piccadilly kim

(originally from october 18, 2004)

To the sand, to the sand, to the sand I will go
And I’ll play, play, play in the rain and the snow –
But NO, oh NO, no,
NO snow on the sand, the sand is the unsnowiest thing that I know!
It is dry and not damp, not damp and so dry
Except when the ocean comes on it to cry
Which it does fairly often, I’m certain enough,
And the myth that it doesn’t I will often rebuff.
The ocean cries tears of the saltiest kind,
But they’re happy, so happy, for it knows that to find
The Tweezies, the Tweezies, that special sea-breed,
Its weeping will draw them quick out of their mead
Hall where they’ve reveled so long
With dancing and feasting and oceany song.
So its not out of sadness nor out of despair
But from joy and delight and de-lack-of-despair
That the ocean its tears daily does shed
Which fall on the Tweezie, on the top of his head!
Then, when the ocean has cried there, right there on the sand,
You can see the Tweezies come out and come up, each hand in each hand
Their hands are the handiest part of their whole,
They’re upsy and downsy and insy and outsy,
And wowsy and bowsy and powsy and dowsy
They do lots of fun things, these hands on these Tweezies,
They even cover their snouts when they sneezies!
Or their mouths when they wheezies!
And sometimes even their feet when they freezies!
Which is really quite useful, it is, is, is, is,
When the Tweezies begin to jaunt ‘bout on the sand.
The sand is not hard, not up by the sea,
And it is quite lax for a Tweezie, you see.
It is so soft and so mushy and so squushy
A Tweezie, you see, could become – horror! – fluhshy!
Except for his hands! Oh his glorious hands!
His hands that cover his soft little feet
And keep him from sinking, from sinking so quick
Under the sand where he’s bound to get sick!
How do they do this, his hands, you may ask?
They do it by keeping his feet stable and steady
And ready and steady and steadily ready
For whatever may come up from beneath
Like his wife Mrs. Tweezie or his pet Tweezie Squeeth!
The Squeeth are an old brand of Tweezie best friend,
And the Squeeth, he will bounce and will pounce and will trounce
He’ll flounce when they can, in spite of himself,
When he finds an old foe, a great friend or a spouse.
The Tweezie, the Tweezie, like I said once before,
Is the friend of the Squeeth, who’s certain to roar
If anything sharp or hard flies at the poor Tweezie guy.
He’s soft and he’s squishy, a bit like the sand,
And it hurts him so much if a point pricks his hand.
So that’s why he keeps the Squeeth always nearbysies
To keep a sharp lookout with his ten super eyesies.
The Squeeth likes the Tweezie, too, really, he does;
They work well together and this is because …
Because, oh because, the Tweezie supplies the Squeeth with his extra front teeth!
The teeth of the Tweezie are a sight to behold
Some of them silver and some of them gold
And some of them ruby and some of them not
And some of them cold and some of them hot!
The teeth of the Tweezie are extensive, you see,
But he does not use them to see!
Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no
He uses them all to gnaw and to gnaw!
To gnaw and to gnash and to gnash and to gash
And to gash and to gnaw and to gnaw and to gnash!
But the Squeeth oh dear oh, the poor little Squeeth
Is simply lacking any fine teeth!
He has ten eyes, ten eyes, to be sure,
But what good do they do him without any teeth?
He sees all the food that he’d like to bequeath
To his stomach each day –
All the curds and the whey, and the whey and the curds
But lots more than that.
Oh much more than that, than that, oh than that!
He’d like to taste turnips and trifles and tarts
And apples and olives and artichoke hearts!
SO, the Tweezie, dear Tweezie, dear Tweezie-kin pal
Chews all the curds and the whey and the whey and the curds
The turnips and trifles and tarts and apples and olives and artichoke hearts
Then he gives them to Squeeth-friend who with a big sigh
Swallows and swallows, then asks for some pie.
But the pie must now wait for another day
For the ocean is out and its now time to play!
The ocean, the ocean with its splash and its splish
And its sploosh and its slosh and its splush and its swish!
Its swish, splush, slosh and SPLOOSH,
Squish, squish, squish!
With the Squeeth along with the Tweezie, you see,
They can play in the ocean this fine, fine, fine day.
For the sand is so bright and shining and white
Oh what a sight, what a sight, what a sight!
It crackles and crinkles and crunkles and coos
When over it often the Tweezie and Squeeth tread with their shoes.
Crackle and crinkle and crunkle and coo,
The sand laughs at the pair,
And it plays with them, too!

(originally from classical myth class in the spring 2006 semester)

Of all the Greek heroes, before this class I was most familiar with Hercules; Odysseus was second, probably due to Wishbone. I associated Hercules in particular with superhuman strength accompanied by an inordinately athletic body, and maybe curly Greek-godlike hair (I hadn’t pictured the beard, though!). More importantly, he was the good guy who’d go around doing good works for the populace. He’d live up to the description in Powell where "Tiresias foretold what … rebellious monsters, on land and by sea, would Heracles slay." I had tentatively similar thoughts of Odysseus, Theseus, and Jason. But when we studied them, I was quite disappointed to learn of their horrific flaws. Hercules "whirled his club down on the boy’s fair hair and shattered the bones beneath," Euripides writes. That’s not a line I expect to hear of a hero. The other three all gallivant around the Hellenistic world, flouting their marriage vows. (Hercules would, too, except he already killed his wife.) How do the heroes get off so easy?

I suppose the easy answer is simply that they’re heroes. They’re famous, and, besides, they do lots of other great things that surpass their minor murders. They’re above all that. Or are they? Hercules doesn’t face a Greek executioner, but he could have been killed in any of his twelve labors. But he wasn’t; he survived and came out the victor each time. And which is he remembered for now: child-slaying or labor-defeating? It seems that, though he paid tremendously for his sins, his punishment was actually a favor in disguise. He received glory and fame for what should have brought him pain and disgrace.

Then there’s Odysseus. I was most angry with him. Maybe it’s just that I’m single in the midst of the senior scramble, but I really sympathize with Penelope as she waits faithfully for twenty years. "I must endlessly feel the loss of an absent husband," she writes in Ovid’s Heroides, "Oh, I hope … that you, if you are free to return, do not choose to stay away." Yet, while she pines, he cavorts a year with Circe and seven with Calypso. Surely it was a man who decided to make Odysseus a hero. How does he get off so easy?

Perhaps now would be a good time to address the heroines. They’re certainly not a perfect lot either, but they tend to be remembered for their flaws whereas the heroes are not. What’s Medea do? She murders her children. What’s Hercules do? He courageously completes twelve labors. What’s Phaedra do? She falls for her stepson. What’s Odysseus do? He has lots of adventures after winning the Trojan war.

Again, how do the heroes get off so easy? Is it just because of Greek life – that infidelity was typical, and of course the heroes would have affairs, too? Or was it that the people could live vicariously through the heroes whose sins they coveted?

And how is it that the heroes don’t have any psychological pain about their misdeeds? Hercules doesn’t develop post-traumatic stress disorder; Odysseus doesn’t end up depressed. It’s hard to say what their consciences told them about extramarital affairs, but the heroes don’t strike me as the most guilt-ridden bunch imaginable.

Maybe it’s all just part of the job, being virile and excessively strong and prone to kill things like Nemean lions or Cyclopes or small children. Or maybe I’m a bit harsh on them. They’re only half god, after all.

It’s not that I want to discredit their good deeds – they are numerous, I admit. It’s just that these guys have gone down in history as heroes, but they did a lot of rather un-heroic things, too. It’s like finding out Santa doesn’t really deliver your Christmas presents – or worse, that he eats reindeer.

(originally from sometime circa 2003)

The big brown squirrel awoke one day, full of the glee that comes from knowing his entire day could be spent in the redemption act of discernment. As he opened his eyes to the lovely creation all around him, a deep sense of shalom overpowered his tiny soul. He quickly set about his life’s vocation of nut-gathing, for which God had well equipped him with a marvelous set of large, white, Dutch teeth. Completely engaged in his task, he thought of how much he would like to be a human image-bearer for God, but eventually concluded that his station in life was a direct result of the fall. While he waited longingly for some nice Calvinist to come along and redeem him, he took a brief break from his nut-gathering in order to flesh out his worldview to include almonds as well as walnuts. Finally, as the sun was setting over the Engineering Building, he calmly reflected on how serendipitous it was that his great calling of nut-gathering so clearly met the world’s great need of excess nut-removal.

(originally from november 29, 2006)

Well, at least for a Calvin student: I'm not sure I like Blue Like Jazz. I'm about halfway through, and I have found some bits I really like (and several that have made me laugh out loud; once a man on the train asked if I was okay ... oh dear ...), but I went into the book thinking I'd be crazy about it (since EVERYBODY else is, right?), and I'm just not that crazy about it. I get bored in parts. It feels a bit too tell-y in parts (I know, I know, I'm in no position to judge ... but if I were, that's what I'd say). I think if I went into it thinking it were a devotional sort of a book, I'd really like it, because it would seem so interestingly written. But, I went in thinking a bit more Anne Lamott (maybe I shouldn't have read the back cover ...), and he's not quite her. (Shocker, I know.) Anyway, I'll read the whole thing and give it a fair assessment then, but I just wanted to confess these heathen thoughts while they were fresh.

AND -- I must say, I am shocked and appalled and positive there is some tremendous mistake and that perhaps he has not actually read Taming of the Shrew?? The bit where he alludes to Lucentio pursuing the belligerent Bianca with kindness -- I think it's more likely he's referring to the Petruchio/Katharine relationship (after all, L&B aren't usually major Shakespearean characters referred to in other texts -- and Bianca is not usually called belligerent) -- but then he should have used their names! And, if that is what he meant, how can he possibly call Petruchio "kind"?? Did he miss that bit about "KILL a wife with kindness"??

(originally from november 16, 2006 -- and spoiler alert for the musical blood brothers)

I just wanted to recommend that anyone's who looking for a good, thought-provoking musical in London might want to check out Blood Brothers. If you do, come back and help me sort through these mental meanderings ...

--was it tacky to mention Marilyn Monroe what, 9 times? in one musical?
--okay, let's trace that dance motif and talk about it ...
--Mickey was perfectly cast; Eddie was way too old and perhaps a bit too camp?
--was the narrator the devil?
--at first all the superstition stuff seemed a bit over the top, but by the end I think I was okay with it ...
--have you ever heard of the superstition of not putting new shoes on a table?? I'd never heard of it before.
--I can forgive the semi-weak plot device of Mrs. Johnston not running to call the police because she's superstitious as it was kind of necessary for the plot -- can you?
--the whole thing felt a little too melodramatic and over the top at the beginning, but again by the end I think I was okay with it ...
--gosh, I feel sorry for Mickey!!! I just want to give him a hug!
--nothing ever really happened between Linda and Eddie, right?
--why exactly did Mickey go to jail? And what exactly happened that October night? Did Sammy kill a man? If so, why didn't Sammy go to jail? What happened to him??
--anyone else note the irony of double casting Mr. Lyons as the milkman who danced with Mrs. Johnston at the beginning of Act II?
--that looking glass breaking, salt spilling song started to get kind of catchy, eh?
--was "class" a way too obvious rhyme at the end? But I think I can forgive it, too.
--the English seem much more opposed to medicating depression in general; what do you think of that?
--I sympathize so much with Linda, as long as she never slept with Eddie, in which case I would sympathize with her significantly less.
--what was going on with Mickey's sing-songy lyrics about being seven, almost eight? Did they mean to make that a song but then decide not to or what??
--when they moved to the country, at first it seemed like Linda was another sibling -- where was her mother??
--anyone else seeing vague Harry-Ron-Hermione bits? Maybe it's just the two guys and a girl thing ... yeah, I think so ... I wasn't thinking Phantom-Raoul-Christine but probably could have been just as easily ...
--okay, did I get this right?: Mickey shot Eddie and immediately thereafter the sharpshooter shot Mickey?
--do you hate or feel sorry for Mrs. Lyons?
--wasn't it awfully lucky they were fraternal twins?
--did it feel pseudo-(and not as good!)Shakespearey ("In fair Verona ...") to anyone else at the narrator's prologue?
--I liked the scrim thing at the beginning and opening of Act II. It was also cool that Act II was actually decently long!
--so, if I wanted to get out there and do something about the class system in England now ... what would I do?? (Besides cry. I'm sure I wasn't the only one with a tear or two in sight ...)

(originally from october 17, 2006)

All right, guys, I know we've all seen the Princess Bride more than once or twice, but this last time I saw it I came up with a question that's been nagging at me ever since. When Inigo hears Westley's scream (as he's in process of becoming mostly dead), he explains that Westley makes that sound because it's that night that his true love marries another. How does Inigo know that? Granted, he could know that the Princess Buttercup is getting married that night, but how does he know that she is Westley's true love? The last time Inigo saw Westley, they were swordfighting (and the Princess was a valuable object in question) and Inigo got knocked out. When did he get the news flash that Westley loved her? He thought Westley was the sinister Dread Pirate Roberts, and it seems reasonable to assume that he thought the DPR would be up to no good -- yes, Inigo could gather that the DPR wanted to capture the Princess, but there are other reasons for trying capture someone (particularly when you're a pirate) than true love -- and furthermore, surely the DPR doesn't do something so fanciful as fall in love?? The only explanation I can figure is that Fezzik filled Inigo in sometime during that "nursing the inebriated friend back to health" bit that I think I missed this time around -- gosh, the more I think about it, the more I think that must be it -- but then, how does Fezzik know the scoop? (He doesn't just scream "grapevine" to me ...) Oh dear, who can help??

(originally from october 8, 2006)

Supposedly, you'd think, you're vulnerable in the shower because, well, of obvious reasons. But that's where you've gone wrong. No, you're must vulnerable in the shower because you can't get to a pen and piece of paper to write down all the millions of brilliant insights that come to you then, simply because they know you can't write them down. Ha ha, they say, can't catch me now! (These inspirations are perhaps cousins of the sort that flutter in your face and dance in front of your computer at odd hours of the morning ...) They drive you absolutely crazy, especially when there are so many good ones!!

And can I just point out I wrote all that in second person? I'm dreadfully proud of myself.