tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10858192205089659252024-03-14T07:57:09.780-04:00Jon's Life. Or Other Odd People Doing Odd Things.A blog on writing, eating, and sleeping. Or something like that.Jonathon Arntsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366218140886892757noreply@blogger.comBlogger349125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1085819220508965925.post-86595749202362964212022-01-26T18:29:00.002-05:002022-01-26T18:31:05.119-05:00what if I low-key started posting again after nearly ten years?<p>Thinking about time passing is painful. I tend to think of all I've lost rather than what I've gained.</p><p>When I last posted on this blog, I was at the height of optimism. I was 27, fit, and sharp. I had finally completed an associates degree at West Shore Community College in Mason County, Michigan (2020 population: 29k). I was a month away from beginning my transferred studies at Wayne State University. I moved to Detroit, a metro area with 4.3 million people. As soon as I arrived, I started sinking into what was to be the darkest, scariest time of my life. I was nearly homeless. I was sick all the time. I failed multiple college courses after receiving all As in the terms and years before. I was abused and taken advantage of by someone I had trusted. I finally recognized I had a problem the afternoon I drank from a bottle of Trader Joe's bubbly, watched the remake of Grey Gardens, and wept in the bathtub for three hours. What I thought was the time for me to break away and take flight ended up being more like a feeble iceberg breaking away and sinking slowly.</p><p>I do not regret any of it.</p><p>Nearly ten years later, I am not using as many poorly constructed metaphors but my writing remains complex and trite. I think this space is about to become the sections of my memoir that I am leaving out or need to work with more. Are you up for that?</p><p>✨ Jonathon</p>Jonathon Arntsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366218140886892757noreply@blogger.com0Detroit, MI, USA42.331427 -83.045753816.569032387264336 -118.2020038 68.093821612735667 -47.8895038tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1085819220508965925.post-38559341271801516502013-07-25T00:19:00.001-04:002013-07-25T00:19:02.622-04:00Shameless Promotion<a href="http://michigantattoo.blogspot.com/">http://michigantattoo.blogspot.com/</a>Jonathon Arntsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366218140886892757noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1085819220508965925.post-23740581583019762612013-06-25T10:03:00.002-04:002013-06-25T10:06:52.086-04:00Happiness is Edible<a href="http://anshakotyk.com/blog/">Ansha Kotyk</a> (author of Gangsterland) thinks I can learn to cook. She's even given me distinct directions on cooking rice. I haven't even attempted it, which is a shame. I live with two incredible cooks. My dad is also a fantastic kitchen master.<br />
<br />
[Insert statement about lacking the cooking gene].<br />
<br />
I posted a few months ago about needing to overcome my fear of the kitchen. This is what lead Ansha to tell me about rice; I said I eat a lot of stir fry. In fact, I eat a lot! Ansha said, "<span style="background-color: whitesmoke; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;">I think there's a lot to be said if you can make your own food... any craving you have... wabam, on the plate.</span>"<br />
<br />
I know what she's saying, but for me, it's not so much "wabam." It's much slower and more painful. There is never a "voila" when I am in the kitchen. Or if there is, it's because I cut up a bell pepper.<br />
<br />
Today, I was thinking about all the food photos I post on Instagram and Facebook. I realized it's pretty depressing that I have not made any of it or at least very little of it. I remember my friend Thom asking me once about how I could make such gorgeous food. I laughed (and cried on the inside) about that notion.<br />
<br />
But, what would a blog post be without an internal call to action? I'm gonna cook, dammit. What? I dunno. I suppose I should honor Ansha and start with stir fry.<br />
<br />
Another summer challenge I've given myself is to go on at least one picnic a week. I have had four thus far, but have not made my own food for any of them. These picnics are the perfect opportunity to make some easy-breezy food.<br />
<br />
If food makes me so happy, then I'd better learn to create my own happiness. (Head-nod from Soc)<br />
<br />
Until then, here are some photos of inspiration:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNdrC28SVE_GlziH1zXY5-_aW-hvZjIETOskmfms0U0E5jh3GDHKVyxQXij45mYdgbQWABZJmqhRkmghtG6JWCKyCSzA1wumHICLI0u3lbCXw1_8Let5-f6xFMWFOsP2-gLwqL6iKYieA/s1600/483665_605141725448_1281975913_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNdrC28SVE_GlziH1zXY5-_aW-hvZjIETOskmfms0U0E5jh3GDHKVyxQXij45mYdgbQWABZJmqhRkmghtG6JWCKyCSzA1wumHICLI0u3lbCXw1_8Let5-f6xFMWFOsP2-gLwqL6iKYieA/s320/483665_605141725448_1281975913_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk6t6ulH0O9sd9T09Qpzsk2oeR0GyzD5Do9ytKa91IB8ezPhfyVnlU3qOyhlwkknC37MpZr0ZUFLHctfL2w9JodMxkQfDe726bPmpU8tnM9IZ8d_Sh0dIBlTCVafB7V_EEBZCEmorP7ms/s1600/531861_607117825328_1298769674_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk6t6ulH0O9sd9T09Qpzsk2oeR0GyzD5Do9ytKa91IB8ezPhfyVnlU3qOyhlwkknC37MpZr0ZUFLHctfL2w9JodMxkQfDe726bPmpU8tnM9IZ8d_Sh0dIBlTCVafB7V_EEBZCEmorP7ms/s320/531861_607117825328_1298769674_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOBPPIyl2qOX3EnzsoIarFSuMo27WSBqv8om-lUk4QSF5egFzfHYLxl6tOfvGIWaX4qAh6DXjSHEO9G4Da9TevQgGI6jTkd-h8fU-1RLry_a9fhbevVFEFsL1SP6rB91NEw5Zfswe22bE/s1600/934946_615600585808_1051879627_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOBPPIyl2qOX3EnzsoIarFSuMo27WSBqv8om-lUk4QSF5egFzfHYLxl6tOfvGIWaX4qAh6DXjSHEO9G4Da9TevQgGI6jTkd-h8fU-1RLry_a9fhbevVFEFsL1SP6rB91NEw5Zfswe22bE/s320/934946_615600585808_1051879627_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirzGH7uch9wFyRfJOYzOoIfTG4LyAnSnlaymWbkDS1X4HPVv_feJQ-qnbuDN6G5Ap3bZAACG1aa7gFeDSOR1x0jNnOMZE58bi8hTEkFwmzH2qsl0w_mnor4eQxqTRAOgz5YuiveOw79WQ/s1600/944444_612745721978_1877803486_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirzGH7uch9wFyRfJOYzOoIfTG4LyAnSnlaymWbkDS1X4HPVv_feJQ-qnbuDN6G5Ap3bZAACG1aa7gFeDSOR1x0jNnOMZE58bi8hTEkFwmzH2qsl0w_mnor4eQxqTRAOgz5YuiveOw79WQ/s320/944444_612745721978_1877803486_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRdYb_n3fA66w-dKFWohSLpdxWwfnpqy9fwwLPlVD-eO5l-_H0sZ4smGxs196U2g96BP0CG01987REc7bftRKArP2UCoqGNTuaVu0upytC-UfnliVq2fbIKpNo2b0owliVcUx3O2_zUoU/s1600/1013028_614495849708_1018911035_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRdYb_n3fA66w-dKFWohSLpdxWwfnpqy9fwwLPlVD-eO5l-_H0sZ4smGxs196U2g96BP0CG01987REc7bftRKArP2UCoqGNTuaVu0upytC-UfnliVq2fbIKpNo2b0owliVcUx3O2_zUoU/s320/1013028_614495849708_1018911035_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
I think I am a foodie.</div>
<br />Jonathon Arntsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366218140886892757noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1085819220508965925.post-36547887826936547432013-06-17T12:55:00.000-04:002013-06-17T12:55:38.808-04:00The Perks of Being an Outcast, Part IIWhere did we leave off? I think I was about 21 when I left behind a group of friends who had helped shape the fundamental way I think of myself.<br />
<br />
Alright.<br />
<br />
So, as an outcast, it's never been more evident than in my own family. I am the brother who did not kill himself. I am the-only-son-left who may or may not pass on the nearly extinct family name--a last name that's been quite the bane to my patience. I was the first kid to graduate high school even though I'm the fourth in the birth line. I'm recently the first to have a college degree. While these are obviously things to celebrate, I feel this strange shame over having accomplished something my four siblings did not. It's like, what did I do differently to deserve it?<br />
<br />
I feel the exact same way about the last example I'll give about how I am an outcast. I have friends who live with their parents. I have friends who live in shitty apartments because they revel in their independence. But then there's me, the twenty-seven year old who lives in his best friend's parents house. On paper, it sounds absurd, not that it's any of your business. But, in the same way Michael Orr grew into a fine young man, I have been privileged to grow into my talents, and work on accepting them.<br />
<br />
And so it was a week ago, at midnight, that I laid down in the middle of the field-sized backyard and waited for a star to shoot across the sky. I was in the mood to make a wish. After about thirty minutes of twinkles and blinks, I gave up on looking for a streak. But, since I was already out there, I decided to stay a little longer. I had a lot on my mind, as usual. I had guys and feelings to think about. I had this fall to think about. I had big, life-altering decisions that needed attention.<br />
<br />
It was then, as I realized I had spent the last hour as a mosquito buffet because I am too au naturel for my own good and skipped the bug spray, that I had already made all the wishes I'd needed--AND that they had come true. I once wished to feel at home. I never did growing up. I felt more at home after being kicked out by my mom for coming out, than I did prior. I never really felt at home in my own skin either.<br />
<br />
Lying in that field, the one I see almost every single day because it's where I park my car and where the dogs take a shit, I felt more at home than I ever have before. And even right now I feel at home. It's not the field that makes me feel at home. It's not the , it was this home into which I was graciously welcomed, that inspired me to become the person I am today.<br />
<br />
This farm that has been in the same family since 1876, drew me out of the mind-sludge brainwashing that the suburbs of Holland had allowed me to experience--part of that dumbing myself down bit.<br />
<br />
If I had not been an outcast, this farm would never have been available to me. I never would have become this bizarre little man who is revered by the current caretakers of the farm. I wouldn't have been humble enough to accept their invitation to this wonderland.<br />
<br />
My friends and colleagues tell me they drive by this place and remark at how lovely of a house it looks. If only they knew its powers. My friends say they lament not being invited to Hogwarts. Fuck Hogwarts. The Radtke-Fisher Farm is where the real magic is.<br />
<br />
I mean, look at how I went from a shadow of a person who felt as pinnable as Pan's shadow, to this flesh and bone writer of bizarre blog posts.<br />
<br />
I intended to create a happy ending for this post, but it just didn't wrap up the way I thought it would. Really, how can one wrap up a post that has no real ending? "To be continued..." is the normal countenance for such occasions, but I used that up on the last post, for which it was a much more appropriate use than it would be here.<br />
<br />
Instead, I'll leave you with this:<br />
My best friend told me I need to stop thinking so broadly and get my head outta the clouds. I need to live in the moment. I need to stop rejecting the idea of a relationship and just be chill with the guys I desire to be with. I need to stop hating my job because in fact I truly love it and the talents I have discovered because of it. I need to be the Jonathon that I am in the following photos. I need to stop being who I am think I am supposed to be, and accept the perks of being an outcast. <i>The perks of being Jonathon.</i><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDkgX9L283oYTq7qSWrSGHG0xvMiYoiVmNzYzuKGx-_mL9mmyHQgC5cTeTyj63Oycgy6ZBcT_GAeeF2uyNns4AGJCCESd049OmcrVOq4lOzVu185cJW5RVZF7wIjPvxTtFGaE-_6zYvkI/s1600/382696_612434281108_655586217_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDkgX9L283oYTq7qSWrSGHG0xvMiYoiVmNzYzuKGx-_mL9mmyHQgC5cTeTyj63Oycgy6ZBcT_GAeeF2uyNns4AGJCCESd049OmcrVOq4lOzVu185cJW5RVZF7wIjPvxTtFGaE-_6zYvkI/s320/382696_612434281108_655586217_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The aforementioned bff AKA Lifesaver</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXefXs9AQfG2gmDyNEgDzcYTBkFR6mGLRrjX2iwrI55zplqHQVEPrYOWFQEgjzh2Td9LuPrpO3iGmqGbe6xDAIIYtBUOxQ7OXCo_3_wzq6QwKxso1ZS3jA7J0Tqj7nWQ8mC_Cubh9YX2s/s1600/935931_10151961712123508_1015377646_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXefXs9AQfG2gmDyNEgDzcYTBkFR6mGLRrjX2iwrI55zplqHQVEPrYOWFQEgjzh2Td9LuPrpO3iGmqGbe6xDAIIYtBUOxQ7OXCo_3_wzq6QwKxso1ZS3jA7J0Tqj7nWQ8mC_Cubh9YX2s/s320/935931_10151961712123508_1015377646_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgr5IuMlmS-PLVH1XhSAAiS9t9UKSVA5hynBMyCsPQX7CiP2g43KrAXkceFqy0IL5ZSoLAKqDJVkAvyD6jkp-ATeYX4uu2Ac_MV93kUyiAnoxqLCcnnVfumqkAJMHov6fHs4m9-qSEVDE/s1600/945636_613764355628_992478712_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgr5IuMlmS-PLVH1XhSAAiS9t9UKSVA5hynBMyCsPQX7CiP2g43KrAXkceFqy0IL5ZSoLAKqDJVkAvyD6jkp-ATeYX4uu2Ac_MV93kUyiAnoxqLCcnnVfumqkAJMHov6fHs4m9-qSEVDE/s320/945636_613764355628_992478712_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg94tLc8Ei4_zAIBF9zZW7wwGMglSD5mv2bfoajRJUhGhOBypaAjTjiHVdPBOxHMcIv7FZwoRDcZhr5Tt3mdg-5-JVL6yid4_HbC_KSkPw6gZeIPlQN7AtVpNabMwFoPKX0w9V-0bcq5c/s1600/980769_613602684618_393385227_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg94tLc8Ei4_zAIBF9zZW7wwGMglSD5mv2bfoajRJUhGhOBypaAjTjiHVdPBOxHMcIv7FZwoRDcZhr5Tt3mdg-5-JVL6yid4_HbC_KSkPw6gZeIPlQN7AtVpNabMwFoPKX0w9V-0bcq5c/s320/980769_613602684618_393385227_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBSiifJW8RyMZ3WFI-67B7e5_-O3GZEeMa25a7vZ2Otj6yH7CPyogw6ZZV3RgNKJZ86A7dWNrkf15THHp6gq9NYogy1EsS3KpuJBEaEyJeJfM0566-ORtNTzPh9ux4KY3UC6iEw91hjmA/s1600/976520_10101504771358148_907559052_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBSiifJW8RyMZ3WFI-67B7e5_-O3GZEeMa25a7vZ2Otj6yH7CPyogw6ZZV3RgNKJZ86A7dWNrkf15THHp6gq9NYogy1EsS3KpuJBEaEyJeJfM0566-ORtNTzPh9ux4KY3UC6iEw91hjmA/s320/976520_10101504771358148_907559052_o.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />Jonathon Arntsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366218140886892757noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1085819220508965925.post-24566050095115052522013-06-12T11:09:00.002-04:002013-06-12T11:09:37.868-04:00The Perks of Being an Outcast, Part IIt amazes me (and somehow I spend much of my life amazed) how many people tell me I have incredible communication skills. I do feel comfortable in most any situation, but I don't usually feel like I belong. In fact, I've spent much of my life feeling like an outcast.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When I was little, I had an prevailing desire to soak up facts from the encyclopedia and wring them out over everyone's head. This garnered me the title "know it all." I don't have an issue with that label, per se, but I have distinct memories of how those around me would confuse my knowing thousands of trivial geographical and statistical facts with me being a smart ass when I would legitimately not understand something they were talking about. This still happens, actually. I find many people expect you to just understand what they're saying even when they do not have the skills to explain. "Well, you knew what I meant!" they say. Oddly enough, this ties in with the "know it all" label--I'll say, "I really don't know what you mean here," but I usually get annoyance in response. This happened when I was younger, especially with my step-mom. I think she thought I was making fun of her for trying to nail down the actual meaning of what she was describing. This reoccurring circumstance led to me "play dumb", which I did for about fifteen years, and still exhibit for the briefest of moments.<br />
<br />
It started when my brother killed himself. I was in 8th grade. I went from all A's, to a low-B's, high-C's student. I was finally able to mask my intelligence with real world failures. I vividly remember the relief that overcame me when I missed being bumped into 8th grade Advanced Math by two points. My teacher suggested I retake the placement exam and she'd help me study. I was so nervous that she was talking to me, I just muttered a "No, that's okay," and she went away. When my grades, and performance obviously, dipped in 8th grade, I was so glad no one noticed. My mother was numb, my dad was far away, and my siblings were in their own little worlds covered by storm clouds.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I skated through the last five years of my public education without reward and without intervention. The only thing I excelled at was foreign language.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When I was in my senior year, college seemed so far away--in distance and time. My dad and step-mom had a friend who worked as a translator for the city court. He brought me to Mexican restaurants and grocery stores where I could utilize my years of Spanish language training. I was good. The employees understood me, and even revered me. But it was too much for me. I began to resent that the only thing I was good at was speaking a foreign language--a language that very few of my friends and family gave a shit about. I was even more of an outcast at near fluency in Spanish than I was when I could list the capital city of every state in alphabetical order.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In my final year of my public school education, I no longer gave a shit about my grades. I didn't even care much about my future. I was working at the GAP and it was fun. I could just do that for the rest of my life. What I did care about was who I was, or rather, what I was. I spent much of my time stressing about my sexuality. I had already come out of the closet, by default--which I'll explain another time, but I was still attracted to girls in a way that is still difficult to explain. It took a few years (and thousands of hours of feeling like a guilty schmuck), but I finally decided that I could no longer have sex with girls. If I was gay, I had to be gay. Otherwise...what the fuck was I? Just an outcast.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I embraced my gayness by...I didn't really do anything. I just broke up with Kim, the girl I'd gone out with for a few months. She already knew I was attracted to guys. She was actually excited by that which freaked me out a little bit. If I knew then what I know now, I would have gladly accepted her acceptance of me.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So, I embraced my gayness by shutting out some of the people who had borne witness to the most vulnerable versions of me that ever existed. To this day, I feel like I betrayed Kim and our friends. And by doing so, I felt even more like an outcast.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
To be continued...</div>
Jonathon Arntsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366218140886892757noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1085819220508965925.post-54186249392541623722013-06-10T16:13:00.002-04:002013-06-10T16:13:30.931-04:00The FeelsI've had the feels lately.<br />
<br />
That's basically my lazy way of saying:<br />
I have no idea what I am doing in life right now,<br />
I hate my job,<br />
I hate myself, a little,<br />
I've watched my beloved desk plants wither and then at the last second I give them a shot of water,<br />
I'm drinking quite a bit,<br />
I'm playing heavy and melancholy music,<br />
I'm worried about my lowered sex drive (which may actually be slightly providential given its usual heightened state),<br />
I want new clothes (I don't usually give a shit),<br />
and I feel the need to seek out a remedy for...who I am.<br />
<br />
I am in the mindset that I need to cure myself of myself.<br />
<br />
Even if none of that makes sense, I feel it. I feel it so comprehensively that I think I am a different person than I was last week.<br />
<br />
I have the feels.<br />
<br />
I want them to go away. I want to know what I am doing in life. I mean, I know what I am supposed to do. I know a WHOLE LOT of what I am supposed to do.<br />
<br />
The most beautiful plant on my desk right now is a fake plant.<br />
<br />
I want to be a fake plant<br />
<br />
It's clearly time to color in my Disney Princess coloring book.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Another remedy: <b>Go on at least one picnic a week. Today's picnic was spent at First Curve Beach</b> :D</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqL-vDGNYAaJ62wzfnuxrk1efpfTlOlw3qfjtHL0zWftBuP54y7fItmN2ZHxCDnyQHhh-Sz2J1Ls4-KEqFRe8bALXsg8PGJaYS_AVxGsQ2E1mgMNqnuX6H0-N_LSvHGSjX1a-u840wsHQ/s1600/934627_613788826588_23866492_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqL-vDGNYAaJ62wzfnuxrk1efpfTlOlw3qfjtHL0zWftBuP54y7fItmN2ZHxCDnyQHhh-Sz2J1Ls4-KEqFRe8bALXsg8PGJaYS_AVxGsQ2E1mgMNqnuX6H0-N_LSvHGSjX1a-u840wsHQ/s320/934627_613788826588_23866492_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRVfmYEja_NFR2QzqVhhSJ3TjvuQybq3Can9DpiFGghyphenhyphenGV3Dkv631jdrDg12Hn2hh3eLOD_9NQ7RJResVPvMJQSOwfmj0aQf1qmJyZ4N4cROvswqLSbjW0xWmJU_ooLyqcu_nLUlC9QnI/s1600/967016_613789215808_1217245256_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRVfmYEja_NFR2QzqVhhSJ3TjvuQybq3Can9DpiFGghyphenhyphenGV3Dkv631jdrDg12Hn2hh3eLOD_9NQ7RJResVPvMJQSOwfmj0aQf1qmJyZ4N4cROvswqLSbjW0xWmJU_ooLyqcu_nLUlC9QnI/s320/967016_613789215808_1217245256_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfLgM7iOKUsiKkVyN4FhFVXqs3MOWS-DcRGerrAul-Lb-gRH6uYoVCIeSVxVjENm9T93vFiitslaNy_XGybfFa8dpH86UtieFDTzDmnt_6uHAyfE6X-sTvb3shqpSF1ILSdlqZSA9oc30/s1600/981562_613789041158_1752006275_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfLgM7iOKUsiKkVyN4FhFVXqs3MOWS-DcRGerrAul-Lb-gRH6uYoVCIeSVxVjENm9T93vFiitslaNy_XGybfFa8dpH86UtieFDTzDmnt_6uHAyfE6X-sTvb3shqpSF1ILSdlqZSA9oc30/s320/981562_613789041158_1752006275_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b>Friday at the Tigers game:</b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLqK07OVKxETexdxUYcORFjP6-QPNLJrSUz40F8GkUEqJnhXED3JS5Y7uYf94jmQ3PJWq7NCRRsTTOj6L5lH7LgLiMyH7Xc9BraZnwZIGT0j6A9BdQczFQ2hmT6ApXmpKUW0X7eL8kZ1c/s1600/3733_613479037408_1004951399_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLqK07OVKxETexdxUYcORFjP6-QPNLJrSUz40F8GkUEqJnhXED3JS5Y7uYf94jmQ3PJWq7NCRRsTTOj6L5lH7LgLiMyH7Xc9BraZnwZIGT0j6A9BdQczFQ2hmT6ApXmpKUW0X7eL8kZ1c/s320/3733_613479037408_1004951399_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />Jonathon Arntsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366218140886892757noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1085819220508965925.post-33217495242121762192013-06-06T10:30:00.002-04:002013-06-06T10:30:33.884-04:00Is My Mind Part of Me Or All of Me?No, this post is not about Descartes.<br />
<br />
I am cursed with this brilliant mind.<br />
<br />
I know. Bear with me.<br />
<br />
I can feel ideas bloom inside me, and they feel like watching a time-capture video of spring. I can tell when I have a really good idea because I go into a full-fledged daydream (complete with soundtrack). It's even more vivid than a flashback. And I am not talking about an idea for the premise of the next Great American Novel. I come up with more tangible ideas, which I typed out in a list below, but ended up being to self-conscious to post. Anyway, they are typically for a business or community-type idea.<br />
<br />
So, these amazing ideas. Some of them die in my mind like a pile leaves decomposing beneath the tree that used to be their home. But some of these ideas blow away and are vetted by my emotions. The idea goes through this bizarre process where I dream about it, share snippets with my friends seeking a reaction, and then I begin to write and "sketch" about the idea. "Sketching" for me is going to a location I think is perfect, snapping photos, and drawing my idea on Adobe Illustrator. It's usually at this point that I realize my idea is DUMB. And often times, the idea really is dumb.<br />
<br />
I tend to be perfectly content with this realization. I begin having issues when I realize I have a good idea. By the way, the filtering process above has let through maybe 5% of my ideas by this point in this non-story story. So, those five percenters become a tumor in my mind that sucks a lot of energy and focus out of my ongoing real life.<br />
<br />
More on this later, but right now, I am ambivalent. Do I let the cancer grow and change me, or do I seek a type of meditative chemo that will contain it? I already know I cannot simply remove it with a scalpel.<br />
<br />
Okay, fine, this post is totally inspired by Descartes.<br />
<br />Jonathon Arntsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366218140886892757noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1085819220508965925.post-82479702811759328202013-05-17T11:02:00.002-04:002013-05-17T11:03:01.655-04:00Succeeding at FailingAwww. You thought this was going to be a long heartfelt post, didn't you?<br />
<br />
No. I just came here today to say hey. I'm actually posting to the blog. See? SEE? I'm trying! Trying is doing. Soon enough the posts will actually have <i>content</i>. Soon enough.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;">"I can accept failure; everyone fails at something. But I can't accept not trying." --Michael Jordan</span><br />
<br />Jonathon Arntsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366218140886892757noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1085819220508965925.post-31682664223895199452013-05-13T10:24:00.000-04:002013-05-13T10:24:16.292-04:00Time Keeps on Slipping Slipping Slipping WHERE IS IT GOING?Jonathon Arntsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366218140886892757noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1085819220508965925.post-24801112424740322192013-05-11T00:33:00.000-04:002013-05-11T00:33:47.799-04:00Ahhhh X 3Ahhhh! I want to post about NESCBWI13 so bad, but I am too busy!<br />
<br />
Ahhhh! I graduated today!<br />
<br />
Ahhhh! I am so inspired about writing right now that I am going to BURST if I don't get to it in the next few days. I even cancelled a date so I could have time. :D<br />
<br />
Bye.Jonathon Arntsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366218140886892757noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1085819220508965925.post-52904379343299148942013-05-07T09:15:00.002-04:002013-05-07T09:15:20.189-04:00For HeatherI changed my header to something less stoner looking. That's Sleeping Bear Dunes, btw.<br />
<br />
I'll blog about the 2013 NESCBW conference soon. I just have to stop rotating first.Jonathon Arntsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366218140886892757noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1085819220508965925.post-47577476871646729962013-03-18T07:00:00.000-04:002013-03-18T07:00:13.864-04:00Turtles, Water, and Other FearsI talk a lot about fears. They are a prevailing force in my life. Why I give that much power to the moments I feel weakest is beyond me. A few years ago, I proclaimed that I would go on a conquest to abolish my fears. I said that I would hold a turtle in my hand before the end of the year and skydive over Lake Michigan. I thought those experiences and several more would make a great book.<br />
<br />
I have not gone on that eradication expedition. There's still time. As I create schemes to challenge myself, I become aware of more fears. The more I meditate, the more accepting I am of those fears. I am in an foreseen cycle that seems to be more effective than my idea of taking on my fears.<br />
<br />
Beside meditation, another part of the cycle that has helped in a book by Dr Susan Jeffers titled <i>Feel the Fear ...And Do it Anyway</i>. So far, the biggest thing she's taught me is that fears do not disappear. It's how we handle them that change. And if we do not feel any fear in our life, then we know we're not challenging ourselves.<br />
<br />
I'm all about challenges, both physical and introspective. You already know this. But I am constantly wondering what it is it for? Why do I challenge myself? Is it for the outcome or is it for the journey? I posted about jumping off the breakwall last summer in an effort to overcome my fear of water. I am still freaking scared of water, but I better understand its place in my life.<br />
<br />
Even as I write this post, I wonder where I go from here. Do I kick it up a notch, or do I continue on this journey of acceptance? I think a combination of the two is the way to go. I need to push myself to finally hold that scary ass turtle in my hand, but I need to journal before and after that experience.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5xRAtfdP3hd-lGPveIqxxBFop22YwOiGOCjVNXqY6gn98X1VbuCxsHID3vmnK6NNesztl-DsMGAE7HRKYGnNb8GAzW6QAoI_moV5wdDE5uhyuSAYGQwTfj51ZDWdIL2WnTRPpy_Q6PhE/s1600/I+live+a+life+of+fear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5xRAtfdP3hd-lGPveIqxxBFop22YwOiGOCjVNXqY6gn98X1VbuCxsHID3vmnK6NNesztl-DsMGAE7HRKYGnNb8GAzW6QAoI_moV5wdDE5uhyuSAYGQwTfj51ZDWdIL2WnTRPpy_Q6PhE/s320/I+live+a+life+of+fear.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Jonathon Arntsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366218140886892757noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1085819220508965925.post-78934511681763717062013-03-15T10:53:00.000-04:002013-03-15T10:53:23.855-04:00Do You Eat Spoiled Blackberries?<i>The fruits of our labor</i>. You know the cliche. Work hard and things happen.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What about the fruits in our life we do not want: weight gain, stress, apathy, bad habits? There are many decayed ends to the means that seem to happen to us. We take ownership of the positive outcomes in our life when we use the above cliche, but we tend to not take ownership of the negative. Why is that? Why can't we simply make the positive changes we believe will improve our lives?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I went through a phase where I thought daily affirmations would create the change I sought. I outsourced my changes. They helped, a lot. But they did not change me. The affirmations did place seeds in my mind that helped me to view the world differently. I began to consider what I did and did not like about myself. I like that I can produce art that seems to surprise and invigorate people. I dislike that I am not a very good listener and I rely too much on recording what people say. The list is endless, but not in an unconquerable way. I like that my writing voice is solid, but I dislike that I do not take my writing craft as seriously as it deserves.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
These days, I am not flipping through the affirmation card collection like I used to, but the ideas on those cards surface every now and then. And it's valuable for me to review them every now and then, but to understand that the change exists within myself.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I've improved my listening skills through meditation and little listening challenges I give myself at work and school (via <a href="http://www.ted.com/talks/julian_treasure_5_ways_to_listen_better.html">Julian Treasure</a>). I have subtly taken my writing more seriously through classwork, but have done little to live those values outside school.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In my last post, I wrote about my desire to 1. learn to cook and 2. learn to cook well. I have not taken up that challenge to myself in the last week. I think my first step will be to take up my sister on her offer to help. I think I'll also contact some of my foodie friends and see what they have to say.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Enjoy your weekend! And enjoy yourself.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
---Jonathon</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4wG2ZEmSME-vAEp4WnYgdJLYkxQMDwN3KBbMNDxrnsC4ugQZMK6ZIiCK0PwsnpS7KJv6abmopj9yc6n-Qdp6YJU1KgpH5y0dYkM1LqRU7HdY3qvUZGE_Vg_xLaJpz1VrsMUaz36wCL8E/s1600/CoffeeGator.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4wG2ZEmSME-vAEp4WnYgdJLYkxQMDwN3KBbMNDxrnsC4ugQZMK6ZIiCK0PwsnpS7KJv6abmopj9yc6n-Qdp6YJU1KgpH5y0dYkM1LqRU7HdY3qvUZGE_Vg_xLaJpz1VrsMUaz36wCL8E/s320/CoffeeGator.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Jonathon Arntsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366218140886892757noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1085819220508965925.post-4027126616522437142013-03-08T12:01:00.001-05:002013-03-08T12:01:28.294-05:00AnomalyI am Facebook friends with people from a wide spectrum of philosophies, values, beliefs, habits, preferences, etc. In theory, we all are. On occasion, I narrow in on one of my followers by accident. I like on of their posts, and suddenly there's a flood of their posts that seem as if they're speaking directly to me.<br />
<br />
The most recent example of this is a Facebook friend of mine who frequently posts about foraging. I look over the photos and read her words like a ten year old boy with a book on sharks. I envy her for her skills and her life. I sound like a housewife.<br />
<br />
In true housewife fashion, I quickly come to wonder what's preventing me from learning the ins and outs of foraging? (Especially considering I live on 80 acres in the countryside of coastal Michigan!) I thought, <i>I should message her and see if she'd be interested in a foraging workshop at the college.</i> That's what I do, I provide myself with ample opportunities to live vicariously. It's really quite satisfying.<br />
<br />
That is until I have the realization that I want to be the one giving the foraging workshop to my neighbors and peers. That realization always comes. Today's realization lead me to another realization, as they should. I need to learn how to cook. And cook well. Cooking is, for me, one of the single most scary thing to do.<br />
<br />
I once made a faux cheesecake out of a box. Jello brand, methinks. It took me two hours.<br />
<br />
Learning to cook healthy, sustainable meals seems to be the skill I have been working toward. I proved to myself several things in the last four years. I can give up alcohol; I did not drink for 13 mos. I can control the amount of meat I eat; I chopped 70% of the meat I used to eat from my diet and learned to like salmon and other meats I'd avoided. I can educate my friends on the benefits of buying local without lecturing them. Clearly, I can prove to myself that I can learn to cook.<br />
<br />
But the stakes are higher than they might be for anyone else. I am in this weird place where I am an advocate for smart eating and eating smart. But I still enjoy my bags of Cheddar and Sour Cream Ruffles. I let my pocket win out almost every time. Before a meeting, do I buy veggies from the farm stand down the street or purchase a pop tarts from the vending machine? Well, those s'mores pop tarts are really freaking good. But didn't I once prove that I can conquer my tastes? I did a few times, as evidenced above.<br />
<br />
So where do I go from here? My dream would be to buy a house with some land and a small barn (that I can one day turn into the helm of a writers' workshop and non-profit). I want to learn to grow food as I learn to cook it. I want to write about it. And write about it s'more. I want to have friends over who know more about food than I do; I'd consume their ideas like a bag of Ruffles. I want to have friends over who don't give a shit about food quality; I love converts.<br />
<br />
But this all sounds like a lot of work. And I really like to sit on the couch and watch HGTV as I twirl the strings on my hoodie clicking on Pinterest wishing I wasn't living vicariously through my Facebook friends.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPxdeQU7i1LYBaeAXh15xBIvgCAvYvtzphWA6J10dOSkRdU1xkzPMucY57nJPzm6ScS86AQoAicA0hfB7h3AkSks63TKGWNF6Ct85beA1idd7zyP_xSL-RpJnV-lqVKunYzWpPMRat3sw/s1600/Picture0132.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPxdeQU7i1LYBaeAXh15xBIvgCAvYvtzphWA6J10dOSkRdU1xkzPMucY57nJPzm6ScS86AQoAicA0hfB7h3AkSks63TKGWNF6Ct85beA1idd7zyP_xSL-RpJnV-lqVKunYzWpPMRat3sw/s400/Picture0132.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />Jonathon Arntsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366218140886892757noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1085819220508965925.post-33575757731814315042013-03-01T11:09:00.001-05:002013-03-01T11:09:02.949-05:00TGIFThank Gouda it's fromage.Jonathon Arntsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366218140886892757noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1085819220508965925.post-672766071274277172013-02-19T11:13:00.002-05:002013-02-19T11:13:44.946-05:00Failure: Quantified<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
For Christmas this year, I received a coffee mug from a good friend. It's one of those <a href="http://www.quotablecards.com/">Quotable Mugs</a> with an adage. It says <i>WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF YOU KNEW YOU COULD NOT FAIL?</i> This particular friend and I have a history of challenging our limits, so it was the perfect gift.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Just this morning, I woke up, looked at the box on my bookshelf, and began wondering. What the hell would I do if I knew I could not fail? I pondered the notion as I peed. I continued thinking as I took a daily dose of Zantac and ibuprofen, and watered my plants. I started to panic after ten minutes when i realized I had no effing idea what I would do if I could not fail.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I went downstairs. I put on a pot of water to boil and ground coffee grains.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
A film short played in my mind. I whisked my boyfriend and I off to Mo'orea where we rented a cottage for a year. I wrote and wrote. He played music and ran around the island to get closer to his idea of his physical ideal. We slept in a hammock some nights, and other nights we didn't sleep at all...</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Then, the image faded and fear settled in. Why was that my image of defying failure? Why can't I defy failure in my life right now? I tend to get very angry with myself; many of you know this. It's a side effect of the tumor of guilt I've carried around for two and a half decades. And it doesn't help that the version of me seen by those at my school and workplace is of this confident and unstoppable man. I'm really just a little boy scared to death of this big bad world. I'm even afraid of myself. When I start to fear myself, I count my failures. This is like counting cooked rice grains in a lotus bowl; they stick together and to my fingers. It's not the most pleasant experience, but there's something comforting and fascinating about the way the rice feels. I quickly realize I cannot count the failures in my life because I cannot remember all of them - they've rolled away.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
So, what would I do if I knew I could not fail? I'd be more vulnerable and open to the world. I'd buy a plane ticket to Paris and a train ticket to Vancouver. I'd go to the places I've wanted to go for years. I've dreamed of spending weeks or months in a secluded spot since I was in high school. Even though I am an extremely extroverted person, I recognize my need to be totally, or close to, alone. I'm not afraid of that idea. Now I'm starting to fear this post makes no sense. FAIL, it could be a four-letter word. Or it could be a motivator. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Tomorrow, when I wake up, I am going to stare that little box down and accept its challenge.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdC6vCWx7RbArlumRCs_osOJgqcim28Wm_9VlM-9gLi2fSEwj53Dy45erjSP2KPsGv49DSxpNXw4xtlws8chm5Uwbqz_toz0zHeLJPAYG4EbthmSCAPHPV2yVLYhu8jRie1zdFQX52KYw/s1600/Failure.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdC6vCWx7RbArlumRCs_osOJgqcim28Wm_9VlM-9gLi2fSEwj53Dy45erjSP2KPsGv49DSxpNXw4xtlws8chm5Uwbqz_toz0zHeLJPAYG4EbthmSCAPHPV2yVLYhu8jRie1zdFQX52KYw/s1600/Failure.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If you're in Grand Rapids, head to <a href="http://www.spiritdreamsgr.com/">Spirit Dreams</a> in Eastown!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Jonathon Arntsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366218140886892757noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1085819220508965925.post-85462436252105460962013-02-13T08:39:00.004-05:002013-02-13T08:39:51.668-05:00Same LoveI've been listening to Macklemore and Ryan Lewis's "Same Love" over and over and over and over and over for a few weeks. It's what I did with Frank Ocean once I realized he was singing about his attraction to another guy. I'm mesmerized by the inclusion I suddenly feel in mainstream pop culture. It's hard to believe sometimes.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The last time I remember a rapper mentioning the word 'gay' it was Eminem and I did not want to hear what he had to say. That was ten or so years ago. I think Eminem has changed as much as I have in those ten years. And from this seat, that feels like a lot of change.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Last weekend I attended a conference dedicated to gay college students. It was hosted by Michigan State University (one of the schools I am applying to). The conference was attended by just under two thousand college students, grad assistants, professors, advisors, and administrators from around the country. Most of them were from the Midwest because A) it was in Michigan this year and B) it's called The Midwest Bisexual Lesbian Gay Transgender ally College Conference. I got to meet Ben Cohen and Lz Granderson! Those names may not mean anything to you, but they are important to me because of the stands they take in the fight for gay rights. I also appreciate the two of them because they lead lives of integrity.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So the conference blew my mind. And this post was supposed to be the bowl into which I regurgitated my impressions. That's not happening, and I'm not about to stick a toothbrush down my throat in hopes of inducing some brain vomit.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'll come back when I'm ready! Enjoy the rest of your week.</div>
Jonathon Arntsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366218140886892757noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1085819220508965925.post-57331784476658495522013-01-18T12:29:00.001-05:002013-01-18T12:29:32.250-05:00RePersonalizedFor the last couple years, I've treated my blog as a brand. Heck, I've treated my personality as a brand. This practice added pressure to perform in the writing world. You'd be amazed at how fast treating my writing like a brand killed the creative process and put a block several feet think over my mind. Very few times over the last two years did I break through the wall. Like earthquake survivors trapped in a collapsed high-rise, I sent messages to my creative self in hopes of rescue. In a Republicans-would-be-proud fashion, I picked myself up by my bootstraps, over and over, and have finally rediscovered that dynamic voice that first put me on the map in the kidlit world.<br />
<br />
That last sentence contains two lies.<br />
<br />
One, I did not pick myself up by my bootstraps. My boots don't even have straps; they're North Face winter hiking books. I picked myself up with the help of hundreds of people, namely professors, coworkers, and writing friends found through this very blog.<br />
<br />
I've abandoned members of those groups at various times in the last few years because I felt like I was failing to answer to them. That's because I used those people as a means for accountability. Using another person as a tool for accountability works only if you can ultimately rely upon yourself for accountability. Holding myself accountable for anything is scary as shit. I doubt it's very different for anyone else, but we all wear the pressures of life in a different way. I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve, and there fore those close to the center of my universe know immediately that I have failed, or at least they know that <i>I</i> think I've failed.<br />
<br />
Accountability always leads to blame for me. Sometimes the blame comes first, but the two run hand in hand through my life.<br />
<br />
<i>Why do I take blame for so many little things in my life, but fail to hold myself accountable for some of the major things?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
My friend Alayne treated me to a Viking rune reading a couple weeks ago. I felt particularly in tune with the Scandinavian practice because of my heritage. We used the three rune layout which means the first rune pulled stood for the overall state of things in my life, the second is the challenge I face, and the third is the action required. The spread I received excited me, and I'll paraphrase here. Essentially, I am nearing the end of a tumultuous phase and transitioning into a new, brighter phase. I need to stay aware of where I am as to not get too ahead. And within a year, I will see the dramatic changes I've made. After typing all that, I realize that's a horribly watered-down rendition of the gorgeous language used in the rune book.<br />
<br />
Needless to say, I am excited about the changes mentioned. I can see them. I can feel them.<br />
<br />
One of those changes is to make this blog mine again. No more branding. Nor more pandering. I need a public journal for my sanity and the benefits of using <i>Jon's Life</i>. outweigh those of starting from scratch. Life is not about starting from scratch. Accountability.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPDt_GoEi1pSoGOx49MMAD8l1v9aTEBG5rxz5TQQuiLd51B33NWNwp940pI0Xg1VXaRDXQDBOFHeYy45sanMt4OkBY9pIxM7VS2LXMddhiUJtcxQ7DdXFBbDFmO8ONj7KhGY7prPWjUzo/s1600/Rune+Reading+Jan+2013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPDt_GoEi1pSoGOx49MMAD8l1v9aTEBG5rxz5TQQuiLd51B33NWNwp940pI0Xg1VXaRDXQDBOFHeYy45sanMt4OkBY9pIxM7VS2LXMddhiUJtcxQ7DdXFBbDFmO8ONj7KhGY7prPWjUzo/s320/Rune+Reading+Jan+2013.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harvest < Movement (reversed) < Breakthrough</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
Jonathon Arntsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366218140886892757noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1085819220508965925.post-90701332152948394642013-01-11T10:16:00.002-05:002013-01-11T10:25:58.782-05:00Oh. Hello there!It's a new year! Did you know that? I did, vaguely.<br />
<br />
This is not one of those NEW YEAR, NEW ME BS posts - although I do have a resolution: stir the coffee beans in the press right after pouring in the boiling water.<br />
<br />
I haven't been writing. I've been busy falling in love and ruling my college campus. Oh, and pinning the hell outta stuff for that one-day-house/wedding/trip to vancouver. I've been listening to new music like a fiend which is amazingly time consuming.<br />
<br />
So, let's talk 2013.<br />
<br />
School:<br />
I am in the process of applying to schools (and have been for FIVE MONTHS), but I feel like I am not getting anywhere. The main reason is because my scope of schools has changed dramatically since my relationship status has changed. On the surface, it sounds like I am applying to schools so that I can go to the school my boyfriend hopes to go to (undetermined at this point). Well, that's pretty much exactly what it is. And that is really freaking exciting to me.<br />
<br />
Truthfully, our #1 pick is an excellent school: UW Madison. It's in the top for Communications and Rhetoric, my two areas of concentration. And the idea of living in Madison is the most alluring one I've entertained in years. You remember me three years ago? I was just then thinking of going to school. And here I am, in a position to transfer from a CC to a kick ass university.<br />
<br />
Clearly, I do not have it all figahed out. That is not stressing me in the slightest. That alone is an incredible thing. I am a stresser; you know this. I mean, even the grammar of this post is giving my brain hives, but I do not have time to edit. Ha! I just don't give a shit, really. I have the time.<br />
<br />
Writing:<br />
Earlier, it sounded like I regretted not writing. Well, I do to some extent. I am too good to not write. But is that a valid reason to always be writing? Probably. Am I a lifelong rule breaker? Yes.<br />
<br />
Life:<br />
In the meantime, I am going to continue on this low-stress track, rock and roll this semester into the history books, and make more time for reading. Oh, and stir those damn coffee beans.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b>
<b>Happy New Year, friends. And happy three years of blogging for me!</b></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheP8SjySNIrxigBdeP4wdFp1wp-yQ_n4psQhWIdlFDUyT7U9xnnDaAx4pLDrHsZyaZSLlh-BHiJAc9MVIHOk5Jyr32MJFnhB06SLAcNCoiJO0G-EC_ZkhqprtI_vbMe0mnpEedKDrX6Fc/s1600/barn+star+pink+instagram.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheP8SjySNIrxigBdeP4wdFp1wp-yQ_n4psQhWIdlFDUyT7U9xnnDaAx4pLDrHsZyaZSLlh-BHiJAc9MVIHOk5Jyr32MJFnhB06SLAcNCoiJO0G-EC_ZkhqprtI_vbMe0mnpEedKDrX6Fc/s320/barn+star+pink+instagram.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Jonathon Arntsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366218140886892757noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1085819220508965925.post-82499403523189524182012-10-31T23:23:00.000-04:002012-10-31T23:23:01.700-04:00Meat-FreeStarting this week, I will not eat meat four days a week. I haven't explained my system yet, but it's kinda fun. And I will not explain my justifications for giving up meat until another time.<br />
<br />
In August, I finally committed to removing meat from my diet. The plan? Start off by giving up meat one day a week. Each new month: add a day of no meat. August - 1 day. September - 2 days. October - 3 days.<br />
<br />
November represents the tipping point - the all-in month. Now, starting tomorrow, there are fewer meat days than ever before. My system started on a Friday, so I gave up Fridays first. I have not had meat for thirteen Fridays. That was pretty damn hard considering I love fish fries. But I did it.<br />
<br />
At the same time I gave up meat, I gave up red meat. Burgers are one of my favorite things in the world. I love me some beef. But I knew this could be one of the things that broke my dedication. I am known as a burger guzzler.<br />
<br />
I conquered burgers too. No burgers in the last two months.<br />
<br />
January is the day of 6 days. I am dreading that month. Really, though, I have so much more to worry about. This change in diet, it's adding positives to my life by the week.<br />
<br />
Thanks for listening.<br />
Love,<br />
Jonathon<br />
<br />
<br />Jonathon Arntsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366218140886892757noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1085819220508965925.post-82771204254333774202012-10-22T12:44:00.000-04:002012-10-22T19:52:13.064-04:00Untitled: CloudsI've drafted several posts in the last few weeks to update you on what's happening in my life, but I cannot write them fast enough! Anyway, my stress level is very low right now and my happiness feels sky-high.<br />
<br />
This week, my goal is to make sure I touch the ground before my mind goes too far into the clouds.<br />
<br />
Good music:<br />
<a href="http://youtu.be/YDeoVnhX9cg">Kid Cudi - Just What I Am</a>Jonathon Arntsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366218140886892757noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1085819220508965925.post-90160495664813936742012-10-02T17:29:00.002-04:002012-10-02T17:39:15.617-04:00Rainbows and ButterfliesI am currently working on my application for admission to a few universities. The first wave is <b style="color: #274e13;">Michigan State University</b>, the <b><span style="color: #073763;">University of Michigan</span></b>, and <b style="color: #bf9000;">Wayne State University</b>. Each one is a powerhouse in its own way. I am hoping to get into all three so that I may chose which wave of energy I want to ride. Of course, the dilemma is that I am not sure what I want to do. That reminds me: I have a very important call to make.<br />
<br />
I have a crazy-strong fear of talking on the phone. I cannot even order a flippin' pizza over the phone without feeling grave anxiety. Most of my fears have a definite beginning (crustaceans, dark water, turtles), but I cannot figure out the origins of this phone fear.<br />
<br />
They say hypnosis can reveal the origins of a fear and help you to get over the fear. Of course, they say practice will too. Consider Bem's Theory of self-perception which basically says that you will adopt an attitude if you act out the behavior. If you act confidently, you will indeed become confident. If you act like a whore, you will indeed become a whore. Okay, maybe that's not what he had in mind. If you think about rainbows and butterflies all day, then you will turn into rainbows and butterflies. Is that it?<br />
<br />
So, if I make this Super Important Career-Defining Phone Call, and act all confident in the beginning, I will become confident without even noticing. Clearly, I need to make the effing call. And I will. But first, I need to expend some negative energy from my brain.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3AsrxKVIrHPCmdTuWR6HrCsg_n1ZylCniiXhKUnhoYsAas6qCtbbP4-fuU7wCLEEqCvS5kP9n7HJLskv2dRfQKmf0KzDXCHe39kjZfAqPhJ2193EenfBc8aAil1dkWLb1NtdR1lqVsjM/s1600/421260_586347748728_1351040454_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3AsrxKVIrHPCmdTuWR6HrCsg_n1ZylCniiXhKUnhoYsAas6qCtbbP4-fuU7wCLEEqCvS5kP9n7HJLskv2dRfQKmf0KzDXCHe39kjZfAqPhJ2193EenfBc8aAil1dkWLb1NtdR1lqVsjM/s320/421260_586347748728_1351040454_n.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
Jonathon Arntsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366218140886892757noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1085819220508965925.post-30652091865912012722012-09-30T19:13:00.001-04:002012-09-30T19:13:49.053-04:00I See Clearly<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
September 21-29</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyg5zEmoqWhNLSX4q2Xk8LsA639RvwHMompfUWQ322Kzus4Kmz8BTUqY6klAfuwe3uQkN8iQMlaJKn_PbrQSwpriZ6EDIR3CMCWUWYHeJKqp6gelq_ZkdNm_UVQv3pLyIxmRrEVLnQxxY/s1600/333784_585271206128_1617421456_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyg5zEmoqWhNLSX4q2Xk8LsA639RvwHMompfUWQ322Kzus4Kmz8BTUqY6klAfuwe3uQkN8iQMlaJKn_PbrQSwpriZ6EDIR3CMCWUWYHeJKqp6gelq_ZkdNm_UVQv3pLyIxmRrEVLnQxxY/s320/333784_585271206128_1617421456_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQch6FzgMju7FVRXvR-1xBZrr7TE3Kcb-bhWbhvV4XJOmy6G1V_LWDKn3ELGg0Tccn1xB8pDEDE4K1SveG89ytagiej6fAkOwabWOe1DN4A5PBxLqK-zrc_iIY45lzY8xiLZPLHtt1Cuw/s1600/IMG_5429.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQch6FzgMju7FVRXvR-1xBZrr7TE3Kcb-bhWbhvV4XJOmy6G1V_LWDKn3ELGg0Tccn1xB8pDEDE4K1SveG89ytagiej6fAkOwabWOe1DN4A5PBxLqK-zrc_iIY45lzY8xiLZPLHtt1Cuw/s320/IMG_5429.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.artprize.org/richard-morse/2012/sticktoitiveness-unwavering-pertinacity-perseverance" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivLXKNRFhPiw1QYtwq2IM9-KOZXFOxEDh6iLsbT9U2vVvrtj6F8khYx5W4e2HTKGbqxLOjOcOjyBy2g1xDPjXkFnVasnIuv2qZN7uq8N6lctz1zibIkNJjvuJnAEsswahBpZO0NtyRpF0/s320/IMG_5449.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Artist: Richard Morse</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmz54b20f3dDVDVcn2D477SPDerYecdFUXuRyYda7Kot6bwCzpuwZsBQIeUdX2qAeWfnbf9LZ4FgnvL7T2ILaFdcqqKEMS0hIVMXSddpZ_RSU5DPQymhz42A8ppkWhjSwc7H0cdS4IhQI/s1600/IMG_5486.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmz54b20f3dDVDVcn2D477SPDerYecdFUXuRyYda7Kot6bwCzpuwZsBQIeUdX2qAeWfnbf9LZ4FgnvL7T2ILaFdcqqKEMS0hIVMXSddpZ_RSU5DPQymhz42A8ppkWhjSwc7H0cdS4IhQI/s320/IMG_5486.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVrjAlxs2uXLsi4zsCaNLRvYF5fpx1nNIykc2rqshrQVAopYt2DE2SjQB366gg1e-1qcmI3x3Uy7QvnwHjvMXPdag3fOHzkDZK1-IXTuzImFfHWemK1Dcn0xMSJT0doYOgNFTDqh4B1mY/s1600/IMG_5493.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVrjAlxs2uXLsi4zsCaNLRvYF5fpx1nNIykc2rqshrQVAopYt2DE2SjQB366gg1e-1qcmI3x3Uy7QvnwHjvMXPdag3fOHzkDZK1-IXTuzImFfHWemK1Dcn0xMSJT0doYOgNFTDqh4B1mY/s320/IMG_5493.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.artprize.org/colleen-sanders" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmAogGc2RYezx-CH1BUNpY-mpCnntKEg5UBcNX-s0mTPBIsBu8OOTJfjTOjsn1NdeNCPpWglwe1dkYXw03zDz5kBzCZYrjF-1jJn0pnZQVXKJe65qrozqmqK5LefT2xxIruF047-Nt4Rk/s200/IMG_5465.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Artist: Colleen Kelly Sander.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAdO4Vn1xdRF_iiPKnSEaHOIZf0Wc4BY-CBva9vfUIatcoRN51q23tAb_D5wBtZ4gbZITBxhEkD4h_Nl9GUbqmhr1_4jUPoeCglydggPxPv8QXAX3Vw97Qps6vEwuhBHCH-cu51XVPQ5U/s1600/IMG_5466.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAdO4Vn1xdRF_iiPKnSEaHOIZf0Wc4BY-CBva9vfUIatcoRN51q23tAb_D5wBtZ4gbZITBxhEkD4h_Nl9GUbqmhr1_4jUPoeCglydggPxPv8QXAX3Vw97Qps6vEwuhBHCH-cu51XVPQ5U/s200/IMG_5466.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9BvWyX-diw_KzUp3Gz0CK5ZLYXm34zW2yj1QIgfXdRbqPzAoZodk_DsSZErP4KOB7486QqFrdHeE_2di0lik71ZdLnAFHcJOizUMnalPEHuJtlF38KpDAkb8FWwDpxc9arLQ7zc8qBAo/s1600/IMG_5608.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9BvWyX-diw_KzUp3Gz0CK5ZLYXm34zW2yj1QIgfXdRbqPzAoZodk_DsSZErP4KOB7486QqFrdHeE_2di0lik71ZdLnAFHcJOizUMnalPEHuJtlF38KpDAkb8FWwDpxc9arLQ7zc8qBAo/s320/IMG_5608.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3NhZoJ9JNO0-4UrG5EdUaxd4JNXOUeM9dIiLno0V15iwSISz79REBPItEOKR08I1hE3MwJ0AvVKwEN7UiC4eQnnOQPxpaZPx7RqOTnSb2aLn13a9c55Oh1JtSVZaITtmeYnMd3PWHTWA/s1600/IMG_5613.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3NhZoJ9JNO0-4UrG5EdUaxd4JNXOUeM9dIiLno0V15iwSISz79REBPItEOKR08I1hE3MwJ0AvVKwEN7UiC4eQnnOQPxpaZPx7RqOTnSb2aLn13a9c55Oh1JtSVZaITtmeYnMd3PWHTWA/s320/IMG_5613.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiupVozPlds2sAsqEaAcsoP2U1LXSr5iWqilC2qSL6nRcC21heqJrgdgvPAYo0ZOidNOAHzEcOx3klNf5xucUluMZ0wYvWf-5B9fPUGMUoGHt2rw0B44gYxM3cF16NitrkVAtnhBpbz02o/s1600/IMG_5610.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiupVozPlds2sAsqEaAcsoP2U1LXSr5iWqilC2qSL6nRcC21heqJrgdgvPAYo0ZOidNOAHzEcOx3klNf5xucUluMZ0wYvWf-5B9fPUGMUoGHt2rw0B44gYxM3cF16NitrkVAtnhBpbz02o/s320/IMG_5610.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpf9_Bbp_CnmrZOU3asFTwCP0DEPYOPNtcgO4aJGlwTYEtuQ6cVGkj27xMVUfMfZqx-Ji7kOX-007s5kbOyiMz-HIWvINMho5wfcfbVGTHyK2TILyu4YDHRoCViAlqWU3VcUDUnYPJ8tE/s1600/DSCN0476.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpf9_Bbp_CnmrZOU3asFTwCP0DEPYOPNtcgO4aJGlwTYEtuQ6cVGkj27xMVUfMfZqx-Ji7kOX-007s5kbOyiMz-HIWvINMho5wfcfbVGTHyK2TILyu4YDHRoCViAlqWU3VcUDUnYPJ8tE/s320/DSCN0476.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdOk1xwnLeqUXwc7HCOYB9uDwtqdYeBzwgt83tj6XtTMc5aGsZm3ta4XO5A_UL8l2PU9icT_sFsFDPT3z8HBJn3VsU5YLvU5L8hZrFev2xU8yNwUnogYHAWjYAWBz40YALBlUinHL_6Zk/s1600/DSCN0488.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdOk1xwnLeqUXwc7HCOYB9uDwtqdYeBzwgt83tj6XtTMc5aGsZm3ta4XO5A_UL8l2PU9icT_sFsFDPT3z8HBJn3VsU5YLvU5L8hZrFev2xU8yNwUnogYHAWjYAWBz40YALBlUinHL_6Zk/s320/DSCN0488.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrZTNMVuRaWqCTMeKr5okl9-EmLikw05wjM-EbdDjSdQxTDX8YR0Wb4Ayx6uc2glVflLrdU0IcQlVsiGXaDIDBSKsiUESND0KJ1kou-xt5wrgdisTaDz48xWTG6YaSVmCa3U0M83DWMII/s1600/IMG_5666.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrZTNMVuRaWqCTMeKr5okl9-EmLikw05wjM-EbdDjSdQxTDX8YR0Wb4Ayx6uc2glVflLrdU0IcQlVsiGXaDIDBSKsiUESND0KJ1kou-xt5wrgdisTaDz48xWTG6YaSVmCa3U0M83DWMII/s320/IMG_5666.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA03AcGV9d6bg9f8JRbsduPJCi_pFChY9Mel-K6Cz9ebGpeQCN1-9VHzJaq5ZASk317tFvCW_bPTtMZaZE0Sakmd0RbaDh7dzds4D2nKd7RAE6hXBk2a2VnhZMzS6_-WZDeheYHOMlf14/s1600/198626_586118862418_1828591394_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA03AcGV9d6bg9f8JRbsduPJCi_pFChY9Mel-K6Cz9ebGpeQCN1-9VHzJaq5ZASk317tFvCW_bPTtMZaZE0Sakmd0RbaDh7dzds4D2nKd7RAE6hXBk2a2VnhZMzS6_-WZDeheYHOMlf14/s320/198626_586118862418_1828591394_n.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
Jonathon Arntsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366218140886892757noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1085819220508965925.post-7223825051168429332012-09-24T11:58:00.002-04:002012-09-24T13:55:52.566-04:00Pushing OffI love Michigan. It's evident in my writing, and the outline of the state is tattooed on my right arm. The need and desire to get the eff outta here is also embedded in my writing and my lifestyle. Until this summer, I thought I needed to get out of Michigan for myself; I needed to find something better because I am better. But ever since I reflected on the writing of Hemingway; spent a week in Detroit in June; and slept on the beaches of Ludington; I've realized I am a product of Michigan. I am a product of Ford and Chevy, of the UofM and MSU, of Fruitport, Norton Shores, Ludington, Holland, Grandville, US31, M22, and<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Lake Michigan.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And, for a couple of months, that scared the hell outta me. I pictured myself in a manufacturer's box, like a car part at AutoZone. Through July and August, I reflected on my Michiganness. Toward the end of August I decided to free myself from the anchor I had tied to myself and get the outline of Michigan tattooed on my arm. Wherever I go, I will carry with me a mark.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiXsX3pVMOwj7YONn3wO6R1SQkOXjd9FtAqJ6xhtgloZj5FcRCq0S9bAnKrHeXEFAK6HhGVbgpE7qgY7OZeQiPwp0ZC_xxyLXQS7LejWKdi9ifPWogR47-d2swV1HSe-lPhFI2PB6Tgmk/s1600/291197_585811203968_7053500_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiXsX3pVMOwj7YONn3wO6R1SQkOXjd9FtAqJ6xhtgloZj5FcRCq0S9bAnKrHeXEFAK6HhGVbgpE7qgY7OZeQiPwp0ZC_xxyLXQS7LejWKdi9ifPWogR47-d2swV1HSe-lPhFI2PB6Tgmk/s320/291197_585811203968_7053500_o.jpg" width="237" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Dark water is one of the scariest things on earth. This summer, my friend Heather finally got me to jump off the end of the pier. The North Breakwater in Ludington is half a mile long. The two of us included the breakwall on several of our early morning runs this summer. As we were halfway to the lighthouse, we said, "We're going to jump." I looked at her smile, and said, "I know." In the weeks before that day, I had come to a sense of peace about jumping off the breakwall. I realized, if I die, I am still completing a purpose.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNY5_3GkZcIPnoU-_n3tiazd6XptD6fKkBI9aJ1fimRfIcuN6SeV8LcL22tSe9NFfFub5utfosSMYCGfJW8JCO3X7YvcEgLDNYOVYVjg6gSLqKTcJPvKtSSjRAF6sgZcOg0k882Irhrpg/s1600/423408_10151162535604104_1637424028_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNY5_3GkZcIPnoU-_n3tiazd6XptD6fKkBI9aJ1fimRfIcuN6SeV8LcL22tSe9NFfFub5utfosSMYCGfJW8JCO3X7YvcEgLDNYOVYVjg6gSLqKTcJPvKtSSjRAF6sgZcOg0k882Irhrpg/s320/423408_10151162535604104_1637424028_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
We sprinted to the lighthouse and stripped down to undies. It felt like ten minutes past as I stood at the precipice of time and space, but it was not even a minute. Heather was talking to me, but I wasn't listening. I hear seagulls and waves. I started to speak to the waves in my head. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Please don't kill me...I respect you...this is for growth...fuck...I just gotta do it...</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I felt like I was going to cry as I could feel the fear begin to win. Then, Heather's words started to register. "You got this," she said. I closed my mind, opened my eyes, and ran.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYdNjqARRY_U_9v-9NKveJf6GyTaGZ0sYTAOJfIEUhZM5fAn0keDf3jr8fBA-fq0JAVn13Xx6g2DQ8csL9lzGLP7dBFHcr8hIbuBDELf7z1I4dpGPY1-UhbcdQ9lgnFH93HCqZ-uiE4n4/s1600/427131_10151162536449104_745079084_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYdNjqARRY_U_9v-9NKveJf6GyTaGZ0sYTAOJfIEUhZM5fAn0keDf3jr8fBA-fq0JAVn13Xx6g2DQ8csL9lzGLP7dBFHcr8hIbuBDELf7z1I4dpGPY1-UhbcdQ9lgnFH93HCqZ-uiE4n4/s320/427131_10151162536449104_745079084_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I am Michigan.</div>
Jonathon Arntsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366218140886892757noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1085819220508965925.post-30612601688957582442012-09-21T10:17:00.002-04:002012-09-21T10:54:36.962-04:00Children’s Lit Exam from April 2012<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Last spring, I had one of WSCC's most prominent professors for the fourth time. The first class was Intro to Ed, which I passed with a high B. Then, last fall, I had him for Michigan Lit and Educating Diverse Learners. These were exceptionally well-constructed courses and were equivalent to a university level course. But I did not do what I needed to do. I got a D in MichLit and a B, after a completing a two-month incomplete, in EdDivLearners. I learned hundreds of lessons from that semester, and I think upon them often.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Whatever went wrong last fall set me up for major success this past spring. I bloomed in every single class. I finally opened up to the reality that I am meant to do amazing things. This change was most evident in the work I did for Children's Lit. So, today, I give you my Children's Lit exam. </span><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I wrote this five months ago. P</span><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">lease forgive the formatting; Word to Blogger conversion rates have yet to be calculated.</span><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Children’s
Lit Exam – Jonathon Arntson</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It’s rare that I truly challenge
myself with children’s Literature. I tend to let my tastes for graphic covers
and creatively assembled pages sway what I will read next. Some of my favorite
books have been discovered through this method. My tastes have led me to many
favorites. Books like <i>The Graveyard Book</i>,
<i>Hoot</i>, and <i>The Invention of Hugo Cabret</i> are the complete package for me; they
delivered from first sight and still resonate in my life.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I have had mixed results with
historical fiction. Laurie Halse Anderson’s <i>Chains</i>
and <i>Forge</i>, while beautifully written,
failed to captivate me. I feel like a schmuck about it because Laurie’s novels
are important contributions to children’s literature with her discussions of
slavery, the price of freedom, and life in the North during the American
Revolution. Laurie’s books are not the only significant players in children’s
lit that failed to charm me. <i>The Secret
Garden</i> and <i>Caddie Woodlawn</i> are
books I forced myself to read until I gained a headache.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I always found myself stuck between
caring about the historical context of the story, but not the characters who
were carrying the burden of change. I’ve thought many times about the fact that
most of the characters from historical novels who I did care about were boys,
and the characters whose story I never finished were girls. The evidence
overwhelms me, and at times, I feel sexist. Why do the stories of Huckleberry
Finn and Robin, of <i>The Door in the Wall</i>,
stick out in my mind.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">One book stands there to throw me a
lifeline, and it was not until Children’s Lit class that I realized <i>Number the Stars</i> was a novel of
historical fiction.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Years ago, a friend of mine asked
me to read <i>Number the Stars</i>. I was
skeptical about enjoying a book that took place in Denmark during World War II.
The concept felt dusty to me, but she convinced me to give the book a try
because of my intense love of <i>The Giver</i>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It was a warm summer afternoon when
I read <i>Number the Stars, </i>but Lois
Lowry’s prose gave me chills. She brought me into the world of Nazi occupied
Denmark, but never did the novel feel dated or ‘dusty’. Lowry’s novel tricked
me into forgetting it was about history with thrilling action scenes,
paralleling well-known fairytales, and connecting me to the Danish people of
1943 in an emotional way. These are the makings of a near-perfect historical
novel and they bring Lowry’s novel beyond its historical context into the realm
of excellent stories.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Lowry’s action scenes are fierce
and stand up to those written by known action writers like Gary Paulsen and
Scott O’Dell. In <i>Number the Stars</i>,
several moments caused me to hold my breath and hastily read to make sure
everyone makes it through okay. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">One such moment happens in the
opening pages of the novel when Annemarie and her best friend, Ellen, are
racing each other on their way home from school as Annemarie’s little sister
struggles to keep up. The pair is ordered to “Halte!” by a Nazi soldier who has
stood watch over the same corner for many months. Annemarie, free of a full
understanding of why the soldiers are there but full of respect for authority
follows the order and calmly answers the soldier’s questions and ignores his
taunts. For me as a reader, this moment is intense because I had easily
discovered Ellen is Jewish and I wonder if this tense moment is where the
conflict will start – will Ellen’s heritage be discovered on a Copenhagen
street corner with no one to come to the girls’ aid?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Thirty pages later, Lowry had my
heart pounding again when Ellen is mysteriously deposited at Annemarie’s home
for the night. Then, the tension propels when a few Nazi soldiers come to the
family’s home in the middle of the night.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“’Where did you get the dark-haired
one?’ He twisted the lock of Ellen’s hair. ‘From a different father? From the
milkman?’” (Lowry, p. 47). This is one of the Nazi soldiers questioning the
origin of Ellen, who has just told the soldiers that she is Lise Johansen,
Annemarie’s deceased sister. When the soldier is very suspicious, Annemarie’s
father thinks quickly and heroically. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“For a moment, no one spoke. Then Annemarie, watching in panic, saw her
father move swiftly to the small bookcase and take out a book. She saw that he
was holding the family photograph album. Very quickly he searched through its
pages, found what he was looking for, and tore out three pictures from three separate
pages…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">’You will see each of my daughters, each with her name written on the
photograph,’ Papa said…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">'Lise Margrete,’ [the soldier] read finally, and stared at Ellen for a
long, unwavering moment. In her mind, Annemarie pictured the photograph that he
held: the baby, wide-eyed, propped against a pillow, her tiny hand holding a
silver teething ring, her bare feet visible below the hem of an embroidered
dress. The wispy curls. Dark” (Lowry, pp. 47 & 48).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This sequence demonstrates the
power of Lowry’s action writing. She placed me right inside Annemarie’s limbic
system and forced me to feel the fear that grasped her. Without even noticing,
I was wholly vested in Annemarie’s story and its historical context. Will she
make it out unscathed? And how will Denmark fare?</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Lowry employs several action
sequences throughout the novel, utilizing the fear many readers already have
associated with Nazis. She also builds on other fears many children have within
Western cultures.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Throughout </span><i style="line-height: 150%;">Number the Stars</i><span style="line-height: 150%;">, the plot parallels the ideals of fairytales
(palaces and Prince Charmings). This is never more evident than when Annemarie
is at her Uncle Henrick’s house in the Danish countryside and is handed a
basket of food that disguises a life-or-death object. As quickly as possible, Annemarie
must take a path through the forest and deliver the covert package to her
Uncle.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“The handle of the straw basket
scratched her arm through her sweater. She shifted it and tried to run.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> She thought of a story she had often told Kirsti
as they cuddled in bed at night.</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">‘Once upon a time there was a
little girl,’ she told herself silently, ‘who had a beautiful red cloak. Her
mother had made it for her’” (Lowry, pp. 106 & 107).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The parallel to Little Red Riding
Hood is conspicuous, but the magic lies in the way Lowry delivers the
allusions. The quote above leads into Annemarie telling herself a story, but
telling it in a version more suitable for her younger sister, Kirsti. As
Annemarie tells the story, she even lets Kirsti in on the telling by
considering what she would ask if she were actually present.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As Annemarie makes her way through
the dark forest, she is kept calm by her ability to recall the story of Little
Red and that she escaped certain doom through cunning and cleverness. Forests
and wolves are a common fear with children, especially because of Little Red’s
tale, and Lowry’s implementation of parallel structure between Annemarie’s and
Little Red’s stories creates a strong thread that tugs the novel through to the
finish. Entwined in that thread is another one that tells the story of a nation
as it is occupied by another nation. The intertwining threads between action,
fairytales, and history create a great story that is not solely dependent on
the reader’s knowledge of history or the book’s need to teach a historical and
moral lesson.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Jacobs and Tunnel (2012) claim
historical fiction should be sugarcoated and that the writing needs to avoid
too much attention to detail.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></i>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i>Number
the Stars</i> succeeds as a historical novel by not sugarcoating the story of
Denmark in 1943, but by presenting a hopeful and accurate picture of what went
on seventy years ago.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The first scene that greatly
contributed to the historical context of the novel comes in the second chapter
when Denmark’s King Christian X is explained to the reader. “How the people of
Denmark love King Christian!” says Lowry, “He was not like fairy tale kings…”
Lowry also introduces the fairytale at this point in the story but she uses it
to make Denmark’s monarch more real, and it works. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Lowry gives an anecdote between
Annemarie and her father about a German soldier who asks a Danish boy a
question as King Christian rides by on one of his daily trots through the
streets of Copenhagen. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“’Who is the man the man who
rides past here every morning on his horse?’ the German soldier had asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Papa said he had smiled to himself, assumed that the German soldier did
not know. He listened while the boy answered.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">‘He is our king,’ the boy told the soldier. “He is the king of Denmark.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">‘Where is his bodyguard?’ the soldier had asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">‘And do you know what the boy said,’ Papa had asked Annemarie…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">‘The boy looked right at the soldier, and he said, ‘All of Denmark is his
bodyguard.’’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Annemarie had shivered. It sounded like a very brave answer. ‘Is it true,
Papa?’ she asked. ‘What the boy said.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Papa thought for a moment. He always considered questions very carefully
before he answered them. ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘It is true. Any Danish
citizen would die for King Christian, to protect him.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">‘You too, Papa?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">‘Yes.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">‘And Mama?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">‘Mama too.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Annemarie shivered again. ‘Then I would too, Papa. If I had to’” (Lowry,
pp. 13 & 14)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This particular this particular
historical context is quite powerful at building compassion between the reader
and the anecdotal evidence of WWII. Shortly after that section, Lowry pulls me
into the history in a way that may be unique to me and a few others. She
explains that, like Denmark, German soldiers are in Norway, Holland, Belgium,
and France. “But not in Sweden!” Annemarie announces. Because I grew up with a
strong Swedish influence via my dad’s parents, I felt an extra leap in my heart
when I read that. My mind followed that leap to new thoughts regarding how my
grandparents felt about Sweden’s stance of neutrality during WWII – they would
have been in their mid-twenties. I also allowed myself to wonder if my family
had been on the receiving end of any of Denmark’s Jewish refugees. Whether or
not they were, each mention of Sweden caused my mind to swim across the Kattegat
and wander about the seaside towns and highlands, where my Grandmother told me
many lakes live – just like in Michigan. She always said, with a frown, “We do
not have mountains, though.” Being of Norwegian heritage, as well, I could not
help but search my feelings about the land of my ancestors being occupied by
another country. My grandfather would have told me it was nothing new, that
Norway had persevered through many occupations. He was proudly and divergently Norwegian
(even if he was more Swedish on paper). He never complained about the small,
red wooden horses and plaques proclaiming “God Jul” that populated their
post-war cape cod.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Unlike my grandparents, Lowry does
not sugarcoat history in <i>Number the Stars</i>.
Through those action scenes I previously discussed, she paints a very-real
feeling to what it was like to be a ten year old in Nazi-occupied Denmark. She
also introduces characters, like King Christian X, who ground the story in
authenticity without causing it to sink in the details.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Lowry explains that Denmark’s Jews
were among the last to be stolen from their homes and sent away. She explains
that families like Annemarie’s, and with the aid of Sweden, really did save
8,000 people. In the story, we wonder how Annemarie’s older sister, Lise (and not
Ellen), really did die. We discover at the very end that she died as one woman
in Denmark’s history really die – and it was cruel.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As a work of fiction, <i>Number the Stars</i> is both powerfully
brutal and pleasantly optimistic. Tightly woven threads of historical
accuracies, empathy, action, and fear run among the pages – and even though
there are already 132 of them, the story of Annemarie and Denmark is so much
bigger than itself.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Empathy through historical context is
also created in another story from WWII. <i>Hiroshima
No Pika</i>, by Toshi Maruki tells the tale of a mother, father, and daughter’s
journey to the sea after Little Boy decimated Hiroshima on August 6, 1945. In
text, Maruki brings the crucial story of Hiroshima to life, but it’s through raw
paintings in oil on canvas that the story of the people in Hiroshima really
comes to life. Without watering or bogging down the reader, <i>Hiroshima No Pika</i> is another stunning
example of successful historical fiction.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">In class, several of my classmates
expressed dislike of such a tiny story being used to represent WWII –
especially one from a ten year old in a small country<a href="http://draft.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1085819220508965925" name="_GoBack"></a>. I
did a horrible job of disagreeing with them. I adamantly feel <i>Number the Stars</i> is the most engaging
and appropriate example of historical fiction I have ever read. It is also the
only historical novel I have read multiple times. Of course, my tastes are
dictating much of my argument, but I think the fact that Lowry’s award-winning
novel is so tight and purposeful should allow it a permanent spot on the
reading list of EDU 222 Children’s Literature.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Having a new sense of what makes a proper
historical fiction, it is only fair to give some of the victims of my diatribe
a new look. Can I use Jacobs and Tunnell as a way to suitably reassess Halse
Anderson and her fellow middle grade historical fiction writers and hold their
books to the same esteem as those of Gaiman and Selznick? Wait. Selznick <i>is</i> a historical fiction writer. I think
I am closer to my goal than I’d first realized.</span>Jonathon Arntsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366218140886892757noreply@blogger.com4