The Lords of Discipline

My second favorite book by Pat Conroy, after My Losing Season.

Here are the lines that stood out to me when I read it last summer while I was volunteering in Alabama:


"helpless to translate the murmurings of the inarticulate lover I felt screaming from within."

"Honor is the presence of God in man."

"...stars spoke the language of light years"

"There's this delayed reaction for all my emotions."

"I will speak from memory - my memory - a memory that is all refracting light slanting through prisms and dreams, a shifting, troubled riot of electrons charged with pain and wonder. My memory often seems like a city of exiled poets afire with the astonishment of language, each believing in the integrity of his own witness, each with a separate version of culture and history, and the divine essential fire that is poetry itself."

"We came...from cruciform towns with a single intersection..."

"...it was obvious that they loved each other very much. It was good to be around them, and I studied how people were required to act when they were in love so I would know the forms and nuances of that sweet delirium if and when it happened to me."

"Do everything well...leave nothing to chance. There was no such thing as an insignificant detail, and everything has a name."

"Athletes have a strange but genuine compulsion to touch each other's asses."

"But it was my destiny and my character not to be able to recall the exact feeling, the exact one, of those brief seconds."

"You had to decide what was estimable and precious in your life and set out to find it. The objects you valued defined you. So did this quest."

Vamos Rafa!

Soy loca para el campeo'n guapo Rafael Nadal.

Over the weekend, he routed - I mean SMEARED - world #1 Roger Federer 6-1, 6-3, 6-0 in the men's French Open Final, making him the first since the great Bjorn Borg to win four in a row at Roland Garros. The 22-year-old from Manacor, Spain on the island of Mallorca is 28-0 at the French Open and shows no signs of slowing down on clay. He'll attempt to take this momentum into Wimbledon and make the transition from his favorite surface to grass in three weeks to be ready for his first round match at the All-England Club on June 28th.

Yeah, all that's pretty cool, but did I mention this kid is smooookingly HOTTTTT? I normally don't dig the ones with long hair, but it just adds to his European flavor. As I previously mentioned, he's 22, which is even cooler. AND, he's RIPPPPPPED - probably the most impressive physical specimen in all of men's tennis. All tan and has dimples and dark eyes and dark hair and whenever he wins a trophy he always poses with it in his mouth and a big grin on his face - UUUUGGGHHHHHHH! Sign me up!

So yeah, it's love.

What Does Prayer Do?

Obviously, a lot of things. Serves many purposes.

But it occurred to me to pray about a situation to give myself a future frame of reference around which to learn the lesson. It's an avenue to allow divine guidance to your growth.

Prayer probably isn't a strength of mine. Okay, it's not. I do pray, usually at lunch time when I go for a walk to enjoy some sunlight. It's usually about small things, but I guess if that's what's worrying me at the time, it's the perfect thing to pray about at that moment. I pray at night when I'm trying to fall asleep. Hmmm, it just now occurs to me that if I actually set aside purposefully wakeful time to pray about whatever, I might be able to lay down and not have scattered, bounding thoughts about randomly stupid things and actually sleep.

(By the way, have I mentioned that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different resullt?)

ANYWAYS...

It seems another chapter is to be written for a book my mind's been working on for at least three years now. I'd be more specific but there's some dirty laundry I like to leave in the hamper.

So it seems prayer is a good answer to everything. I'm gonna go try to pass out - Lord willing it shouldn't take more than half an hour! :)

The Perfect Analogy

Baseball.

You can compare it to anything, and it makes perfect sense.
It can be life, love, or war simultaneously - or it can just be the perfect, pure game you played as a young'en that your daddy taught you to adore.

Today, we shall examine the classic Running-the-Bases as levels of intimacy. Debate exists over what each base actually represents (with 1st generally being a kiss):

1ST base is kissing.
2ND base is heavy petting (although with my version a double includes getting thrown out by the catcher via backslap for putting a hand near my midsection)
3RD base spreads just as much disease as...
Home Run - no explanation necessary. It's such a big deal it's only intended for married people, and if you ask me, NOTHING is worth that crap!!!!

I've even heard a different NUMBER of bases -

At work one day (when I was employed by The White Devil), Meegs (my favorite teammate from when I was privileged to play with the Raleigh Venom) and I were discussing this subject related to gayness. I said something along the lines of lesbians only having three bases, she said "Nuh uh man, we have like, twelve." It was funny of course, only because I'd been exposed to the complexity of seeing emotional involvement between my teammates (I love you, I hate you, we're friends with benefits, we're best friends, etc., within a month of meeting...)

(Just to interject, I'm watching Rachael Ray (yes, Rachael Ray) because I usually do and was sick and tired of hearing about freaking Paul Pierce, and as luck would have it, she's having a baseball-theme episode! Of course including hot dogs and slaw. It's a sign - wow I'm actually starting to like her a lot more hearing her rave about my favorite sport using the same points I do)

I'm really into chastity, okay? Sue me. Not that I don't feel like not every once in a while, but 11 months out of 12, the rare thought of intercourse is shrouded in those tempting fantasies about getting married, and if you know me at all you know I equate marriage with a form of death (not the ultimate, damning death of raising children). Ergo, I am extremely conservative. I've never been a joiner.

So, my RTB analogy goes like this:

First Base = An intelligent, flirty conversation rife with eye contact.
Second Base = Holding Hands
Third Base = To quote Crash Davis, "long, slow, deep, soft wet kisses that last three days."
Home Run = I dunno. Not sex. That's like MLB on steroids. (notice my clever simile? just proves my point). Probably, since I'm a "grown-up" now, I'd have to say the birth of a real relationship.

Therefore, I am a virgin!

If's, And's, and Man-I-Wish-I-Was-That-Good's

If Momma hadn't grown up in an ultra-conservative household where she was told that landscape architecture was "a good avocation, but not a good occupation" for a woman, she wouldn't have gone into the traditionally female field of nursing. If my mom hadn’t been working as a nurse at the hospital in Clermont and taking care of a friend of my dad’s who'd been in a car wreck, they wouldn’t have gotten together. If they hadn’t gotten married, I wouldn’t have the hella-cool last name of “Slaughter”. If I hadn’t been born a Slaughter, chances are I wouldn’t have been brought up as a die-hard Gator. If I hadn’t been born a Gator, it wouldn’t have been my life’s goal to attend UF. If I hadn’t attended UF, I wouldn’t have expanded my mind with highly stimulating courses like Anatomy. If I hadn’t taken Anatomy my sophomore year, I never would’ve heard about the women’s rugby team at UF. If I hadn’t played rugby for UF, I wouldn’t have gone to the 2000 Mardi Gras tournament in New Orleans. If our coach hadn’t dropped the ball and had actually officially signed us up to play at the tournament, I never would’ve picked up with the North Carolina girls. If I’d never met the UNC rugby girls, I never would’ve lived in Chapel Hill. If it weren’t for living in Chapel Hill, I never would’ve heard of “Love, Actually”. If I hadn’t bought the “Love, Actually” DVD for my sister and watched the bonus interview with the director, I wouldn’t have noticed “Both Sides Now” being played during the scene where Emma Thompson realizes her husband has been having a mental affair with his secretary. If I’d never discovered “Both Sides Now”, I probably wouldn’t have been as humbled as a songwriter as I was when I found out Joni Mitchell wrote this song when she was 21 years old!

Twenty-one just happens to be the age when I really started crunching out songs, but they sure as heck weren’t as insightful and universal as this one:

Joni Mitchell

Both Sides Now


Rows and floes of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I’ve looked at clouds that way
But now they only block the sun
They rain and snow on everyone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way

I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
Its cloud illusions I recall
I really don’t know clouds at all

Moons and Junes and ferris wheels
The dizzy dancing way you feel
As every fairy tale comes real
I’ve looked at love that way
But now its just another show
You leave ‘em laughing when you go
And if you care, don’t let them know
Don’t give yourself away

I’ve looked at love from both sides now
From give and take, and still somehow
Its loves illusions I recall
I really don’t know love at all

Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say I love you right out loud
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds
I’ve looked at life that way
But now old friends are acting strange
They shake their heads, they say I’ve changed
Well something’s lost, but something’s gained
In living every day

I’ve looked at life from both sides now
From win and lose and still somehow
Its life’s illusions I recall
I really don’t know life at all
I’ve looked at life from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
Its life’s illusions I recall
I really don’t know life at all


Holy crap. Should every up-and-coming female singer-songwriter measure herself against this standard? Yes. Is it fair? Yes. Because there’s already too much overly-specific garbage out there about getting hurt by some guy or unrequited love or some other such BS. And yes, those are the kinds of songs I wrote when I was 21. But if you settle for creating trite junk just to make yourself feel better, don't expect to ever be considered great. I just wasn’t as smart or as talented as Joni Mitchell! Why God, why!??!!??? Well, because there can only be, like, ten in a million great singer-songwriters every generation. We can all get better the more we do anything, but some of us have a little bit extra, kind of like an athlete who has an extra gear no one else seems to have. That isn't to say that there aren't people (e.g. friends and family) who will appreciate or even enjoy your pain-driven musical memoirs, in the same way that even a mediocre athlete has fans rooting him on. But if you're gonna do anything, why settle for being just okay?

What makes a great song? First of all, the melody. It has to be catchy and stick in the listener's head. The lyrics have to be poignant and relevant in at least some small way to anyone who hears it.

Have I written any great songs? I can name one, called "Optimism". However, it is instrumental. It's the purest thing to ever come out of me; I wrote it for this kid I thought I was in love with in college (maybe I was, who knows?). I still get this soaring sentiment whenever I play it. So no lyrics - it was never intended to have lyrics because what I felt couldn't be articulated and to attempt to do that would only water it down.

But I digress. If I'd never played rugby, I never would've met the Men of My Life (a song title from my first record, Several Realizations Ago) who inspired my preferred art form. If I'd never gotten into writing songs, I'd probably be in a mental institution.

What does all this mean? I have no freaking idea.

Singing on the Bike

This is the best. My favorite is singing "Comfortable" while riding in the rain. It just sort of fits. Lately I've been belting Fiona Apple. It makes for good endurance training because singing in her style of vocal acrobatics is pretty challenging during aerobic exercise.

Singing while riding a bicycle just adds to the "Gosh I feel six-years-old again!" feeling you get as you glide along with the wind in your hair. I highly recommend this activity.

He's Just Not That Into You

Have there ever been more liberating words uttered? One of the best Miranda story lines on Sex and the City was when she met Carrie and Berger for dinner and was stressing about some guy who hadn't called and asked Berger's advice. He said, "Maybe he's just not that into you." She loved it! She went around for the rest of the episode at ease and somewhat smug with her newfound information. Out on the streets of the city she couldn't help but overhear a conversation in which a girl was whining that a guy hadn't called, and Miranda went up to her and said, "Hey, maybe he's just not that into you." She walked off smiling, as if she'd passed on the secret to life, and the woman was confounded and blurted out, "Bitch!" Haha, sometimes the truth hurts.

I'd heard there was a little book about this a few years ago, and I'm not sure which came first, but either way - it's BRILLIANT! How much time can women save now, armed with this idea? Mixed signals? No phone calls? Looking over your shoulder at other girls when you're talking? (okay I can forgive this one because I can't help but notice if some tall drink of water enters the room) You have to consider how much more time you want to spend obsessing about someone who may not like you as much as you like him. To me, that's the ultimate anathema, and if it's the case, it's my goal to run as far away from that as possible. I love Garth's recommendation to Stacy on Wayne's World - "Get over it, go out with somebody else." In my experience, nothing helps getting over the last one like the next one. You can't think your way into right acting, but you can act your way into right thinking.

So freaking get over him already. He's over you (or was probably never even under you) and isn't wasting any brainwaves on it anymore (if he ever was), so move on. He's just not that into you! Maybe take solace in the fact that there's a number of dudes who are into you that you just aren't into. Poetic (though unfair) justice. Is unfair justice an oxymoron? Whatever. Time is the most precious thing we have, and to waste it on some loser is choosing not to truly live. So freaking get over him already.

Where Black Is the Color, and None Is the Number

This song blows me away every time:

A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall
Bob Dylan
from The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan (1963)


Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son ?
And where have you been my darlin' young one ?
I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains
I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways
I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests
I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans
I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Oh, what did you see, my blue eyed son ?
And what did you see, my darlin' young one ?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin'
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin'
I saw a white ladder all covered with water
I saw ten thousand takers whose tongues were all broken
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son ?
And what did you hear, my darlin' young one ?
I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin'
I heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world
I heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin'
I heard ten thousand whisperin' and nobody listenin'
I heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin'
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Oh, who did you meet my blue-eyed son ?
Who did you meet, my darlin' young one ?
I met a young child beside a dead pony
I met a white man who walked a black dog
I met a young woman whose body was burnin'
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow
I met one man who was wounded in love
I met another man who was wounded in hatred
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

And what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son ?
And what'll you do now my darlin' young one ?
I'm a-goin' back out 'fore the rain starts a-fallin'
I'll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest
Where the people are a many and their hands are all empty
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison
Where the executioner's face is always well hidden
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten
Where black is the color, where none is the number
And I'll tell and think it and speak it and breathe it
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it
Then I'll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin'
But I'll know my songs well before I start singin'
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.