Mystery Science Theater 2009: New Moon

New Moon is a sadly accurate movie about how young depressives turned schizophrenics can fall into codependent relationships with controlling boys arrested in perpetual adolescence. It was mostly unfun, actually, even though my friend B. and I had a jolly good time chanting for "shirtless werewolves! shirtless werewolves!" and getting commemorative swag to be "ironic" before the movie actually started.

The best parts are the break ups. I think the toss up is between...

Edward: You don't belong in my world. You will never see me again. Promise you won't do anything reckless.

and

Jacob: Go away!
Bella: You can't break up with me! I mean, you're my best friend! Wait...

Or the part where Bella makes her first suicidal gesture to commune with her schizophrenic hallucination/telepathy of/with Edward.

Edward: You promised you wouldn't do anything reckless.
Bella: You promised it would be as though you never existed.

From the peanut gallery -

[Bella wakes up screaming and sobbing brokenly from probably a wet dream about Edward. It's been like five months at this point.]

B: WHY IS SHE NOT ON MEDICATION?!
L: It's love, B., it's love.
B: Fuck love!

Seriously. I think this movie may border on the irresponsible.

Also, B. told me that the book New Moon was supposed to be modeled on Wuthering Heights.
Which is disgusting.

Words Words Words: Ladder Theory, cont'd.

After we had all gone out to dinner after the meeting during which we all generally snarked it up and tore into the social mores of our communities, a freshman staffer walked me home. I had calmed down a great deal. "You have many sad relationship stories," he said.

"Yeah - I don't know," I said quietly, "I've learned a lot. It all does teach you a lot about human nature."

I read the actual Ladder Theory website this morning, and I was struck in particular not by the humor but by the bitterness, which at times I enjoy accepting more or less at face value. But it always troubles me sooner or later: usually sooner.

You know, people aren't mean. They're really not. They're not cruel and vindictive. They aren't petty and vapid. They aren't worthless and meager. They're not mean.

They may act that way, but underneath it all, even beneath the most wretched and evil exterior, there exists a soul, that little peace of the heavenly mirror, that reflects the love of God. There is courage, compassion, joy, wisdom, and self-sacrifice in all of us. There is heroism and love, and our journey is to find it. We can't actually find it. We can't be reconciled to God, to the image of what He intended us to be, unless He reconciles us to Himself. He shows us.

In conclusion, I am unsatisfied with language. I am unsatisfied with a communication that shapes and mediates and manipulates love in too many different ways. That shoves us about and roughs us up and slicks us into unholy ruts.

I am going to break language. Poets do not create; poets destroy.

Confessions: It's not you; it's not me: it's the economy, cuddle bitch

Me: "How did it go? What did he say?"
Her: "Well......He began by saying, 'Due to the economic downturn -'"
Me: "Wait. Wait. Stop right there. I can already tell that this is going somewhere a-MAZ-ing. Okay, start again and repeat."
Her: "He said, 'Due to the economic downturn, I no longer believe it's feasible to have a wife and children because I do not believe I could adequately provide for them, so I am no longer interested in dating any more women for the rest of my life.'"
Me: "That is officially the best break-up line ever."
Her: "But I already broke up with him! This was his why-I'll-never-date-women-again speech for why he couldn't try again."
Me: "..."
Her: "...and he's still coming to Thanksgiving at my house...."
Me: "WHAT?!"
Her: "Wait....wait....did....he....is he trying to....make me his cuddle bitch?"

***

The ladder theory of male-female interaction goes as follows. Women have two ladders on which men are rung: the Friends ladder and the Want to Get In Your Pants ladder. You cannot jump ladders. The topmost rung of the Friends ladder is the Cuddle Bitch.* Guys have only one ladder, the Want to Get In Your Pants Ladder, and all the women in the world are ranked accordingly.

Me: "That's disgusting...and yet I respect that."

Her: "I know, me too."

Me: "It's not true though, guys totally take cuddle bitches unto themselves. I didn't even know how to make boys my cuddle bitch until a boy turned me out. And I don't even really have cuddle bitches, it's too gross."

Her: "Ugh. I hate this. I'm the one who makes boys my cuddle bitch, I don't want to be his cuddle bitch. I hate it. It sounds like cuttle fish. Ugh. Mutual cuddle bitchery..."

***

I took her to the meeting so she could discuss her love life with the entire TAUG editorial board afterward. She shared the ladder theory. It was contested.

Managing Editor: "I have jumped the ladders! I have jumped the ladders!"

John: "Way to go, my brother!" [High fives and whooping from all male staff.]

Her: "But why do guys take cuddle bitches?"

Them: "That's so weird, I don't know..."

***

Me: "But why on earth would Mr. Roboto (Domo) make me his cuddle bitch? It was so confusing."

Her: "Yeah, and then when you confronted him about it, he was like, 'No, I'm not interested, you are my cuddle bitch.'"

Me: "And then he was surprised, after having told me, that I was no longer willing to be his cuddle bitch. You know what it is? It's because boys aren't as good at cuddle bitchery as girls are, so some use the same repertoire of seduction skills on girls they just want to be friends with, which is confusing if the girl likes them and just gross, regardless."

Her: "Is cuddle bitchery....is cuddle bitchery....wrong?"

Me: "Well...I don't take cuddle bitches unto myself anymore."

Her: "It's mutual using. You can avoid commitment and heartbreak."

Me: "Yeah. Kind of codependent, too."

A pause.

Her: "Cuddle bitchery is like social drinking."

Me: "Yes! It is!"

Her: "Harmless and helpful in moderation and in public, but with the tendency to go some place ugly and addictive in private."

Me: "Yes. And some people have more tolerance for it than others!"

Her: "Yes!"

***

She was still for a minute in the shifting chairs of the computer lab, and her face had that open and radiant expression: sadness. "But don't they understand?" she asked me softly, "Don't they understand that if I really show them something of myself...that that...that...you don't need to be my boyfriend, but that was...that was me. That was something. That was special. That means something."

I put a steady hand on her back.

***

*Note: The traditional definition of cuddle bitch includes actual physical intimacy, i.e. cuddling. For the purpose of the rest of this post, however, cuddle bitch was also defined in a broader, emotional sense. That is, the Emotional Cuddle Bitch subtype.

Sophie Solomon returns to set her house in order

Though you would do well to remember this:

Every woman, at her best and at her worst, is Aphrodite Pandemos.

Now that I have no shame I will proclaim it

...breaking the heart of a poet has consequences.

To My Unknown Gs: Issue 4 Coming Soon to a Mailbox or Internet Near YOU!

"Unless a choice is exquisitely appropriate, standards must be upheld rigorously."
--Lue-Yee Tsang, November 12, 2009

IT IS FINISHED. (We sincerely apologize for this completely inappropriate witticism. Your regularly scheduled blog post will return after we have hunted down the heretic and tickled her with peacock feathers until she cries and says ten pater nosters.)

Issue 4 of To An Unknown God is officially off to the printers after about a week of insanity in which I think all of senior staff came down with an acute case of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, an episode of hypomania, and may have even questioned our sexual orientations. I, for my part, developed a repetitive stress injury of the whole body being on the interwebs all day tidying up articles, writing a last-minute article, and generally getting IMbushed by editors whenever I logged on to gmail.

A highlight of my our insanity was our final communal layout sesh on Thursday in the Wheeler computer lab during which I may or may not have screeched "HEATHEN! HEATHEN!" at John when he threatened the Poiesis section with dismemberment. Hey, at least I didn't stomp my foot and toss my hair like I totally did once during this stage for Issue 2.

Afterward, I think it's possible that I proposed to Steph and that she said yes.

Anyway, this issue is my favorite issue, being in almost exactly the spiritual register I would like, a labor of love which we all pitched in on, even editors emeriti coming to our aid from Philly and Paris and San Diego.

My favorites, to look forward to:

1. "Women and Dating," John's latest Lecture To The Womenfolk For Their Own D*@% Good.
2. Emily's (a new grasshopper editor) piece on the feminine aspects of God.
3. Whit's article on transformational female leadership: preach it, sister!
4. Steph's article on pornography and the accompanying testimony about pornography addiction.
5. "Dearest," a new Grace Kim poem that I think is the most punchy and arresting piece we've published. Proof: all the girls like it, even though no one reads poetry, according to John!
6. "Sketches from the MUNI Bus or Desk" by KC, which I think is the best poetry we've published, period.

Really, though, I like everything that I didn't write. (It's that time of my artistic cycle.) It looks gorgeous too, especially the cover. I want to see if we can get the same artist to paint the David for next issue's theme, "Men."

So, hopefully it will be online within a week or so, and if you are a TAUG alum you'll be getting an email from whoever's doing distribution to see that you get a hardcopy if you want one. If you aren't a TAUG alum and want one anyway just drop me a line, and I'll make it so.

take heart, cont'd.

I. In the house of mourning

I had thought that volunteering to be a prayer partner at tonight's annual grief and loss healing service, "Take Heart," would be an appropriate way to end To Write Love On Her Arms Day. I stood in the dark narthex, with only a single candle for light beside me, and handed clear and red glass hearts and programs to the people who walked through the door, whispering, "Take heart, Christ welcomes you here." As Rev. Debbie Whaley began her first meditation on Matthew 14:22-23 I saw that the other prayer partners were still waiting for stragglers, but I knew that I had to go inside as a participant for this part of the service. "Take heart, it is I;" she read, "do not be afraid."

She led us through a guided imagery exercise in which we called up an area of storm in our lives to come to the surface. She asked us to imagine the Holy Spirit entering our bodies and filling our minds, and His presence to wrap around us. God was mostly blue tonight, a private joke between He and I, a romantic trifle; He was also shifting into purple and red around me, surrounding me.

She led us to tell God about the storm; she led us to tell Him what we felt; she led us to tell Him how it felt in our bodies. She told us to imagine that Jesus was coming across the waves to meet us there; I saw a figure made of white light reaching down to hold me.

The next part of the service began, and I reached for the box of tissues to blow my nose and dry my tears, for I had been weeping steadily for ten minutes, and the woman next to me and I might be called as a back-up team to pray with others at any moment.

"During times of suffering," said the pastor, "we may feel that God is with us powerfully. At other times, we feel such doubt and we question, we may ask why, and it may not feel like He's even there. People are here to pray with you in this time as you ask your questions and tell your story."

There was only a small group of people at the service, though more than we were expecting, and no lines formed before the small teams of two or three at the back of the sanctuary. We were not needed. I took the time as a gift and went through the meditation myself, walking forward to kneel at the large cross that had been set up on the ground at the front of the sanctuary. I brought a red glass heart with me to focus my attention. I let myself ask the questions I try not to ask because they at times seem petty, ungrateful, and, scariest of all, unanswerable. "Why? Why would this come upon me? Why am I in a place of where I have been so wounded and so sinful? Why did you allow me to come here?"

So that you would trust me.

I don't want to trust you, Abba, I confessed, terrified and angry. Because when I try to trust You I end up hoping for things. Hoping for things to go a certain way when they may not. I hate hope. I hate it. I don't want to hope anymore.

This struck me as patently untrue. Well, I don't want to hope in vain, I qualified.

What do you hope for?

I hope that my broken relationships would heal, Abba, that I could be with the people that I love without fear, that I could...that I could...that I could come home. That I don't have to live my life alone without support and without love and without a family. I want a home. That's what I hope.

It occurred to me, then, that these hopes, which I thought so monstrous and ridiculous, were completely reasonable considering what God has promised. Verses from Hosea flitted through my mind - I will make you lie down in safety - I will settle them in their homes. I also realized, as many people wiser than I have been telling me, that what I wanted was what I already tried, though often fail, to give to others. That I wanted nurture, peace, and protection for myself. And that it is just bad logic to think that the gospel that I preach and attest to applies to everyone but me.

I went in search of more tissues; I had been weeping steadily at the cross for fifteen minutes this time.

The hymn we sang afterward had a verse that really spoke to me:

Be still, my soul! Your God will undertake
To guide the future as he has the past;
Your hope, your confidence let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
Be still, my soul! The waves and winds still know
His voice who ruled them while he dwelt below.

I spilled candlewax all down my second favorite dress after Communion. Amen.

II. Wisdom crieth without

As I was walking home from the service up Telegraph, I encountered a band of screaming, "You're going to hell, fornicators and queers!" evangelists who I've seen on Sproul before. The last time I saw them I had fantasized about going up to the screaming preacher man and asking him to tell me more about Jesus, in hopes of distracting him into acting more constructively or at least directing his anger at me instead of the fornicators and queers. I walked past them, troubled. He was yelling loudly, and I could tell that he was upsetting and disgusting everyone out on a Friday night; I felt scared at the noise and the anger. I stopped half a block past them, conflicted.

I knew they wouldn't listen to reason; I knew they wouldn't even listen to honest feedback or well-intentioned engagement. I knew that most passerby knew they were crazy and were more pissed than molested. I thought of the place of peace and healing and love I had come from two minutes before. I knew that this was not required of me, that I was under no obligation to expose myself to their abuse, that I could go home and rest.

But they're talking about Jesus, I thought. This is not the gospel. I turned around.

I approached the man. I stood a little too close to him, staring. I just stared, reproachful and receptive at once. He started screaming at me, but then ignored me so he could scream at other people. I waited for him to look at me again. "Excuse me," I said quietly.

"You're excused," he said curtly, then turned away from me and began screaming again.

I continued to stand there, unmoving, probably pretty creepy. Finally he said brusquely, "If you have a question, you can talk to my wife over there." Then the screaming recommenced.

I turned to the small, nervous woman he pointed to.

"What's your question?" she said, suspicious.

"I was wondering if you could tell me more about Jesus," I said.

"What do you know about Him?"

"I know that in the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God. I know that Jesus is co-equal with the Father and is the Lord of Creation. I know that He's my Savior."

"What did He save you from?" she asked briskly.

"My sin," I said, "my brokenness."

"Okay, then what's your question?"

"I guess I don't have one, actually," I said. Awkward silence. "It's just, everyone's very upset."

"What? I don't know what you're talking about, and some people still come up to us to talk" she said dismissively, though a bit defensively: I had said shibboleth, after all.

"Everyone's avoiding this corner..."

"Well, they should be upset," she snapped, "they killed our Lord, they murdered Him."

"So did we," I said firmly.

"We did before we were reconciled to Him, and just going around saying God loves everybody..." she said and sneered contemptuously. "Anything else?"

"It's just..." I soldiered on, "I feel really scared."

"Why are you scared?"

"Because your husband is yelling very loudly."

"Oh, he's not yelling, he's preaching. It's caruso in Greek. Anything else?"

I was wasting her time, and the man was still harrassing onlookers. "God bless," I said, a bit at a loss, and continued walking home.

I felt a little shell-shocked by my uncharacteristically confrontational behavior, but not very. I felt good, if a little unsatisfied about the encounter. I came up with better fantasies of what I could have done: I had probed deeper into her theology and testimony, I had started screaming a truer gospel louder than he could bellow, I had started singing "Amazing Grace," I had just stood there silently, staring, maybe kneeling at his feet and praying quietly but vehemently that the spirit of wrath and hateful distortion would leave this brother and that he would preach good news, not some bleeding-heart gospel which I know I can be tempted to espouse, but good news, the truth, of sin but also of redemption and the grace and love of God.

Maybe next time.