First off, Matty wants me to mention that he's playing "Nazi Zombies."  That's right: "Nazi Zombies."  He's not really into it, but it is a good game for blowing off steam.  He has heartburn and is annoyed at a friend, so "Nazi Zombies" it is.  He also likes my reactions to human catchphrases, zombie screeches/cacklings, and nasty zombie heads getting blown off to display the proper amount of zombie blood spewing everywhere.  One of the characters seems to have a particular distaste of zombie guts on his new shoes.  I'll admit, it can be entertaining.  ("Headshot: Boom; headshot."  "Knee-deep in zombie **** and out of ammo!  "Attention all shoppers, we have a special today on: DEATH."  "Oh!  The power's out.  How suspicious."  "This is more gory than a Goth party!") 
     So over this past week I've been building up my dream (that may actually come true) of moving to Seattle to attend Seattle Pacific University.  Besides its location (a rainy artistic haven... sounds like Phimie heaven!), SPU seems to offer so much.  They're even known for a wonderful writing program!  It is a Christian college, so of course I feel the need to defend it, because I don't want to have everyone nagging me about going to a lame Christian college.  First of all, not all Christian schools are bad.  North County used to be a really good school.  It still boasts some really good teachers, office staff, etc.  It's sad that Christians are only taken notice of when they're hypocrites.  Anyway, I'd like to major in psychology, and do think that a Christian college would best suit that area of study.  Not because everything has to be from a "Christian perspective" (believe me, I've got plenty of hang-ups left over from NCCS), but because I don't want to take my entire education "with a grain of salt."  The introductory psychology class I'm in at the moment is, so far, enjoyable, but my teacher has to constantly sidestep around anything with depth because depth requires some shred of truth, which it seems modern psychologists laugh at.  No one can say "this is good," "this is bad," "this is depressing."  A fellow student asked our professor if a sociopath could ever, through therapy, overcome some manipulative tendencies.  Professor Barncastle (or, I guess, Colin) answered that at best a true sociopath could only learn to manipulate nicely.  He could never really learn to care for other people enough to not want to manipulate them.  The student stated that this "was sad."  The professor replied "it is what it is."  What is that supposed to mean?  "It is what it is?"  No, it's sad.  That a person could never feel genuine affection toward another person is sad.  Tragic, actually.  But no, it "is what it is."  Why?  Because nothing means anything, because truth is nonexistent, because the sociopaths may just have the right idea.  So then what is the point?  Thus, my preference for a Christian college once I reach higher level classes.  So all that came from my saying that I want to attend SPU.  Nice.  
     Along with SPU comes living in Seattle.  I have found my dream apartment complex: The Station at Othello Park.  It is right downtown, nine minutes drive from SPU, literally on the light rail track, beautiful, very Scandinavian in its design, and brand new.  The only complaint of its tenants is that the security it too high; somehow I don't think that would be much of an issue.  Their lowest advertised price for a two bedroom unit is $1198 a month, and I'm quite positive that price does not include utilities.  Of course I'm planning on sharing an apartment, so I'd be paying at least $700 a month.  Probably not going to happen.  But it is a fantasy, and fantasies by definition must be a bit fantastic.  I have found a few other places with good reviews and lower prices, so when I really start looking to move I'll focus there.
     So, those are my current dreams (I am of course discounting anything involving Sherlock, but you certainly don't want to hear about that).  But, ironically, my dreams of college and independence quite distract me from things like, say, studying and learning to drive.  Go on, mock all you like.  It is true that I have not yet learned to drive.  My parents and I have now made that a priority, so soon enough I shall be on the road!  Can't you just see me in my little violet-grey fiesta, wearing my AMAZING red wool trench (Thank you Uncle Jeff and Aunt Jenny!), driving back into Seattle after a weekend at home, "Bridge Over Troubled Water" on the CD player... =D  Wow, I resorted to an emoticon!  But, alas, fantasies won't help me.  I should just, you know, study.
      I can't think of a transition, so, just so everyone knows, I am aware that the jump between the previous paragraph and the following paragraph is entirely random.
      Actually, that is not entirely true.  When I said, "But, alas, fantasies won't help me," I thought of Christine's words in 'Wishing You were Somehow Here Again' ("The Phantom of the Opera"): "Dreaming of you, won't help me do, all that you dreamed I could."  Last Easter I watched a portion of a program about an Orthodox monastary.  (This was not just because I'm Orthodox, the program happened to be on and I was interested.)  An interviewer asked a monk about incessant prayer.  He must have said something to the effect of it sounding impossible, because the monk smiled and said, "Just because I am talking to you, do you think I'm not praying?"  Firstly, how awesome.  That is something to strive for.  Secondly, just to prove how obnoxious I am, I'll relate how I am like this monk.  At most any point in time I could laugh and say to someone, "Just because I am talking to you, do you think I'm not quoting?"  
      In these blog posts I've decided, except where it would be entirely unbecoming, to communicate the quotes which pop into my head as I'm writing.  After reading a few of these posts a person could knnow quite a bit of the first Sherlock episode, for the all-too-obvious reason that I'm obsessed and it is so wonderfully quotable.  I can provide three quotes which I previously resisted: (from 'Matty's Reaction to My Blog') "Occationally he speaks...[to] tell me to shut up (only because I'm not saying anything)."  QUOTE: "Shut up. "I didn't say anything."  "You're thinking; it's annoying.";  (from 'Sorry for the Lack of Posts...') "I should probably swing back on topic now to avoid making a further idiot out of myself."  QUOTE: "Why didn't I think of that?"  "Because you're an idiot--no, don't be offended by that; practically everyone is."  (from earlier in this post, when I mentioned sociopaths... this is a more well-known quote, which is interesting  because I entirely disagree with Sherlock)  QUOTE: "I'm not a psychopath Anderson, I'm a high-functioning sociopath.  Do your research."  (It is evident before this line that Sherlock is not a sociopath.  Oddly enough, in much of what I have read this line is quoted and taken as an honest desription of his character.  It definately describes his character, but only because he says it about himself.  He may even think he's speaking correctly.  But the first time he speaks to John he says, "Oh, thank you."  The tone and facial expression with which he says this show that he is much more used to being rudely addressed (exemplified by Mike Stramfords words to him moments before) and therefore quite surprised that John is actually being cordial.  I'm not saying that Sherlock doesn't have difficulty empathizing with other people (another character which he brings to my mind is Danny from Chaim Potok's The Chosen--great book, by the way), but his proclaiming that he is a sociopath shows that he feels he, at least in part, should.  I could easily go on like this for a really, really long time... but I will try very hard to stop now.
    Last little Sherlock bit, and I won't even mention the show!  I saw a Basil Rathbone film (I think the name was "The Scarlet Claw").  Rathbone's Sherlock was well done, I think, but it was difficult to pay attention to him when Watson was such a bumbling idiot.  Watson is a whole lot more than a foil to Sherlock, in fact Sherlock is dumbed down when Watson is stupid.  That's what makes Sherlock's intelligence so incredible: his most simple deductions blow away a man of what is normally considered above average intelligence.  Watson is a doctor; he's pretty darn smart.  So I can't get past Watson of the minescule brain.  David Burke's Watson (along with Jeremy Brett's Sherlock) have now attained much of my favor.  I've decided that "The Priory School" was not done very well.  On the other hand, "The Musgrave Ritual" was expertly done.  The characters and story were captured beautifully.  If most of the films are like "The Musgrave Ritual," I'll agree entirely that Brett was the Sherlock of the books.  (Do remember that I'm not allowed to mention my Sherlock.)  I also watched another Sherlock adaptation which I watched before I even knew of Sherlock Holmes: "The Great Mouse Detective."  It used to be one of my favorite movies, and when as a young child I watched it I truly didn't realize that I was watching Sherlock Holmes.  I watched it last night for the first time since I was little, and loved it.  Loved the characterizations, the parallels, that "Basil of Baker Street" lived in the walls of 221B... so much fun!  Since I've covered every other Sherlock now, I should mention Robert Downey Jr.  I liked him.  I've read a lot of flak, but the movie was not supposed to follow the books.  It took the characters and made a new story.  It didn't alter the identity of Sherlock and Watson.  Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law played off each other brilliantly.  The Irene Adler bit was also enjoyable.  But I'm all about characterization, and the characters shone very brightly.  Plus the music was amazing.  I could listen to "Discombobulate" a thousand times over, and the single violin which plays when the bomb goes off and seriously injures Watson is chilling.  
     Okay, well, I have more to write about, but it is three in the morning, and I have to get up tomorrow to study psychology, preferably before noon.  Also, Matty and I have a coffee date...Night!

I wrote this book review a while ago, but the book is amazing, and my writing craves feedback.  So, here it is:

My God, Why?

    How can a loving God allow pain? Countless broken, relief-craving individuals have asked this question. “Why is God taking him away from me?” “Why am I made this way?” “Why must I live with this malady?” Others ask: “Why is he being like this?” “Why must she suffer?” “Why can I not help him?” This world is a world of pain: bones shatter, children starve, families face betrayal, friends lie, love goes unrequited, minds shrivel, fear of all types vanquishes whomever it can seize. Mankind has grappled with God’s consent to pain since the gates of Eden first sealed. In his book, The Problem of Pain, C.S. Lewis purposes to “solve the intellectual problem raised by suffering” (XII) in the profoundly simple style which belongs to him alone. He answers questions about affliction in regard to God’s omnipotence, God’s goodness, human wickedness, hell, heaven, animals, and humanity. He understands pain. Being mortal, He suffered much throughout his life, and this, for a great while, kept him an atheist. 

    Lewis begins his introductory chapter by presenting his own atheistic argument against God: in this world, which overflows with all manner of pain, where man anticipates his pain and therefore suffers the more, and where he develops technology that inflicts greater pain upon his fellow man, how can any rational person believe in the existence of a good, gracious Creator? Yet, Lewis states, in spite of humanity’s dreadful condition, all civilizations since prehistory have believed in a creator of some kind. People have always believed in the numinous: that which is outside the mortal realm. The numinous is a source of fear. Lewis illustrates this by suggesting that a person hears that a ghost resides in the next room. The person does not feel afraid because of what the ghost may do to him, but simply because it is a ghost. Also people have always, for the most part, been aware of a type of moral law. Some people groups, namely the Jews, came to combine the numinous with the keeper of morality. Eventually Jesus Christ, the Son of the One who is both the numinous and the giver of the moral law, was born into the Jewish race. The belief of this, Christianity, does not solve the problem of pain, but rather creates it. Pain would be acceptable if one had not “received what [he] think[s] a good assurance that ultimate reality is righteous and loving” (14). 

    Many argue that if God were good He would want to make them happy, and if He were the Almighty he could certainly do so if He pleased. Why then does God not halt all suffering before it incites? The reason is because God is the most loving of Fathers, not a “senile benevolence” (31). A truly loving father does not look upon his children with a smile as they happily make themselves drunk. He takes them over his knee and paddles their back-ends, because he loves them too much to let them destroy their lives. God loves mankind with a terrifying love. “The great spirit…so lightly invoked, the ‘lord of terrible aspect’, is present…the consuming fire Himself” (39). God does not allow man to suffer because He hates him, but because He loves him, and despises his wickedness. 

    What of the pious, blameless individual who undergoes anguish? None can stand blameless before God, and, as God is good, the suffering is necessary. Only the illegitimate children are spoiled, the heirs are raised under firm discipline.

    C.S. Lewis communicates the ongoing story of life, his thesis as to why pain exists:

Man forgets God. He goes about his day with hardly a thought directed toward his Creator; he is occupied with little nothings that interest his mind or excite his vanity. Then a phone call, or a jab of physical pain, and he runs crying to God. Once the crisis ends He worships God for two or three days, then falls back into his old self. “And that is why tribulations cannot cease until God either sees us remade or sees that our remaking is now hopeless” (107).

C.S. Lewis has a strange aspect about him. He raises questions in his books that readers have never before struggled with, then answers the questions with such stunning logic that the same readers become half positive they wrestled with and answered those questions long ago. His words’ voice commands attention, and those who cannot hold still and stay focused will find him a bore. But to those who seek knowledge, who willingly sit and listen and think, he is enthralling.

To the anguished wailing out loud “Why?”, to the tormented timidly weeping “Why?”, to the terrified silently feeling the question “My God, Why?”, this book is dedicated. Lewis does not avoid difficult subjects; he says, “Pain hurts. That is what the word means” (105). He speaks dually with seriousness and humor, as the common man speaks. Any who suffer pain, or fear pain’s coming, or see pain in others, or simply cannot reconcile why God allows suffering, will find a companion in Lewis. He speaks with compassion and sympathy, but he speaks truth.

    I have been working on a post, but I tend to write in an incredibly time consuming way.  Many of my posts, I believe, will come in the form of badly written essays.  I'll chat here for a moment though.
    My profile picture is bugging me now.  Usually my not-four-year-old smile annoys me, so I was surprised when this one didn't.  But now it does.  I'll work on that.
    Otto (my cat, who is so adorably little that I'm tempted to call him 'my kitten') seems to love me in spite of himself.  Emphasis on HIMself.  The lady I took HIM from said he was a boy.  HIS name is Otto, not Otta.  Just wanted to clarify that.  Anyway, he refuses any form of cuddling during the hours we are up.  But nearly every night he sleeps curled up atop me, and every morning he makes his little half-mewing half-purring sounds and relishes petting.  If I don't pet, he paws my face.  At the moment he is napping on my backpack.  Two days ago I hurriedly cast my coat on our bench, and within minutes he occupied it.  Any article of mine he fashions into a bed; my personal favorite is when he winds into a tiny enough ball to fit on my beret.  Please do not share this post with him, as he seems rather shy about his affection and may respond by climbing up to Matty's bunk to sleep.
     I just ordered a cherry red trench coat with birthday money from my Uncle Jeff and Aunt Jenny.  For Christmas I received a pair of ankle-high cherry red rain boots, which I wore all Christmas day despite the fact that it was a definite California Christmas.  I am working on my second red mitten.  Matty gave me a red beret for Valentine's day.  At Target a few days ago he, Nana, and my mother insisted on buying me a red umbrella with a wooden crook handle.  Am I not the most spoilt person on the planet?  Matty wants me to own red tights, but I fear an entirely red outfit will cause me to look like an anime character.  If, after Tuesday, you see a figure whom you find difficult to discern from a giant and mobile cherry, it's me!
    ('If you wake up and find a white cat, it's me!'  -Jiji, Kiki's Delivery Service)
    I've been trying to work on my children's fiction and it isn't working.  I spent a few hours on a small portion, thinking it was good while I wrote it, only to discover afterwards its immense want.  This happens constantly (in fact I don't believe it has ever not happened) with my long fiction, but the two children's stories I've completed have simply formed themselves almost exactly as I want them.  Traveler's Joy, Mena, and my children's chapter novel which has no name as of yet are all conspiring against me.  Blech.  As an aside, if anyone would like to read either Danger Davie and his Halloween Skipper or Daniel's Scarf of Royal Red Wool and give me feedback, I would be much obliged.  Maybe my new titles are too short?  Or the absence of a holiday theme is throwing me off?
    I had my first psychology class yesterday.  Actually, I guess it was two days ago now.  My professor, Colin Barncastle, looks about ten.  ('It's mad. I think he might be mad. He was certainly arrogant and really quite rude and he looks about 12 and he's clearly a bit public school and, yes, I definitely think he might be mad but he was also strangely likeable. He was charming. It really was all just a bit strange.' -http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/29january.  By the way, I'd like to point out that Sherlock and John met on my birthday.  That has to mean something.)  He also acts like he's ten.  He insists that we call him Colin, and he reiterated multiple times that he is a "really cool guy" and that he is not at all "mean."  I got a piece of candy for answering a question, which I later traded for a small phial of a friend's DNA.  Colin, at least so far, comes across as extremely postmodern, as is expected among professors of most sciences.  I thoroughly enjoyed the contrast between his highly rational lecture and the far more human lecture of my history professor/friend Mr. Jonathan Wilson.  Mr. Wilson even happened to cover the Romantic movement during that particular class.  I went from hearing about humanity as nothing more than animals with enhanced mental capabilities to hearing a recitation of a stanza of Rime of the Ancient Mariner.  "Water, water everywhere, and all the boards do shrink.  Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink."  Please excuse my misquoting;  Curdie is asleep on my lap and I'm feeling too lazy to rifle my bookshelf.  It is probably a very good thing that I plan to major in literature as well as psychology; I don't know how much artistic deprivation I could handle!
    I introduced Mr. Wilson to Sherlock, and he seemed to like him.  (Here is the scene I used: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=im4TYITM0VE.  It is one of my favorites!)  I am not yet sold on Jeremy Brett (Mr. Wilson's pick); he doesn't communicate the intensity I think the character demands.  Of course, I happen to come from a family of extraordinarily intense individuals (Ever read Jane Eyre?  My dad is Edward Rochester, and my mom is Jane.  Oh, you thought my dad was laid back?  You thought my mom was mousy?  Aha! How wrong!), and, therefore, I fall at the feet of extraordinarily intense individuals.  Yes, heartbreak looms in the future, I'm sure.  Just for the record, I'm ridiculously in love with Sherlock Holmes, not Benedict Cumberbatch.  He absolutely captures Sherlock's intensity, thus my fervor regarding his Sherlock.  I rarely attach to actors.  Don't mistake me, because Cumberbatch is way attractive, but if I fell in love with every attractive guy I would be on level with Violet Bick.  I should probably swing back on topic now to avoid making a further idiot out of myself (resisting...Sherlock...quote...did it!).  I am also not sure about David Burke's Watson, but I really cannot like one member of a Holmes/Watson pairing and dislike the other.  Perhaps some people can, but the chemistry (Don't even think about going there; I'm working on what I hope will be a scathing essay on that obnoxious perception) between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson is what gives life to the stories.  It makes them human as well as rational.  Look!  This is all tying together like a thing planned!  Not sure I'll be able to work the rain boots back in, sadly.  Now that I have trailed off to who-knows-where, let me conclude with the fact that I only watched one episode of the Brett/Burke Sherlock Holmes ("The Priory School"), and have since read that they improve with familiarity. 
    It's amazing how much I can say, isn't it?  What's really funny is that I can talk just as much as I can write most always, but as my turn approached in my psychology class to introduce myself my heart was pounding!  Must have been the lecture hall.  Well, considering that it is one thirty in the morning I should probably finish up.  I still have an angry essay to write, a shower to take (and that is certainly not a short affair), and I may even try to squeeze "The Missing Three-Quarter" in there...  


    

    "That's a horrible backround photo.  It has nothing to do with your blog."  "You're using that as your profile picture?  Weren't you just messing around in the car?"  Thanks Matty.  The backround photograph happens to be of what I consider my best cake decorating job, and in the profile picture, to be honest, I thought my eyes looked cool.  Also, since I'm not smiling as much like a four-year-old as I usually do, I think I look rather eighteen.  Oddly enough, Matty didn't make much merry over the links to the Sherlockian websites.  He just expects that, I guess.
    Right now he is sitting at the table, playing a racing game on Sam (my nana's Samsung Tablet).  He's quite adorable, with his beloved white Vans and new olive-green waffle-weave long-sleeved shirt.  Occationally he speaks, usually to swear (when just the two of us are home he'll do that because I'll laugh) or tell me to shut up (only because I am not saying anything).  Once in a while he'll look around to point out Toby ("Ooooohhh Toby!"), or take a bite of his Peanut Butter Captain Crunch.  
    We just had an echange.  Here it is:
    (Matty picks up Toby and makes him talk)  "Rara!  I'm so small!"
    "I know, Toby!"
    "Everyone always says that I'm so small."
    "You are so small, but that's not a bad thing, Toby.  That's a good thing."
    (Matty makes Toby hug me and sit in my lap.  Matty now speaks as himself.)  "You need to hold him for a long time."
    (Toby obviously does not feel like beig held.)  "He doesn't want me to hold him."
    "Yes he does!"  (Matty begins to walk down the hall, and toby jumps to the ground to follow him.) "Rara, you suck!"
    
    All Matty's words, even when he spoke as (just a second; he's poking me).  Sorry about that.  I was saying that Matty spoke in a baby-ish voice throughout the whole of the conversation.  That interruption was due to Matty wanting me to look at Toby as he sat on his bed.  ("This is how you pick him up, Rara.  You pet his head, and then you pick him up, making sure to support his little butt, then you kiss him once or twice, and then you put him in Rara's lap.  He wants you to put a picture of him on your blog.  He says 'Why not?')  Goodness, I can't keep up with the new Toby developments!  Time to go, before Matty, who is now reading over my shoulder, decides to delete this.  Ah, he's okay with it.  He's singing a Toby song to the tune of "Battle Hymn of the Republic."  


 Matty keeps stealing this. 

So... I am now a blogger!  I'll post writing samples on here and hope for feedback.  If worse comes to worse I'll just quote to myself.  Enjoy!