Shakespeare and Me

Love is a babe: then might I not say so,
To give full growth to that which still doth grow.


Shakespeare--Sonnet 115

Having not seen any new films lately that have inspired me to write, I'll focus instead on the past, say Renaissance England.

This semester I have been blessed with teaching literature for the first time. Up until now, I've only been teaching grammar and essays, and while I do enjoy teaching these--odd for me to say considering how much I hated studying grammar in school--I have thoroughly enjoyed teaching literature. Granted, since this is my first semester to teach it, I don't truly believe that I've done the best job, although my students have been turning in some wonderful papers, but I do believe they have been learning.

However, it seems I have been subconsciously leading them to Shakespeare. Yes, when I planned my syllabus, I knew Shakespeare would come near the end of my semester; but what I didn't know is that I would enjoy teaching him as much as I have. After all, Shakespeare and I haven't always seen eye-to-eye.

One of my earliest experiences with Shakespeare was Romeo & Juliet. This first reading occurred in junior high. I didn't get it. Of course, that's not to say I didn't understand the language. I knew what was happening in the play, not everything, but enough to know that the entire play takes place over the course of three days. Three days. That's one day for Romeo to lament his unrequited love for Rosaline and subsequently see and fall in love with Juliet. Okay.... that's almost believable.

The second day has the couple marrying, Tybalt killing Mercutio, Romeo killing Tybalt, which of course leads to Romeo's banishment. Wow! These characters don't believe in wasting time.

And on the third day, Romeo and Juliet have an early morning love-making session--despite Juliet being torn between her love for her cousin, Tybalt, and her love for her new husband--, Romeo is banished, Juliet takes a sleeping draft and becomes a sleeping beauty, Romeo believes she's dead (as does everyone else) and goes back to Verona to kill himself, Juliet wakes to find her husband dead, takes his knife and kills herself. The end.

Now, my timing may be off. While writing the above, I feel I may have missed a day in there somewhere. Nevertheless, to my young mind such extreme passions seemed illogical, unbelievable, and just plain stupid. Who in their right mind would do this, any of it? It's all utter madness! Madness, I say!

Romeo & Juliet was not the best introduction to Shakespeare, at least not for me. Not until a couple of years later, in high school, did my fascination and understanding of Shakespeare began to grow. Theatre, Shakespeare's kingdom, forever changed my perspective of that poet who couldn't write a simple, easily read sentence to save his life. During my sophomore year in high school I auditioned for One-Act--every year, schools compete against each other by delivering their best one-act plays--and that year our director decided to adapt Macbeth into a one-act play for us to perform. (We ended up not performing Macbeth but that's another story.)

Maybe this is the "boy" coming out, but I loved the gore, the overwhelming guilt, the witches, the insanity of it all. Now that's a Shakespeare I can sink my teeth into. To this day, Macbeth remains my personal favorite (I've seen a version of Titus Andronicus, but that play is too violent and distant to appeal to my emotions).  Macbeth displayed human emotions I could understand, not to the extent that I shared Macbeth's motives, but they were at least understandable. The passion of love still escaped me. However, thanks to the Scottish Play, I was willing to give Romeo & Juliet another try.

Some of you may find what I'm about to write sacrilegious, but nevertheless it's the truth. Suffice it to say that I was once young, naive, and craving the passion of Romeo & Juliet. Baz Luhrmann's "eclectic" mess of a film, his MTV version some have called it, changed how I viewed Romeo & Juliet. After viewing his film, I got it.

Yes, the line delivery was not all that great. Yes, Shakespeare's language gets lost in the rapid cuts, dizzying shots, and screaming, but that doesn't change the fact that for the first time I understood Romeo and Juliet's passion for each other. Of course, it probably helped that I was feeling the first stirrings of passion myself. Around the time the film came out, so did I. At least, I came out to myself. Denied love was something I could relate to as I started crushing on guys from afar. Always looking, nothing more. Being forced to hide a part of myself, like the two star-crossed lovers, was definitely something I could relate to. So it seemed, I just had to wait for the right time to get Shakespeare's best expression of love... from what I've read so far.

And now, jumping ahead to today, I'm showing another film version of a Shakespearean play to my students. No, I'm not showing a version of Macbeth, although in another semester I will show the recent PBS version starring Patrick Stewart (it is the definition of "awesome"!). I will be showing Kenneth Branagh's ambitious and robust, full-length version of Hamlet.

I came to truly respect Hamlet when I took a graduate class entirely devoted to what many consider Shakespeare's masterpiece--the other one up for the top spot in critical circles is King Lear, but I have yet to read or see that one yet. I truly wish I could devote an entire semester to this play, but my students are not up to that level yet. Maybe in a few years; plus, there's another class I'd love to teach first: an entire class on the Harry Potter series, but that's for another post. Going so deep into the play was an exhausting and liberating experience. It was amazing to see passages I'd thought incomprehensible suddenly burst into understanding. I only hope I can reveal the beauties to my students. I know I won't reach all of them, but it'll be worth it to reach one or two, or at the very least light the spark that will fuel the fire of curiosity for years to come. Like me, many of them may just need time to appreciate the wonders held within these works of art.

The light started to come on in some of their heads when I introduced to Shakespeare's language through a couple of his sonnets. It's amazing what you can do with a well-placed curse word and a bawdy image to bring forth understanding. I always find it funny when students realize the rather humorous and sexual nature of Shakespeare's writings. In their minds, they can't equate the stuffiness of Shakespeare with humor and sexuality. That he made dirty jokes blows their minds!

Dirty jokes aside, I cant wait to see how they react to the rest of the play. My journey has been fun and fulfilling. I hope it can be for them as well.

And blest are those
Whose blood and judgement are co-meddled
That they are not a pipe for Fortune's finger
To sound what stop she pleases. Give me that man
That is not passion's slave and I will wear him
In my heart's core--ay, in my heart of heart--
As I do thee.

Hamlet-Act 3, Scene 2

A Life Full of Food, Family, and Plenty of Laughter

Just a couple of days ago, I was asked by my Mom and my Uncle Joey to deliver the eulogy for my grandmother. I was happy to do so; below is the written version. I'm posting it here so the family and friends who were not able to make it to the rosary will know what was said. My grandmother truly was a unique person, a woman of incomparable gifts. She will be missed by all who knew her.

A Life of Food, Family, and Plenty of Laughter

Last week I was discussing an old Greek myth with my students, and I ended up giving a lecture on being able to let go when faced with the loss of a loved one. I never imagined a couple of days later that I'd be standing here in front of family and friends to talk about the life of my grandmother. And now I'm faced with taking my own lecture on "letting go" and applying it to my own life.

Maria Racquelita Gonzales, or as I knew her, Little Grandma, was the only sister among a line of brothers; however, being surrounded by brothers did not reduce her spirit, instead she became a second mother and loving provider for her brothers. Whenever the family needed anything, she was there with enough food to feed an entire city and ten times as much laughter.

Indeed, when the hospital chaplain asked for some final words, my sister said she'd miss our grandmother's laughter more than anything else. As for me, I think food would take the top spot, but laughter would definitely be a close second. Her laughter was infectious. Even now, I don't remember a lot of the reasons why we laughed, just that we laughed so much that tears sprung from our eyes and our stomachs would ache for days afterwards. Even so, I do remember one time when grandma was preparing breakfast for my sister and me. It was something simple, just cornflakes, milk, and a little bit of sugar. Well, somehow my sister's bowl had something that looked like sugar but was most definitely salt. When grandma was around, life was not boring.

Just this past week, I was shown plenty of pictures of grandma, but one sticks out in my mind. It's a simple picture. It was grandma wearing a cowboy hat, a belt with a holster, and a six-shooter. Despite being a unique image, the one striking characteristic of the picture, the thing that draws your eyes is her mouth, wide open, teeth showing:  in other words, the perfect image of the kind of laughter she shared. No one can say Rachel Sedillo didn't love life, and she took every moment, no matter the situation, and transformed it into a joyous moment.

However, laughter was not her only gift. Another was her cooking, and if you've ever had her enchiladas or tamales (two of my favorites) then you know just what I'm talking about. Some of my favorite memories involve holidays, or those special occasions when grandma would pay us a visit, when I would sit in the kitchen and watch grandma make tamales, a tedious and long process that produced some wonderful food and even better memories.

Food usually accompanied grandma's other gift: helping others. Even if all she could give was food, a friendly ear, or simply her time, grandma was there for those she loved. Family, friends, she was there for everyone and anyone. Even after she retired form work, she still found time to help others. One particular memory comes to mind. My mom used to tell us a story that involved grandma sending mom to school with rollers in her hair. Obviously, for a teenager, this was not the best way to go to school. However, there was method to grandma's madness. During lunch, mom had one of her aunts do her hair because that day was "picture day" and grandma wanted her daughter to look her best.

She always wanted the best for and of her children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews. Even when my mother took up horse-back riding, despite not having ridden a horse before, grandma became her daughter's unofficial coach. She'd spend hours with children, playing and just listening, no matter how many ninja turtles I showed her, no matter if she knew what I was talking about. She'd nod and smile as though she understood everything. No matter what, she was everyone's biggest fan, especially when it came to family and friends. When her son, Joey, my uncle, played football, I'm sure there was one voice rising above all the other screams and cheers: his mom. Years later, she was even prouder when Joe married his wife, Tiffani, who later gave birth to more grandchildren. Grandma loved being a grandmother.

Of course, grandma did spend time on herself, as the bingo halls and casinos of New Mexico can attest. I remember one time when both my grandmothers found themselves in San Antonio. My parents and I had taken them to one of the great attractions San Antonio has to offer: the River Walk. We'd walked all over the River Walk, and I believe we even took a boat ride down the river. Needless to say, they were quite exhausted after all that walking, and of course they let us know just how tired they were. However, on our way back to the hotel, someone mentioned "bingo" and suddenly both grandmas had the energy of four year olds. Almost nothing could keep grandma from one of her favorite hobbies. Nevertheless, family came first.

She lived the life she wanted, a life full of food, family, love, and plenty of laughter. And while today there is a little less laughter in the world, while our hearts still grieve the loss of so unique and independent a person, her life will live on in our collective memories, and in the hearts of those whom she touched with her gifts. From now on, every excellent meal, every moment spent giving to others, and every laugh will be a reminder of the wonderful person we've lost. Until we meet, Little Grandma, until we meet again. In our hearts, you were anything but "little."

Madness and Writing

Even though I believe the genesis of this particular post stems from the current stresses of my live (mostly work and my lack of time for anything creative, including this blog), the subject of madness and writing has been a topic that has flown in and out of mind for some time now, hell, probably since I first put pen to paper all those years ago.

As I started moving through the material I had assigned this semester for my first literature-focused class, I realized something: I like "crazy" authors and "crazy" stories. Without realizing it, I had assigned works by Poe, Woolf, Gilman, and Kafka, and that was just the first part of the semester. We have since moved on to the Greek gods. Many students, I have discovered, find the ancient Greeks' myths nothing short of pure insanity. How can anyone ever believe that a god could take the form of an animal, impregnate a human woman, and thus produce a half-god offspring? That is, of course, until I draw comparisons to Christian theology (and I am VERY careful not to use "mythology" when referring to Christianity; many students would probably not appreciate their religious beliefs being lumped into the same category as those crazy Greek gods) and the Virgin Mary.

The next major works my students will read include Oedipus Rex and Hamlet. Needless to say, those works could also fall under the umbrella of "crazy." I fear my students may think I'm nuts and not just because I enjoy reading and writing as much as I do.

However, my sanity aside, all of this got me to thinking more and more about how intricately linked madness and writing can be. Stephen King writes (in his stellar writing book On Writing) that there are about four levels of writing (if I've gotten this wrong, forgive me, for all of my books are currently packed away, so my ability to double-check has been lessened considerably), structured as a pyramid. The bottom layer, which is the largest, is comprised of people who are not competent writers. The second layer consists of competent writers. The third layer is comprised of good writers. And the top layer is populated with genius level writers.

Most people occupy the bottom layer, which is not necessarily a bad thing (unless you're an English teacher and your job is to educate students on how best to write). Fewer people occupy the middle and second layers, but this is still quite a large portion of the population. The top layer has the lowest number of members, obviously. So few true geniuses appear in our lifetimes that in order to occupy this layer it's almost a necessity to be a bit "off."

Stephen King places himself on the third level, the good writers, which is defended by the fact that he is one of the most popular writers of our time. Since I have yet to be published and have my mettle tested out there in the real world of publishing, I'd have to say I'm a competent writer, hopefully moving up the pyramid.

Occupying the top layer is not a place King wants to find himself, and neither do I. His reasoning is that most of the people who are considered genius level writers usually have severe emotional and mental problems and quite often find themselves living a lonely life. It's actually kind of depressing when you think about it. Just think of my favorite writer, Virginia Woolf, who suffered from severe depression, bouts of insanity, and tried to committ suicide a couple of times before she was finally successful.

While I greatly admire Woolf's writing, her life is not one I aspire to. Yes, I want to be published. Yes, I would love to have my books read by millions and be a well-respected writer, but I have to face the fact that such dreams may not be a possibility for me. Of course, this does not mean I'll stop writing. On the contrary, I will always write. I have to. Ever since the first writing project I can remember when I was asked to create a book and I blatantly stole a scene from Disney's The Little Mermaid, I have had this insatiable desire to write nearly everything that comes to mind. This can explain my sometimes insanely long blog posts. This one is seriously threatening to become one of the long ones

Random note: For some reason, reading anything on the Internet that takes more than a couple of minutes constitutes a long post. Welcome to the twenty-first century.

Writing is an outlet for me, and when deprived, I find that I'm irritable, angry, and even moodier than usual. Even if my books never get published, I will continue to write down the stories that come to my head. Not all of them, since some of my ideas are just awful, just the ones that stick, the ideas that linger on in my head for long periods of time.

Recently, I've faced some of my first of many future setbacks, I'm sure, to my professional writing career. They came in the form of rejection letters. The first was a rejection letter from a potential agent. No surprise there. The second came from an academic journal, which said my article "lacked the clarity of argument necessary for academic articles." Apparently, my article was not clear enough in its argument, or something like that. This one did hurt a bit because I had worked pretty hard on the revisions they had asked of me, none of which included: "lacked the clarity of argument necessary for academic articles."

Oh well.

The third rejection letter was for another article I'd submitted, but this one wasn't a surprise either. After submitting the article, I'd reread it (something I should have done before submitting it; I know, stupid mistake) and thought it didn't sound at all like an academic article, but the paper of a first semester grad student, which was exactly when I'd written it.

I've received rejection letters before, but not in such quick succession. The timing is what I think hurt the most. So, I've been wandering around, doing my duties as instructor and tutor just like I always have been, albeit in a more depressed state, wondering if I'll ever be published by anyone other than my former university's literary journal. Not a great state to find myself. Indeed, the madness of writers like Poe and Woolf is starting to become all too clear although not because my writing is fantastic but because I'm now starting to feel the first stings of rejection. I have a feeling wine will be near and dear to me in the coming months and years. Just kidding, of course...or am I?

Anyway, instead of whining about all of this (although I am doing quite a bit of whining in this blog post), I'm going to push on, no matter what may happen. I may find myself an aged teacher, cynical, surly, irritable, and bemoaning my students' lack of writing abilities, but at least I'll have accomplished one thing: I at least taught someone how to express themselves in writing. And that won't be too bad an accomplishment.

Adaptations: Seeing before Reading or Reading before Seeing?

A couple of weeks ago I finished Christopher Isherwood's A Single Man. It's a beautifully written book with what I think is the most intriguing opening paragraph of any book I've ever read:

"Waking up begins with saying am and now. That which  has awoken then lies for a while staring up at the ceiling and down into itself until it has recognized I, and therefore deduced I am, I am now. Here comes next, and is at least negatively reassuring; because here, this morning, is where it has expected to find itself: what’s called at home."

The novel is beautifully sad and a wonderful example of stream of consciousness, especially for people who may find other examples of this style of writing to be too much to digest. And while the book is wonderful, I must confess I hadn't heard of it, much less thought of reading it, until after I saw the film adaptation, Tom Ford's directorial debut. The next day, after finishing the novel the night before, I found myself glorying in the beauty of what I'd just read and a thought occurred to me: How would I have found this book if I hadn't seen the movie?

Among my friends, and I'm assuming the same can be said of others as well, it's usually considered a good--or better--thing to read a book before seeing the film. Now, I used to feel the same way, and I guess I still do. However, after reading a A Single Man, I'm beginning to question how I have come into contact with great literature.

To be perfectly honest, I can be cheap when it comes to buying books, so I'm leery of purchasing a book that may or may not be a dud. This is the point where I usually rely on word of mouth, preferably from people whose reading preferences are near to my own; however, sometimes even then I may buy the book but wait a while before picking it up to read.

When it comes to movies, I'm usually pretty good about picking a movie I know I'll like based on the film's trailer. Unfortunately, books don't have these kinds of visual cues into what the experience of reading them will be like. Quite often I use films as a way to gauging whether or not I'll read the book that inspired it. Here are a few of the great books I've read after having seen the film adaptations:

The Silence of the Lambs

The Hours

Bram Stoker's Dracula

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone (as well as The Chamber of Secrets) 

The Lord of the Rings

The above books are only a few of the books I encountered after seeing their film counterparts; thankfully, they are great films, so I knew the literature must be great as well. Sadly, this is not always the case. Film adaptation is a tricky enterprise because the filmmakers are trying to please not one, but two distinct audiences. And let's face it, a reading audience can be very different from a "seeing" audience. However, does seeing a movie before reading the book make the experience of reading somehow less than?

True, the circumstances surrounding a person's experience of reading can effect how that person feels about that particular piece. I've long fought with getting specific actors out of my heads when imagining the characters as the writer describes them. Just to give an example, the character of Jack Twist in Brokeback Mountain looked nothing like Jake Gyllenhaal. In fact, from Annie Proux's description, Twist wasn't all that good looking. And even though I read the book before seeing Brokeback Mountain, I still see Jake Gyllenhaal's face whenever I read the story. Of course, despite being a rare phenomenon, there are instances when an actor performs their job so well that their screen performance melts into the imaginative consciousness of readers.

Take for instance, Sir Ian McKellen. Of course, this may be my bias showing, but I believe McKellen has played one iconic role, Gandalf, just as Tolkien fans envisioned him and another role, Magneto, in a way that while drastically different from the source material nevertheless changes how audiences envision Xavier's former best friend.

That being said, here's another of my own personal reading habits: If I don't like how character is described, it is in my power as a reader to alter my visions of the characters in a way that I find more suitable. I've done this many times before, but mostly when I was younger. After reading a character description, I'd simply say, "Um, no. That's not what that character looks like," and then I'd re-imagine the character according to my specifications. It doesn't escape me that this is potentially destroying the artist's work, but I've always thought of reading as a shared experience, one where the reader's imagination can take the blueprint that's been given by the writer and build something unique. Such a thing cannot be accomplished in film, at least it hasn't in any of the films I've seen. I can't watch Brokeback Mountain and say, "Um, no. Jack Twist doesn't look like Jake Gyllenhaal. He looks more like Ryan Reynolds, or better yet, Matt Damon... Mmmm!" While such an image may be pleasing, it's difficult to keep up while watching the film.

Anyway, I feel this post has gotten away from me. Forgive me, I'm using this post mostly as a brain-dump afte a long week of teaching.

I guess my main point in writing this is to broach the question of which is better reading before seeing, or seeing before reading?

Really, I don't think there's a straight yes or no answer to the question. As an English instructor, I'm happy for students to engage in reading, no matter how they came across the material. If the film version makes them pick up the book, then I call that a success. As for my own personal preference, I try to read the books first, not because I want to feel some sort of superiority over those who haven't, but merely to experience the work in its original form. If I happen to see the film first? Then that's okay too. I love experiencing literature in all its forms and variations. There's a reason some stories are adapted into films: They resonated with people on an emotional or intellectual level, and the desire to share that experience, whether in film or print, is an inherent desire of us all. After all, look at the popularity of social networks and blogging.

Religion, Spirituality, Higher Power.... It's All a Mystery to Me, Not too Mention a Matter of Faith

My last couple of posts have skirted the issue of religion, usually with me saying something along the lines of "I'm not all that religious." Frankly, I tend to stay away from the discussion because there are far too many viewpoints, interpretations, and people who think they have all the answers to the afterlife. My personal belief is that there simply isn't enough information to form a suitable hypothesis one way or another, and people get far too heated when discussing something so personal. And so, I try to stay far away from discussions of religion unless the discussion is of an academic nature, when feelings are less likely to be hurt.

Notice my use of the word "try" because I'm going to delve, somewhat foolishly I'm sure, into the realm of religion, or if you prefer spirituality, or faith, or the afterlife (see, too many ways to address the issue).

Anyway, I am no religious scholar, nor do I pretend to be; however, I do try to rely on my reason, intuition, and experience as much as possible before making any kind of decision. I believe I've always waited before making decisions: The more serious the decision, the longer the wait. Of course, this waiting tends to push the limits on things like deadlines and life in general. A patient child I was, which has translated into being a patient adult, as well. I guess it's a good thing I was called to the profession of teaching. Since waiting is one of my more powerful characteristics, I feel I will be waiting until the end of my life to make a decision on my faith.

My parents always told my sister and me that we had a choice which religion to follow. Now, they may have hoped for a Christian denomination of some kind, and probably hoped against a more pagan form of spirituality like Wicca, a religion I did flirt with for a time and still have a few books on the subject. However, it is this freedom of choice that has plagued me for my whole life. This is not to say I feel my parents did me a disservice. On the contrary, I believe their decision to give my sister and me a choice at all has led me to seriously, and I mean seriously, consider the role religion would take in my life. From the moment a choice was presented, I was free to question what many take on faith and faith alone. I was free to question how comfortable, or uncomfortable, I felt in the hallowed halls of various churches. My favorites tended to be Catholic because Catholics tend to take the presentation of religious rites and practices VERY seriously, which also is a reason why many are turned away from Catholicism. I found the grandeur and pomp to be a form of elevation, like Milton's use of language in Paradise Lost: the subject deserves a higher form of presentation.

Of course, to each his own. The form of presentation makes a difference to us all and not all of us react the same. Some love the language of Paradise Lost and other epic poetry, while others do not. The Catholic form of delivery was suitable to my own tastes. But this is not to say I now find myself a true Catholic; after all, because I never decided on one particular faith, I never went through the necessary rituals of being a true Catholic. No, there was a slight hiccup in the development of my faith, what I'll lovingly call my gay realization. Here was a dilemma set in front of me: How do I reconcile being gay with belonging to a religion?

To start, I need to explain a bit. I apologize on the outset about the brief bit of history I'm about to divulge, but for the sake of this particular blog I feel it's necessary.

There are plenty of people out there who believe being gay is a choice, and I'm the first to say that yes, it can be a choice, but that's not to say it is always a choice. Human psychology is far too varied and complex to limit personal identifications to black/white standards. For me, it's not a choice. Sorry ladies, I just don't find woman sexually appealing. Even when I was little and acting out the role of obsessed male adolescent, I had a couple of pictures of beautiful women (I had a thing for Sandra Bullock.... still do as a matter of fact), but none that I can recall were in provocative poses. Indeed, my own feelings about them were a bit strange, I began to notice.

I believe it all started with a simple movie, Honey, I Shrunk the Kids. In an earlier post, I expressed that I had a crush on the older boy in the film. I wanted to be the girl in the film not because I desired to be a woman but because I desired to be in her shoes. I wanted him. The same probably... No, it did happen with Ms. Sandra Bullock. She had starred in Speed (just a quick FYI, Speed was the first R rated film my parents let me own) and I believe my fascination with her was due to her close proximity to a hunky looking Keanu Reeves, who wouldn't look so scrumptious again until The Matrix.

My apologies, I digress. These feelings weren't driven by any kind of sexual abuse, or fear of women. No, they were just there. I couldn't control them then, and I can't control them now. My dilemma then, and to some extent now, is that if I accepted the idea that I was born attracted to men and if I accepted the idea that most religious doctrine doesn't look too kindly on same-sex coupling, what was I to do? This was a terrifying mental state for a teenager just starting junior high school. How is an adolescent, with very little life experience and knowledge of religion and philosophy, supposed to deal with those kinds of issues? To be perfectly honest, it's no wonder there is such a high rate of suicide among GLBT youth. Now, I'm not blaming religion, but the pressures exerted on our youth today is immense, especially when the pressure is coming from the institutions that are supposed to help teens deal with such issues.

Well, those were my thoughts. Just as I was supposed to be discovering the joys of love, I was terrified I was going to hell. But something didn't feel right about all of it. God is supposed to be all powerful. God tests us with temptation. God is vengeful. God is merciful. All of this didn't seem to add up to my adolescent mind. To use the language of adolescents, God is a sick fucker.

At least, that's how I felt.

How could all of these ideas be merged together into one being. Well, the answer lies in the first item in my list above: God is omnipotent. God encompasses everything in us and outside us, which means God's infinite complexity includes the psychological complexities of humanity. As some decide to murder, so does God. As some decide to give, so does God.

I was told once by a friend, a pair of friends actually, that my sexuality was a sign from God to take a vow of abstinence and join the priesthood. I politely declined, while simultaneously thinking "Hell, no!" Abstinence is a nice idea but a failure in practice, and I knew I would fail miserably, even if the study of religious texts seemed a promising career choice, which it did; I'm a nerd after all.

All these ideas proved too much for my mind, so I decided to just forget about it all. I decided I was an Atheist.

I was a junior in high school.

Thankfully, my boyfriend at the time informed me that that wasn't such a good idea. An outright rejection of God, in whatever form, was not a reasonable way to approach the problem, and he introduced me to a new word: Agnostic.

Agnostics, of course, are by nature "fence sitters", which I'm sure is frustrating for all those who so blissfully exist on either side of the divide. Even so, an agnostic I remain to this day. Even though my knowledge has expanded a bit since my junior year, I can't quite get off the fence. Granted, I lean more toward the believers than the non-believers, however I just can't subscribe to any particular doctrine. All are too limiting to my conception of God. Even the name "God" and its variations seems too limiting for the power in the universe that is simultaneously destroyer and creator, the beginning and the end. God is too vast for our simple minds to comprehend, even if we were immortal. The knowledge we seek will not become a part of our consciousness until that consciousness is no longer attached to the limitations of the human body, miracle in engineering though it is.

Some will argue that the power that is God makes itself know to us through religious texts. But which should I choose? I mean really, even within one religion there are texts that are considered gospel and others that are not. What's the difference? And who has the authority to make such a decision to either include or dis-clude any particular text? I know I'm not qualified. However, I do have a problem with the strict adherence of any religious text for the simple fact that they are mere translations. Anyone who has had experience with translation can tell that it's not an exact art. And I'm including the originals in this context, too. After all, they were but the writings of men who had particularly potent dreams. Have you ever tried to write down a dream after waking? I enjoy writing and it's like trying to hold onto a watermelon dripping with oil. Elements change with the writing, so who can say if the man (for most older religious texts were written by men) got it right?

There's far too much instability in religious texts for my liking, and so I'll remian blissfully on-the-fence until my soul makes a break for nothingness or the next realm. Either way, I'll continue to grow and expand my knowledge of our world; and I'll continue to act in a way that harms no one. In the end, whether you believe or not, our actions on this earth have consequences.