On that last, I talked them into watching the enchanting 2006 Irish film Once. Diane had pushed that into my hands as I was leaving her and Tim's place after dinner the other week, accurately predicting that I would love it. I'd never heard of it, but she called it exactly. It's brilliant, and everything independent film hopes to be. To me, it captures what the Notre Dame experience was to me, once I'd fallen in with the Freeks and joined the Folk Choir, and then spent seven incredible years moving in a whirlwind of people composing, singing and playing. I had no idea what a sustained high that was, to always be around the production of great songs, more-or-less every week, until I left the Bend and moved here. I'm still surrounded by fabulous people, but they don't make music. So I used that as a selling point with Dan and Amy, telling them that this film captured unlike anything I'd seen, the feeling of this experience to which I allude at times in my stories. They both have a critical eye for film and story, too, if in different ways from one another, and they were both delighted; Amy turned at the finish and gave me a look of perfect understanding, entirely affirming my pushing them to make this movie the choice of the night, and Dan tried to put the same reaction into words, continuing to talk about the film until I was back at my place.
Anyway, that was supposed to be a parenthetical sentence, originally, which basically confirms everything everyone has ever said about my ability to talk. I originally just meant to log into my journal a sort of barbaric yawp of horror: I just went digging in my box of old, old undergrad notebooks, hoping to find something useful I half-remembered from a course I took on Cultural Pluralism in the United States. Scanning through the spiral-bound volumes – something I had not done in years – I found a number of things, none more surprising than a hitherto utterly forgotten journal I kept for a few months from my freshman year. Flashbacks. Horror. Sudden realizations that I was far younger than I thought I was (not much of a surprise), and younger than I remember being (a bit more of a surprise). Is this what my undergrad students are like in their heads? Should my lessons be redesigned in light of this, to something more like IV drips into a consciousness composed of equal parts melodrama and idiocy? Or was it just me?
Priceless Ironic Comment In Light Of Future Events: "... theology (by definition) doesn't mean anything." (I think I was trying to say that the form or style by which we articulate an idea or belief is immaterial compared to the idea itself, which isn't so bad, but still....)