It's So Stressful to Come Up With a Witty Title Every Day

And Sunday is the day of rest, you know.

In case you haven't noticed, yesterday's post was edited about 53 times, so you might have missed things like pictures and whatnot, so read through it again.

Today:
Went to church, filmed the all-important Big Crowd By the City Gate scene (I personally filmed this one, Christoph finally being forced to let me touch the camera because we made him be in the scene), hung around church long enough to be the last to leave (it would be a shame if I stopped being the last one there just because I am in Germany), came home and made quiche (it sounds so wonderfully snobby, and is yet so simple), am relaxing because there is school again tomorrow.

And the "essay" (as I am calling it) promised at the very end of yesterday's post, if you bothered to read that far (keep in mind that it was about midnight when I wrote this):
It seemed like a silly, sentimental thing, the kind of thing people write in the front of books when they give them to people. The kind of thing, I, too, am learning to write- a sweet exaggeration, if not a bold lie, about how you feel this book will touch a person. "Kari, hoe you enjoy this. I think you are the reincarnation of Sylvia [Plath]. Love, Dad." I laughed a little when I read it- my silly father. Then I started into the book, and it drew me. . . this collection of journal entries was so fascination, she captured daily life so beautifully. . . the back cover says she went to Smith- that's one of the 5, a Pioneer Valley school. Sylvia was dead before Hampshire existed, but she got so clsoe. And the individual works: I found "Motheres" a bit boring, actually, too long-winded, and more an introduction, the first chapter to a book I'm not sure I want to read. But Plath was a poet. Narrative wasn't her strong point. Essay, though- fact- that's so amazing. the thigns she writes about her childhood ("Ocean 1212-W", "America! America!") or her adult life in England ("Snow Blitz," the raw journal entries) are gripping and fascinating and everything I wish I could write. I feel like Sylvia, sometimes, journaling easily but feeling it a lesser art, fiction being the higher calling. I gave up on poetry long ago- such a gift is not mine. Lately, though, I've been coveting it- this ability to say everything and yet nothing in a few words, to pull one detail out and use it to fill in the picture. I'm a pretty bad reader of poetry, too. I haven't found a poet whose secrets I understand, but, then again, I haven't read Plath's poetry yet. Prose is fine- I love the layers behind layers in the words, but I still call it poetry, those lines that make me stop and that stay with me for days. The word poetry is full of beauty and mystery- an unfulfilled promise, the kidn you'll wait for forever, the kind you'd trade your whole life for, even if it's just a moment. And that's the point of poetry- it's short, quick- that one breath where everything is different, and then the hours afterward when you try to understand the feeling, vainly hoping that understanding will bring it back and make it last.
Plath's essay is called "A Comparison." Two and a half pages, poetically short, she tells me why she wishes she could write novels. She wants to capture every detail, every emotion, to follow growth and fill pages. I'm the opposite- I fill pages with ease, but I long to control my mind enough to grab people in two lines and change their lives, at least for a bit. I want to capture the moment and seal it in a box, then put a tiny hole in the top so you can peep in.
I've found my inspiration.

So I want to thank everyone who's told me how much they like my writing, how my blog makes their day or something, because it gives me hope. I applaud those of you who make it through my verbosity, because I don't always tolerate it from others. I mean, I don't want to write professionally or anything, but there's this artistic yearning in me to express myself in some way that makes people quiet inside and then makes them reexamine their lives for a while, and maybe, ultimately, try to produce something themselves. It's this sentimental, artistic circle that's secretly fueling all of us, and I'm a little more sensitive to it at the moment.

Posts like these, posts that have just about nothing to do with my life in Germany, make me feel a little guilty, like I'm goofing off and philosophizing instead of doing my real job, the news.