Dawn Xiana Moon: Melodic folk pop infused with passion and honesty. From Chicago.

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Wednesday, November 26, 2003

Strength for the Weak

It was Sam's first view of a battle of Men against Men, and he did not like it much. He was glad that he could not see the dead face. He wondered what the man's name was and where he came from; and if he was really evil of heart, or what lies or threats had led him on the long march from his home; and if he would not really rather have stayed there in peace.

In some ways, I was disappointed with The Two Towers when it was released in theatres; being a purist, I was upset that Faramir had been morphed into a carbon copy of his brother, that the Elves suddenly coddled Men at Helm's Deep, that Elrond was less the Wise and more the Overprotective. But I finally got a chance to watch the extended edition DVD and was gratified by many of the changes--for example, the above quote, somewhat modified, was given to Faramir (though if you're expecting him to change back into the Faramir of the books, don't).

While searching for the quote--laziness, I didn't want to look it up and type it myself--I ran across an intriguing discussion about the nature of masculinity in Lord of the Rings on a messageboard. So rather than launching into a rodomontade of LotR knowledge, I'll touch on some of the posts, which began to ask not just what makes a good man but what makes an honorable person, especially leader. One film reviewer apparently wrote something to the effect of "why do Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas chase after two insignificant characters and then feel bad when they don't find them? It makes no sense." How shallow have we become? To those three, Merry and Pippin are not two mischievous hobbits who are "useless" in battle--they are friends, companions. If our friends or family members were to fall into enemy hands, would we stand back and think, "Well, I have more important things to do," or would we drop everything and search? What Tolkien presents here is a Christian idea. Take the parables of the lost sheep and coin--we are prone to think one sheep out of a hundred, one percent, is nothing, but even the small matter to God, and they should matter to us. And wouldn't it be comforting to have, and know you have, friends who are willing to track orcs for days and fight to rescue you? And sometimes the "insignificant" play a larger role than we could imagine.

Perhaps it is fear of weakness we now see? The men of LotR hold honor to be that which is done in aid of others--you don't ride out to death and glory but for your people. A small section of Middle Earth was being protected that the hobbits might live--if those in command showed so little honor to two battling beside them, how much would you expect to be shown those at home? Honor such as Aragorn, Faramir, and Theoden have is misunderstood as weakness by some who do not see it for unwavering strength.

Of course, it's not just the Shire that the rest are fighting for; they're fighting for their people, not just their kind, but for all of Middle Earth. Our world may not be so clear-cut, but the principle applies: strength is not fighting merely because one can, for valor or glory or renown, but rather for those one must protect. Strength is doing what is hard, what is necessary--no matter what the cost. Weakness is seizing power, even if that action would come from a desire to do good. Weakness is taking the shortcut that allows evil a tight grip. And from evil, none is immune--not Gandalf, not Galadriel, not us.

Word of the Day: Rodomontade, noun: Pretentious boasting or bragging.

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Thursday, November 20, 2003

Irony: Not Quite Effete

Something interesting I found while browsing through Dictionary.com's Word of the Day archives: "Grub Street, near Moorfields, London, was once famous for literary hacks and inferior literary productions. It was described by Dr. Johnson as 'much inhabited by writers of small histories, dictionaries, and temporary poems.' The street was renamed Milton Street in 1830." I guess that's one way to change a bad reputation.

And from Mattel: "Barbie Doll and Ken Doll Capture the Magic and Majesty of Arwen and Aragorn of The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King." Yes, kids, that's the title of their press release. For the high-res photo, click here.

Word of the Day: Effete, adj.: 1. Depleted of vitality, force, or effectiveness; exhausted. 2. Marked by self-indulgence, triviality, or decadence. 3. Overrefined; effeminate. 4. No longer productive; infertile.

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Thursday, November 13, 2003

The Inhabitants of the Underground

A description of last weekend wouldn't be the same if I didn't include some of the characters who participated in it... and swing dancers do come in many varieties, both in age (high school to senior citizen), ethnicity (Native American, Asian, white, black, Hispanic), body type (skinny to rather large, 5 feet to 6.5 feet tall), and "look" (casual to suits to vintage to hippie to goth), but apparently not so many occupations--most seem to be computer/engineering or artistic types. But a few brief profiles and related stories:

With his lean frame and shoulder-length blond hair, Dave looks like the lead singer of a rock band. But instead he's a computer consultant who dubbed his San Francisco house the "Lindy Hotel" since dancers are so often staying there (this is the same guy from the previous blog who moved to that city because it has the best swing scene in the country). Advertising on his website pays his rent and he refuses to eat meat and milk products on mostly ethical grounds. When he lived in Colorado, there weren't any good teachers around, so he and his friends learned to dance from videos--by the time he moved, they'd worn a circle into his floor. Dave's been dancing for longer than most--seven years, if I remember correctly--and is the only person that I can recall beating me (not that it hasn't happened, but no other instance comes to mind) at Monopoly.

One look at Austin's green-streaked dreadlocks and you have to wonder how on earth he got hooked on swing. But although one follow was annoyed by a faceful of dreads when doing blues, he is incredible and some of my most fun dances were with him.

Although he seems to be in his fifties, Kent, who wore billowing goth pants with hanging black strips all weekend, is surprisingly agile. He does ballet four times a week, which I discovered when he started doing impressive leg extensions around 6:00am: "You know Kent's happy when he starts doing ballet." No, I don't think he's gay--few lindy hoppers are.

My first host, Kelly, has been dancing for five years, and made us (myself and Dana, who being from NC was suffering from the frigid Chicago temperatures) dinner both nights I stayed, which was wonderful of her. She works in real estate although she studied art history at Calvin College (which apparently is ill-known outside of Michigan--just a word of caution to anyone who wants to apply there) and gave me the news that Wheaton recently broke with its 143-year tradition and has decided to allow dancing on campus. According to the Chicago Tribune, the students love swing and are hoping the first school-sponsored dance is swing-themed... they'd better not do any blues, which has the potential of being sensual enough that they'd lose their new-found privilege.

Plump and friendly, Jill lives with two guys, one of whom is her best friend and Star Wars-obsessed (we'd get along) ex-fiance. She owns the happiest dog/alien/Ewok/ball of fur you've ever met, who's small enough for her to spin on the floor and toss back and forth with one hand. Apparently she's an amazing baker--I'd never seen such a large bag of Ghiradelli chocolate chips in my life--and was gracious enough to allow Dave and I to invade her kitchen to make crepes (some with cinnamon and sugar, some with chocolate sauce). Have you ever tried eating and making crepes and swing dancing at the same time? Thought not.

Word of the Day: Volte-face, noun: A reversal, as in policy; an about-face.

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Tuesday, November 11, 2003

The Underground World of the Lindy Exchange

Have you ever stood and stared at it, lindyhopper? Marveled at its beauty. Its genius. Billions of people just living out their lives... oblivious to the exchange world within their cities.
--from the Matrix-themed Oxford, Ohio Exchange website

Last weekend I was in Chicago for the Windy City Lindy Exchange. So what is a lindy exchange, you ask? Imagine an entire weekend doing nothing but swing dancing with a more-than-slightly-obsessed group of dancers from all over the country (or world--there were a bunch dancers from Canada at this one, and I know Paris is hosting an exchange soon) and crashing with people you've probably never met before but who are willing to host you simply because they too have become addicted to the dance. In a word: incredible. I danced for around 25 hours in three days in venues as diverse as the University of Chicago's gothic Ida Noyes Hall, an unimpressive blue-floored and green-walled club, and a dancer's two-floored apartment and discovered that I'm not as hooked on dancing as I thought I was--I met a guy who moved to San Francisco specifically because it has the best lindy scene in the country and a number of people who bought apartments because of their hardwood floors (i.e. a good dancing surface). And so many of them seemed to know each other. Apparently it's also not uncommon to go to an exchange not knowing anyone (these are adventurous people).

So now I have great memories dancing in the aisle of an IHOP (I lindy hopped at IHOP!--say it, it's funny) and dancing on concrete in front of a grocery store (after the Late Night on Sunday we wanted to make crepes and needed ingredients--we had a few minutes to kill since the store wasn't open yet). And I caught an exhibition on Sunday by some beat-boys and -girls who were ineffable; they spun on their heads, held themselves up by their arms, twisted their legs, and made all of the swing dancers look like wimps who wished they could hip hop. But yeah, I'll be going to more exchanges. You know it's bad when you start traveling to appease your addiction.

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Sunday, November 02, 2003

Open Letter

(scrawled on an envelope late one night)

How many times do we have to tell you? When will you realize that you are a person of such talent, such intelligence, such personality that I have found myself thinking if only I could be more like that and others have said the same? And even if these things were taken away, you still have immeasurable worth, for your worth is not in these. For they pass, they disappoint when we rely on them, when we grip too tightly. But you have a Father who could not possibly love you any more--he does not love you more when you succeed, less when you fail. Because failure is inevitable for all of us--no one is exempt. And yet this Father's love is unchanging, unquenchable. No matter how hard we fall. Because we do fall. But he waits, wrapping his arms around us, taking us by the hand. He holds us close and will not let go. And he eagerly uses us, in all our frailties and deficiencies and times we think we can't possibly go on, the times we want to go to sleep and never wake up, the times we want to run, to hide--he takes our despondency and tells us that even this can be used for good. For he is a master at transforming the ugly, renewing the broken. For we have no strength on our own, in actuality--so he says come, come and drink, and confers his.

I find myself perhaps incapable of comforting you now--I do not think you will permit me. But permit him.

Word of the Day: Myrmidon, noun: An unscrupulously faithful follower.

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