk-white tube-- if it had shown -41℉ they ought not to be sent out to work. But today it was nowhere near -41... The temperature out there was -17℉; Shukhov's temperature was +99℉. The fight was on..."

-- Alexander Solzhenitsyn, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich


The cold snap-- if that is what you want to call it-- has abated slightly over the city of Chicago. The current temperature is 21℉, and the windchill is, to me, unknown (I don't feel like looking it up). However, if it is possible, and at all not TOO uncomfortable for those who read this (though I don't much care if you stop reading here, the above quote by A.S. is probably the backbone of this whole post), then I won't further detain from telling you that the lowest temperature this past week was -16℉, and, with an added windchill of -26℉, made a record breaking (for Chicago, at least) temperature of -42℉. A nickname, and in my opinion a rather presumptuous one, has been bestowed on this city: "Chi-beria".


Wow... Clever.


Ok people, let's just assume that we are suffering more than the rest of the winterstill places in the world, and christen ourselves with a name that disrespects not only one of the most unforgivingly cold places in the world, but let us do so with the pansy-ass intent of trying to garner sympathy from cold places like Sibera. I don't think so.


"Average January Temperatures in Yakutsk, located in eastern-central Siberia, hover near -38 degrees Fahrenheit while the average in Verhojansk in north-central Siberia is an even colder -47 degrees."1

Nice try, Chicagoans.

Let me pause here briefly, to assure my readers who might have taken offense to that harshness of my tone as reflected in the above remarks, that the vengeance in my tone does NOT end here. So again, stop reading if you've had enough.


Granted, I'm not saying that the "cold snap" that hit Chicago like a brutal punch to the gut "wasn't that bad", or "could have been worse". Yes, it was cold. Really cold.


BUT. Come on! In this day and age of technology-- in the world that we so egotistically call our oyster, we still complain a lot. Or maybe it's just that social networking has given us the biggest soapbox in the world from which to vent our absurd disquisitions. Sheesh. Go buy a coat and some long johns.


That being said, I have to admit that I did somewhat rely on the squeamish attitude of the 21st Century Corporate American, or rather, of the corporate administration of the Moody Bible Institute, to follow precedent with everyone else in Chicago and cancel school. But no. The professors who commute an hour or so from the suburbs and walk the half-mile or so to campus from the train stations still dutifully ambled through the bitter winds and down the frozen avenues to come to school. Hooah! Cheers to them.


My conclusion: "It's a Communist Plot!" This statement, borrowed from a favorite professor of mine, perfectly describes my feelings towards Mother Moody. If Shukhov could bank on a break from routine if the cold hit -41 degrees, why couldn't I? Is that too much to ask?


*Sigh*... The ramblings of a poor, powerless man mean nothing to the administration and State that he serves.



************************************************************************


In retrospect: If Ivan Shukhov Denisovich, prisoner in a Communist Gulag, had to go trudging out into the Siberian Taiga to labor for an oppressive regime, I suppose my only choice in this matter is to shake my fist at Mother, wrap myself in another scarf and get my wimpy ass to school.


And guess what: I do hope the cold snaps come back (don't even get me started on global warming-- I hope Al Gore is shamed and the polar bears just reclaimed some land), because people like Alexander Solzhenitsyn and his biographical characters need to be remembered. We men need to learn from them. We need to be tougher, live harder-- grit our teeth against the wind and fight on-- before the Communist Plots of the world swallow us up, and we live on only as the squeamish 21st Century humans we might just be turning into. Because the world isn't going to magically turn out for the better on its own.


Warmly and sincerely,

Aidan Lane

1 "http://traveltips.usatoday.com/climate-siberia-russia-63599.html"

Summer Reading, Part 2

Well, summer is transpired through the infant stage and is now proceeding full throttle into its adolescence. I have been working for almost a week, and have been doing much of what I have stated in the previous post: reading, playing music, and as already said, working.

I have finished the first book that I chose from the list, The Last American Man. The copy I have was a gift from my sweetheart, and I read it with great gusto. Fantastic book. Gave me much to think about.

Now, on to the next course in my literary feast:


Anna Karenina!


I give myself two weeks to finish it.


~ atl

Summer Reading List

Anna Karenina -- Leo Tolstoy

The Death of Ivan Ilyich -- Leo Tolstoy

Fathers and Sons -- Ivan Turgenev

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest -- Ken Kesey

The Ragamuffin Gospel -- Brennan Manning

Saint Thomas Aquinas -- G.K. Chesterton

The Annotated Father Brown -- G.K. Chesterton

Crime and Punishment -- Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Notes from Underground -- Fyodor Dostoyevsky

The Last American Man -- Elizabeth Gilbert

*********************************************************************

Work, Read, Exercise and Play: My three endeavors for this summer.

Work: I will be repairing and making sails as an apprentice for Jim Kitchen, owner and operator of Doyle Puget Sound Sails, LLC

Read: See long list of literature above.

Exercise: Time to carve off the fat of bad school cafeteria food.

Play: Piano. My passion. To play music that has no deadline or school related function to it. Ahhh...


~ atl

//My Salinger Morning//

It began when I realized how I must have slept with my mouth open, because I had chapped lips. Nothing painful, just sort of a rough, crackly feeling, like those pictures you see in National Geographic of dried up desert ground, all cracked and sober. 

I was lying on my back on the mattress crammed under my roommates bed. I must have already hit the snooze a half dozen times. I didn't know what time it was, nor did I care much. Its was Saturday, and there was nothing I really needed to care about. 

Like any other Saturday morning when I lie awake on my mattress crammed under my roommates bed, I began my day scheming what I would do with the few hours left in the day, because I probably slept half of them away already. This morning I schemed about where to get a decent cup of coffee. Should I make the twenty minute hike to one of those gourmet cafes that I enjoy so much, or should I just go to a Starbucks, and use the card my Pops gave me with money on it. I don't know. I love scheming in the morning. It gives me some kind of feeling of control of my life. That's probably because I can live my entire day in my mind, with my eyes closed, lying on my mattress crammed under my roommates bed. And, at the end of my day in my minds eye, if I feel like living it out for real, I'll roll off my mattress, onto the rough industrial carpet of my rooms floor, give myself a good grunt to ensure I'm still a man, and rise up off my hands a knees and lumber off to the bathroom to brush my teeth. That's what I did this morning.

After the bathroom, I started thinking of what to wear. Chicago is a damn bitter place in the winter, and if you don't layer appropriately, you can bet yourself that you'll hardly make it a block walking before you start regretting sacrificing being warm for looking nice. Ah, what do I care. 

I imagine, with my slightly narcissistic whims, that I looked like something of a disheveled, pissed off Old World sailor walking down the street, wearing my leather boots, brick red cords, grey sweater over a plaid flannel, black peacoat, and tweed Kangol flatcap that I found in the street a coupla weeks ago. My silver hoop earring probably gave a nice flourish too, like I'd taken up with some gypsies some time ago, and some remnant of that carefree lifestyle still clings to me. It sure as hell does.

Anyways, I walked over to what I call the Royal Rush Starbucks, with a battered copy of "Catcher in the Rye" stuffed in my left pocket. Royal Rush is a nice little spot. It's two stories tall, with the more corporate feeling cafe on the first floor, and a more cozy, lounge style cafe on the second. I climbed the concrete stairs, much like my Pops would, two or three stairs at a time. It took a little while to adjust to the crazy haphazard array of chairs (mostly full of people) and ottomans and coffee tables, but I found a spot. I ordered a Clover made cup of Indonesian Isla Flores, and sank into my chair and pulled out my book. I'd ordered a tall, but the barista brought over a grande. I don't know if I got charged for a tall or for a grande, and I don't care. Why take the time to care? Just wasted seconds, thats what that is.

Five chapters and a cup of coffee later, I realize that I like the book, I can relate to the main character on several levels, and that while Salinger's writing is unique and quite personable, it is a little too unabashedly vulgar for my more particular taste. Guys like Steinbeck can portray the common man well, with all their little unrefinements, but Salinger can't hide the fact that he is one of those common men. Ah, whatever. Its a good book, I like it so far, and I can deal with the crude bluntness of his style. 

Gosh I like being alone. I feel like I can't think when everyone around me is saying hi and giving me those half nods that guys give and constantly asking me how I'm doing. Five chapters and a cup of coffee later really worked a magic on me, and I feel good. I packed up my things, took my empty cup back to the bar, and left. I took the long way back to school, working the stiffness out of my long legs that accrued from sitting perfectly still for the two hours I was reading. Theres a good sign for ya. If you have to stretch and loosen yourself up after reading, you must like the book. Gosh I like being alone. 

I walked down Rush to Chicago, my bare hands out of my pockets. The rest of me was thankful to be so bundled, but my hands were hot and thirsted after the cold. Anyways, as I walked I saw a homeless man standing in the middle of the sidewalk, a cup in his hand, asking for money from the passer-byers. This neighborhood is full of the wealthy elite, shopping at Prada or Barnes New York. The rich elite who don't give a rat's ass about the needy. Hell, I'm a needy. So, you Prada snobs, get your noses outta the sky and give a needy man a buck for lunch. That's how I feel anyways. I think that the needy are helped out most by other needy's. I don't usually have cash in my wallet, cause the whole world is going plastic, but when I do, its usually in dollar bills. I was a rich man today, and had a lonesome George in my fold. As I approached him, he kept saying over and over, even as I slowed, stopped, and pulled out my leather, "Spare some change, sir, for some lunch, sir, spare some change for some food, sir, spare some change..." Over and over, as if he expected me to not stop and share with him my fortune as a fellow needy. Damn it, I wish I had more. I wish I could have thrown my arm around him, said, "Grandpa, you'll never be a needy again. Come with me. Lets go get some lunch." But all I had was a dollar, and a huge school bill to handle. Here's a dollar, grandpa, good luck. 

I strode back to campus with the feeling of complete serenity hanging low over my lanky, Old Sailor body. Ah, its good to be alive. And to not care what time it is. And to be alone for a time with my thoughts. Gosh, I hope that old homeless man does alright in this bitter cold. 

"How long should a man's legs be? Long enough to touch the ground." - J.D. Salinger

Here's to keeping my legs on the ground. Here's to my fellow needy's, my brothers on the street, my grandfathers bumming for change.

Chicago. It's my kind of town.

Good morning. 

{Rosas Rosadas}

Tuesday, March 27. A day that will go down in infamy-- in my book at least. And it all began, and found its root with: roses (all pun intended).

So this day was in direct succession with the crappy monday in which the post before this one was written. With Sarah and I being so down in the dumps that day, I decided to do something I had been planning and wishing and preparing for for several weeks. I was going to buy her flowers. And not just buy her flowers. I was going to give her flowers. I had an elaborate scheme all planned out, right down to a mental screenplay complete with a script, that had required practice in order that it come out just right. Little did I know the aftershocks of this little venture.

A little background: Sarah and I are music majors. This requires us to spend copious amounts of time in practice rooms, practicing our pieces with a diligence that can only come from the musically elite. So, basically, I knew she where and when she was going to be practicing-- and this made things extremely easy for me. The whole plan was going to work out perfectly.

I awoke at 7am, left the dorm at 7:45ish, and started walking to the nearest supermarket, where, as advertised, a huge assortment of fresh cut blossoms displayed their fineries to the world, in hopes of being selected and placed in the arms of a dazzling young lady. This was exactly what I intended to do. After a good 10 minutes of perusing the fare, I had my fancy on a lovely little number called "rosas rosadas". Pink roses. 12 of them. Hooah. Sold.

I really can't really remember the walk back to school, because of 1) my excitement, and 2) because I was busy rehearsing my lines and repeatedly replaying the entire coming scene in my head. Hey, I'm a dedicated man when it comes to these things. Everything has to be perfect.

I got back to Moody around 8:15, and scurried up to Doane 3 with a touch of franticness. This was the trickiest part of the whole business. My greatest fear was that Sarah would either be arriving just as I was, or was in the halls and would see me. Luckily, neither happened. In fact, she wasn't even there yet! This was perfect, I could take my time with everything. No rush.

Within 10 minutes or so, I heard that ever-so-delightful voice come a-lilting through the air. She was chatting it up with someone, and within a few more moments she had unlocked the door and was safely in the nest of room 301, her favorite practice room. I gave her a few minutes to get settled...

Apparently, I couldn't stand it for very long, because I heard the curtain rise, and...oh! There's my cue. Time for the show to begin.

(I find it better to share what happened next in a somewhat movie-script-like format)

Aidan walks to practice room, in which Sarah Liv Skaarland sits, unexpectadly, playing the piano. He holds the bouquet in his left hand, and leans forward, against the wall, looking through the doors tiny window.
[Knock knock knock]
[Door opens]


"Aidan! Hi! How are you?"
[Aidan hangs his head, rubs his eyes with his right hand, and pinches the bridge of his nose]
"I'm good. Yeah."
"Are you okay? [insert worried look] Is something wrong?"
"No, I'm fine. Something happened. Uh... did you see what was outside the door here?"
"No...?"
"I think there's something out here for you..."
[Aidan turns, grasps the bouquet in both hands, his back to Sarah. Slowly turning to her, he reveals what is in his hands]


And cut. Yeah, pretty short little dramatic denouement, but still. Everything went exactly as planned. She gasped, hugged me, gasped again, told me how sweet I was, gasped, told me I was wonderful.... etcetera  etcetera. Unfortunately, she also came out of the practice room, and locked the keys inside. Whoops. I offered to hold the flowers for her, so she could go and get public safety and get the room reopened. Oh no. "I will hold these." She brusquely told me, and then with a "I'll be back soon!" she traipsed away, with the bouquet nestled gently in her arms. I went and practiced piano, and a half an hour later, she returned. The flowers were in vases in her room, and she her practice room was reopened. Now that the scene had ended, the aftershock of her surprise had set in.

"Well now I don't feel like practicing at all! What do you want to do?" she said
"Coffee?" I said.
"Sure!"

The events following were generally scattered throughout the day. We went to Starbucks, got coffee, and sat in the window, and talked till chapel. While we talked, Sarah proceeded to write about what had happened on Twitter, and then change every background on her phone and ipod to a picture of the blossoms in the vases in her room. That was a proud moment for me. This whole plan was as great a joy to me as it was to her. Though I think she can argue at having the better time of it.

After chapel, we parted ways, and went to our classes. During that time till band, when we would next meet, I was told by one of her girlfriends how special what I had done was, and how I had "scored some serious points". Aahhh. I love it. I am flipping awesome. What also happened, which I was unaware of at the time, was that Sarah, so flustered and-- if I may be so bold as to put it this way-- twitterpated, at the whole event, didn't exactly pay ample attention in class, and as a result, wasn't quite in the exact knowledge of the information needed for a certain amount of questions on the forthcoming exam.

Hooah. I didn't think my charm could do that...Hm. I could get used to this.

There you have it, folks. A little tale of how I swooped in, swept the fair damsel off her feet, and made the day just a little bit brighter for the both of us. Is there pride? Oh yes. Is there more of a throb in our hearts? I sure hope so. Lady's and gents, watch out. Moody's cutest couple has now been engulfed in a new wave of infatuation.


Hooah.

Pissed Off at the World

There are times in our lives when the only thing we can do is be absolutely, one-hundred-percent, frankly, and furiously pissed off at the world. There may be a reason, and there may not be a reason. But whatever. I'm mad. You're mad. Lets be mad together.

Today was just a crappy day. Crappy crappy crappy. It wasn't a catastrophe, and it wasn't a disaster; it was simply the perfect combination of good and just enough bad to make it uncomfortably and irritably bad. Like my day was a trying to survive drowning and had just barely got its chin above water, only to find out that it was too late. Too much water in the lungs. Dead. 

It started out fine! It did! Really! I hopped out of bed at 6:45am and felt fresh. Alive. Invigorated. Theory went fine, I turned in my homework, I took notes in class. I learned the days lesson. 

Then I meandered up to Doane 3. Practiced piano for a little bit. Then Sarah came in. That was a sunshine on my face. A breath of spring air in my lungs. I was happy! 

But, she was not as optimistic as I, and with good reason. She didn't sleep well, and missed the tranquility of Alaska. I did too, but was more satisfied with my current location. So, I comforted her the best I could. When she is down I feel down, and want to try my best to lift her up and make her feel loved and appreciated, or just more at ease about what's going on in life.

Alas. My day was about to lose some altitude. Research Writing. Did not go so well. I hadn't done the homework, and felt terrified about her calling on me to answer a question about the assignment I didn't do. Whoops. Bad way to start the second half of the semester in that class. But, we move on.

Payroll time! My pay wasn't quite right, so after lunch I headed up to the financial department in Crowell, and asked who I needed to talk to in order to straighten my paycheck out. I was informed that the lady who usually works that department had decided to leave early today. Monday afternoon, 1:30pm, and she had conveniently decided to "leave early for the day".

In summary, a simple and I think poignant question was seared on my mind:

DOES ANYONE ELSE FREAKING WORK AROUND HERE OTHER THAN ME?!?!

But, patience my dear man. Patience. Easy. Come back tomorrow, and do it then. 

Aaaaaaaah. I'm better.

So I went and did some other basic housekeeping, did some homework, made some appointments, etc. I was assuring myself that I wouldn't let those two little blows crash my proverbial airplane of a day. But try as I might, I could solidly come to terms with myself. I was not doing great. So, I texted Sarah, in hopes that company would remedy my plight. It did, and at 3:30pm, we set out on a walk through the park and through the sunny streets of our fair city. Hand in hand, we quietly perused the huge churches and cathedrals that were near campus. We even went to Ghiradelli's and got free chocolate. But unfortunately, Sarah felt a tad ill, and was still not having the best day. No fault of hers, because these kinds of days just happen. Ironically, we were both having that kind of day. 

Please be assured that we both did our upmost to bring a light mood to the day. We both tried to ease whatever burdens the other had in some way or another. It didn't always work. But at least we tried. No fault of either of us.

But alas. After dinner, at which the second person of the day had told us that we were the cutest couple ever, (the first was a sweet little school girl who saw us sitting on a park bench, my arm around Sarah and her head on my shoulder) we had Oratorio. Choir from 7:30pm to 9pm. That was the final straw. Broke the camels back for both of us. 

So now, we sit, two "Eeyore"'s. Not amiss with eachother. Just a little pissed off at the world.

{Goodnight}

Well there she was, I can't express
The way she looked in that scarlet dress.
Her webs of lashes, framed exotic eyes,
That sparkled with a hint of minx-ish surprise.  


Such decadence cannot be known,
The way that gaze caressed my own.
Every moment, was a pure delight,
Everything right down to her final- 
Musical-
"Good night".


~ ATL