Lament for a son

Recently I read "Lament for a Son" by Nicholas Wolterstorff. I'd been meaning to read it for ages - it was recommended to me by numerous awesome people - and I'm really glad that I finally got around to it, because it was an amazing read.

The book is a collection of Wolterstorff's writings about the death of his son. He introduces the text in the preface thus: "I wrote the following more than twelve years ago, to honor our son and brother Eric, who died in a mountain-climbing accident in Austria in his twenty-fifth year, and to voice my grief. Though it is intensely personal, I decided to publish it in the hope that some of those who sit beside us on the mourning bench for children would find my words giving voice to their own honoring and grieving."

The thing I appreciated most about this book was how raw and honest Wolterstorff is in his grief for his deceased son Eric. He asks a lot of searching questions about God (he's a Christian) and life and death and suffering. Death and suffering in particular are touchy subjects for anyone, especially for religious persons. Wolterstorff doesn't attempt to give definite answers to his questions - most of them are simply unanswerable - but his asking them is clearly an integral part of his mourning.

Here are some excerpts of the book that touched me the most:

"Rather often I am asked whether the grief remains as intense as when I wrote. The answer is, No. The wound is no longer raw. But it has not disappeared. That is as it should be. If he was worth loving, he is worth grieving over. Grief is existential testimony to the worth of the one loved. That worth abides.
     So I own my grief. I do not try to put it behind me, to get over it, to forget it. I do not try to dis-own it. If someone asks, 'Who are you, tell me about yourself,' I say - not immediately, but shortly - 'I am one who lost a son.' That loss determines my identity; not all of my identity, but much of it. It belongs within my story. I struggle indeed to go beyond merely owning my grief toward owning it redemptively. But I will not and cannot disown it. I shall remember Eric. Lament is part of life.
     A friend told me that he had given copies of Lament to all his children. 'Why did you do that?' I asked. 'Because it is a love-song,' he said. That took me aback. But Yes, it is a love-song. Every lament is a love-song.
     Will love-songs one day no longer be laments?"
(Wolterstorff writes super well.)

"Someone said to Claire [Wolterstorff's wife], 'I hope you're learning to live at peace with Eric's death.' Peace, shalom, salaam. Shalom is the fulness of life in all dimensions. Shalom is dwelling in justice and delight with God, with neighbor, with oneself, in nature. Death is shalom's mortal enemy. Death is demonic. We cannot live at peace with death.
     When the writer of Revelation spoke of the coming of the day of shalom, he did not say that on that day we would live at peace with death. He said that on that day 'There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.'
     I shall try to keep the wound from healing, in recognition of our living stillin the old order of things. I shall try to keep it from healing, in solidarity with those who sit beside me on humanity's mourning bench."

"I have no explanation. I can do nothing else than endure in the face of this deepest and most painful of mysteries. I believe in God the Father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth and resurrecter of Jesus Christ. I also believe that my son's life was cut off in its prime. I cannot fit these pieces together. I am at a loss. I have read the theodicies produced to justify the ways of God to man. I find them unconvincing. To the most agonized question I have ever asked I do not know the answer. I do not know why God would watch him fall. I do not know why God would watch me wounded. I cannot even guess.
     C. S. Lewis, writing about the death of his wife, was plainly angry with God. He, Lewis, deserved something better than to be treated so shabbily. I am not angry but baffled and hurt. My wound is an unanswered question. The wounds of all humanity are an unanswered question."

"I have come to see that the Christian gospel tells us more of the meaning of sin than of suffering. Of sin it says that its root lies not in God but in the will of the human being. It is true that an inclination toward lovelessness and injustice is now mysteriously perpetuated down through the generations. But it remains an inclination, not a necessity. Sin belongs to us. To this the gospel adds that our lovelessness pains God; it grieves him. And then the good news: God's response to this pain is forgiveness - not avenging fury but forgiveness. Jesus Christ is the announcement: the Master of the Universe forgives.
     To the 'why' of suffering we get no firm answer. Of course some suffering is easily seen to be the result of our sin: war, assault, poverty amidst plenty, the hurtful word. And maybe some is chastisement. But not all. The meaning of the remainder is not told us. It eludes us. Our net of meaning is too small. There's more to our suffering than our guilt."
(I don't know whether I wholly agree with this thought. Is there more to suffering than sin? I don't think so; I think that the "why" of suffering can be answered with "sin". The way I see it, the cause of Wolterstorff's grief and suffering is death. To me, death is the consequence of sin. Not necessarily a specific individual's sin, but sin as an overarching concept. Nobody is to blame for Wolterstorff's son's death, hence nobody is to blame for Wolterstorff's grief and suffering. But it does come back to sin, and sin is on us, the human race. I think sin is much deeper and more mysterious than the things we do and say. Sin is part of the human condition. If man hadn't sinned (again, I'm talking about sin as an inherent aspect of humankind and life in the here and now, not the sin of any particular person[s]), human beings wouldn't die, but live for eternity. In my understanding, the Christian concept of "eternity" isn't just to do with time - it's related to doing life with God, enjoying and revelling in His presence - but it DOES encompass time, i.e. "eternity" does mean "forever" in the temporal sense. Hence, eternal life in the new heavens and new earth encompasses the absence of death, both physical and spiritual. As Wolterstorff points out, in the new order of the forthcoming Kingdom of God, death won't be in the picture at all. No sin, hence no death, and no suffering at all. It does come back to sin. Christ defeated sin at the cross, but we're still living in the now but not yet phase of the world's history, and unfortunately sin is still around and wreaking havoc. But in saying all this, I respect Wolterstorff's perspective, and am open to being challenged on this point.)

"Faith is a footbridge that you don't know will hold you up over the chasm until you're forced to walk out onto it. I'm standing there now, over the chasm. I inspect the bridge. Am I deluded in believing that in god the question shouted out by the wounds of the world has its answer? Am I deluded in believing that someday I will know the answer? Am I deluded in believing that once I know the answer, I will see that love has conquered?"

"We are surrounded by death. As we walk through the grasslands of life it lurks everywhere - behind, to the left, to the right, ahead, everywhere in the swaying grass. Before, I saw it only here and there. The light was too bright. Here in this dim light the dead show up: teachers, colleagues, the children of friends, aunts, uncles, mother, father, the composers whose music I hear, the psalmists whose words I quote, the philosophers whose texts I read, the carpenters whose houses I live in. All around me are the traces and memories of the dead. We live among the dead, until we join them."

"How is faith to endure, O God, when you allow all this scraping and tearing on us? You have allowed rivers of blood to flow, mountains of suffering to pile up, sobs to become humanity's song - all without lifting a finger that we could see. You have allowed bonds of love beyond number to be painfully snapped. If you have not abandoned us, explain yourself.
     We strain to hear. But instead of hearing an answer we catch sight of God himself scraped and torn. Through our tears we see the tears of God.
     A new and more disturbing question now arises: Why do you permit yourself to suffer, O God? If the death of the devout costs you dear (Psalm 116:15), why do you permit it? Why do you not grasp joy?"

"Love in our world is suffering love. Some do not suffer much, though, for they do not love much. Suffering is for the loving. If I hadn't loved him, there wouldn't be this agony."

"God is love. That is why he suffers. To love our suffering sinful world is to suffer. God so suffered for the world that he gave up his only Son to suffering. The one who does not see God's suffering does not see his love. God is suffering love.
     So suffering is down at the center of things, deep down where the meaning is. Suffering is the meaning of our world. For Love is the meaning. And Love suffers. The tears of God are the meaning of history.
     But mystery remains. Why isn't Love-without-suffering the meaning of things? Why is suffering-Love the meaning? Why does God endure his suffering? Why does he not at once relieve his agony by relieving ours?"
(I struggle with this thought. Why indeed, God? I haven't figured it out. I'm certain I never will, not in this life anyway.)

Read "Lament for a Son". And then let's have a chat over coffee.

G.

Actions > words

They say actions speak louder than words. They say this because it's true.

This bar graph expresses the message that I was confronted with all throughout last year: actions > words. In fact, I'm finding that I'm still being confronted with this message. It's fine to talk about what you want to do and the kind of person you want to be, but it's not enough; what matters is what you're doing in your daily life to make your dreams happen and become your ideal self. 

I want to be a woman of action, not idle talk.

G.

The arts

I came across this mint quote by Kurt Vonnegut on the arts:

Doesn't participating in the arts make you feel alive? I'm not very good at playing the guitar or singing, but I do both because when I do, I feel more human. I want to get into dancing and photography, so that I can make my soul grow by creating awesome body movements and pictures.

Human beings are creative creatures. Let's be true to that nature of ours.

Have an awesome day.

G.

Happy Valentine's day

Happy Valentine's day from me, Karl Marx, Fidel Castro, Mao Zedong, Joseph Stalin, Leon Trotsky and Adolf Hitler. Courtesy of benkling.com.

We all wish you well.

G.

Airplanes

There's this amazing song called "Airplanes" by a band named Local Natives, and I haven't been able to get it out of my head for the last couple of days. It's just so good. I initially thought it was about wanting to get back together with an ex-lover. But apparently it's about the loss of a grandfather. The latter interpretation fits with the lyrics better.

The desk where you sit inside of a frame
made of, made of, of wood
I keep those chopsticks you had from when
you taught abroad, taught abroad, in Japan

I love it all
So much I call
I want you back, back, back
You back

I did not know you as well
as my father, father, knew you
Every question you took the time to sit and
look it up, look it up, encyclopaedia

I love it all
So much I call
I want you back, back, back
You back

I love it all
So much I call
I want you back, back, back
You back

It sounds like we would have had a great deal 
to say, to say, to each other
I bet when I leave my body for the sky
the wait, the wait, will be worth it

I love it all
So much I call
I want you back, back, back
You back

I love it all
So much I call
I want you back, back, back
You back

Happy listening and have a great day.

G.

Sh*tuff Christian girls say

Hilarious video about stuff Christian girls say, courtesy of awesome Maximite Lawrence Tuck. These lines are funny because I've either heard them in real life, or they encapsulate the mindset of lots of Christian girls I know (myself included).

I think it's true (and maybe a bit sad) that 90% of what Christian girls say are to do with meeting the right man to do life with. I do wish we wouldn't stress so much about finding and marrying the person God has set apart for us. Let's just have a bit of a laugh and devote our time to living faithfully instead.

G.

Twenty love poems and a song of despair

Yesterday I read "Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair" by Pablo Neruda, the famous Chilean poet and Nobel laureate. His poems took my breath away. The creative use of language, the passion and emotion of each poem, the images evoked by the words of magic...  I couldn't believe that Neruda wrote these poems when he was only 19.

Here are my favourite poems from the collection.


V. So That You Will Hear Me

So that you will hear me
my words
sometimes grow thin
as the tracks of the gulls on the beaches.

Necklace, drunken bell
for your hands smooth as grapes.

And I watch my words from a long way off.
They are more yours than mine.
They climb on my old suffering like ivy.

It climbs the same way on damp walls.
You are to blame for this cruel sport.
They are fleeing from my dark lair.
You fill everything, you fill everything.

Before you they peopled the solitude that you occupy,
and they are more used to my sadness than you are.

Now I want them to say what I want to say to you
to make you hear as I want you to hear me.

The wind of anguish still hauls on them as usual.
Sometimes hurricanes of dreams still knock them over.
You listen to other voices in my painful voice.

Lament of old mouths, blood of old supplications.
Love me, companion. Don't forsake me. Follow me.
Follow me, companion, on this wave of anguish.

But my words become stained with your love.
You occupy everything, you occupy everything.

I am making them into an endless necklace
for your white hands, smooth as grapes.


XIII. I Have Gone Marking

I have gone marking the atlas of your body
with crosses of fire.
My mouth went across: a spider, trying to hide.
In you, behind you, timid, driven by thirst.

Stories to tell you on the shore of evening,
sad and gentle doll, so that you should not be sad.
A swan, a tree, something far away and happy.
The season of grapes, the ripe and fruitful season.

I who lived in a harbour from which I loved you.
The solitude crossed with dream and with silence.
Penned up between the sea and sadness.
Soundless, delirious, between two motionless gondoliers.

Between the lips and the voice something goes dying.
Something with the wings of a bird, something of anguish and oblivion.
The way nets cannot hold water.
My toy doll, only a few drops are left trembling.
Even so, something sings in these fugitive words.
Something sings, something climbs to my ravenous mouth.
Oh to be able to celebrate you with all the words of joy.

Sing, burn, flee, like a belfry at the hands of a madman.
My sad tenderness, what comes over you all at once?
When I have reached the most awesome and the coldest summit
my heart closes like a nocturnal flower.


XIV. Every Day You Play

Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands.

You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
The rain takes off her clothes.

The birds go by, fleeing.
The wind. The wind.
I can contend only against the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.

You are here. Oh, you do not run away.
You will answer me to the last cry.
Cling to me as though you were frightened.
Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes.

Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
and even your breasts smell of it.
While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the grey light unwinds in turning fans.

My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
I go so far as to think that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells,
dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want
to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.


Amazing. I'm going to check out some more of Neruda's work when I get the chance.

G.

The obliteration room

I don't know too much about art but I appreciate and enjoy it. Today I came across a project called "The Obliteration Room" by Japanese artist Yayoi Kusama, which is currently on exhibition at the Gallery of Modern Art in Queensland, Australia. The piece was created by inviting visitors, particularly children, to use round coloured stickers to "obliterate" the completely white surfaces of a living room installation. Apparently Kusama is obsessed with dots, and she almost always uses them in her work: "When [Kusama] was a small girl she started seeing the world through a screen of tiny dots. They covered everything she saw - the walls, ceilings and even her own body. For 40 years she has made paintings, sculptures and photographs using dots to cover surfaces and fill rooms. Kusama calls this process 'obliteration', which means the complete destruction of every trace of something."

Here are the "before" shots of the room:

And then obliteration happened:

I think one of the coolest things about this project is the fact that people get to contribute to the creation of the art they then enjoy with their eyes. And it's fascinating how the room in fact does get "obliterated" by the dots - the furniture becomes blended into the walls; the frenzy of colour envelops perspective and distinction.

Have a great day.

G.

All the buildings in New York

There's this Australian artist called James Gulliver Hancock who is currently based in Brooklyn, New York. He's on a quest to draw all the buildings in New York, and he puts his drawings up on a blog called "All the Buildings in New York": http://allthebuildingsinnewyork.blogspot.com. His work is really cool, and it seems like his project has been receiving a lot of attention lately.

On this blog I found some buildings that I really enjoyed when I was in New York a couple of years ago. (Of course there are heaps of others, like Rockefeller Centre, the The Museum Of Modern Art and the buildings that make up Times Square, but I don't want to go through all the posts to find these, if they were there at all.)

The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

The Guggenheim Museum.

The Chrysler Building.

The Empire State Building.

The New York Stock Exchange.

The above selection consists of major landmarks - not surprising that these kinds of buildings were the ones that stood out most for me during my 10 short days as a tourist in New York - but Hancock's drawings of regular New York buildings are really neat too, like these ones.

17 East 70th Street.

1 West Street.

142 West 4th Street.

313 20th Street.

I love New York. I miss New York. I hope to go back to New York one day.

G.

Regrets of the dying

I recently came across an article called "Regrets of the Dying" by Bronnie Ware. It's a synthesised list of the top five regrets people have during their last few weeks of life, written from her experience as a palliative care worker. I found it to be a very thought-provoking read.

"REGRETS OF THE DYING

For many years I worked in palliative care. My patients were those who had gone home to die. Some incredibly special times were shared. I was with them for the last three to twelve weeks of their lives.

People grow a lot when they are faced with their own mortality. I learnt never to underestimate someone's capacity for growth. Some changes were phenomenal. Each experienced a variety of emotions, as expected, denial, fear, anger, remorse, more denial and eventually acceptance. Every single patient found their peace before they departed though, every one of them.

When questioned about any regrets they had or anything they would do differently, common themes surfaced again and again. Here are the most common five:

1. I wish I'd had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me. 

This was the most common regret of all. When people realise that their life is almost over and look back clearly on it, it is easy to see how many dreams have gone unfulfilled. Most people had not honoured even a half of their dreams and had to die knowing that it was due to choices they had made, or not made.

It is very important to try and honour at least some of your dreams along the way. From the moment that you lose your health, it is too late. Health brings a freedom very few realise, until they no longer have it.

2. I wish I didn't work so hard.

This came from every male patient that I nursed. They missed their children's youth and their partner's companionship. Women also spoke of this regret. But as most were from an older generation, many of the female patients had not been breadwinners. All of the men I nursed deeply regretted spending so much of their lives on the treadmill of a work existence.

By simplifying your lifestyle and making conscious choices along the way, it is possible to not need the income that you think you do. And by creating more space in your life, you become happier and more open to new opportunities, ones more suited to your new lifestyle.

3. I wish I'd had the courage to express my feelings.

Many people suppressed their feelings in order to keep peace with others. As a result, they settled for a mediocre existence and never became who they were truly capable of becoming. Many developed illnesses relating to the bitterness and resentment they carried as a result.

We cannot control the reactions of others. However, although people may initially react when you change the way you are by speaking honestly, in the end it raises the relationship to a whole new and healthier level. Either that or it releases the unhealthy relationship from your life. Either way, you win.

4. I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.

Often they would not truly realise the full benefits of old friends until their dying weeks and it was not always possible to track them down. Many had become so caught up in their own lives that they had let golden friendships slip by over the years. There were many deep regrets about not giving friendships the time and effort that they deserved. Everyone misses their friends when they are dying.

It is common for anyone in a busy lifestyle to let friendships slip. But when you are faced with your approaching death, the physical details of life fall away. People do want to get their financial affairs in order if possible. But it is not money or status that holds the true importance for them. They want to get things in order more for the benefit of those they love. Usually though, they are too ill and weary to ever manage this task. It is all comes down to love and relationships in the end. That is all that remains in the final weeks, love and relationships.

5. I wish that I had let myself be happier.

This is a surprisingly common one. Many did not realise until the end that happiness is a choice. They had stayed stuck in old patterns and habits. The so-called 'comfort' of familiarity overflowed into their emotions, as well as their physical lives. Fear of change had them pretending to others, and to their selves, that they were content. When deep within, they longed to laugh properly and have silliness in their life again.

When you are on your deathbed, what others think of you is a long way from your mind. How wonderful to be able to let go and smile again, long before you are dying.

Life is a choice. It is YOUR life. Choose consciously, choose wisely, choose honestly. Choose happiness."

Each of these regrets strikes a chord with me. I hope that on my deathbed (if I make it that far in life) I'll be able to reflect on my life and be content. No doubt I'll have made loads of mistakes and wish that I could undo certain things or do certain things differently, but generally I hope I'll be happy with and proud of the way I spent the time God gave me. It's encouraging to hear that all of Bronnie Ware's patients found peace before they passed away.

I also found it ironic how thinking about death reminds me of the importance of striving to live well. As Qoheleth remarks in Ecclesiastes 7:4: "The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning, but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth." Death is sobering. We shouldn't be afraid of it - it's inevitable. Instead, we should try our best to live truly human lives while we can.

G.

Mary and Max

Recently I watched a movie called "Mary and Max", and I wanted to blog about it because I really enjoyed it. Judging by the poster I thought it was a claymation children's movie. I was wrong.

I'd like to give a summary of the plot in my own words, but Wikipedia does a pretty good job of it so I'm just going to copy and paste what it says, and add in some details in square parentheses:

"It is 1976, and 8-year-old Mary Daisy Dinkle is a lonely little girl living in Mount Waverley, Australia. Her relatively poor family cannot afford to buy her toys or nice clothing, and she is teased by children at her school due to an unfortunate birthmark on her forehead. Her father is distant and her alcoholic, kleptomaniac mother provides no support. The closest thing Mary has to a friend is the man for whom she collects mail, Len Hislop, a Greek-Australian World War II veteran who lost his legs in combat and has developed agoraphobia.

One day, by pure chance, she decides to write a letter to a man living in New York City: Max Jerry Horowitz [she accompanies her mother to the post office and while her mother is stealing envelopes, she rips out Max's address from a New York City phone book]. Max turns out to be a morbidly obese 44-year-old whose various mental problems (including anxiety attacks and overeating) have left him unable to form close bonds with other people. Max decides to write back to Mary, and the two become friends. Over time, Mary's increasingly sensitive questions about the adult world give Max progressively worse anxiety attacks, and he is ultimately institutionalised. During his time there, Max is diagnosed with depression and Asperger's syndrome. Now aware of why he has difficulty relating to other people, Max finds a new lease on life and resumes his correspondence with Mary.

The two remain friends for the next two decades, keeping one another updated on various events in their lives [including Mary's parents' separate and untimely deaths]. Mary, inspired by her friendship with Max, becomes a psychologist and marries her childhood crush, an effeminate young man named Damien Popodopoulos, who enjoys sewing but fears Mary's sexual advances. Max wins the New York lottery, using his winnings to buy a (literal) lifetime's supply of chocolate and then giving the rest away to his elderly neighbour, who wastes most of it before dying and leaving the remainder to a cat shelter only to have the owner of the shelter take it all for himself.

After earning her degree, Mary writes a psychological book detailing her communication with Max, in an attempt to dissect Asperger's syndrome. Max is infuriated, having told Mary that he has come to terms with his illness and sees it as an integral part of his personality, not something that needs to be diagnosed and cured. Max ends his communication with Mary, sending her the "M" key from his typewriter. When Mary receives the key in the mail, she is heartbroken and has the entire run of the book pulped, ruining her career. Jobless and friendless, Mary discovers that while she has been focused on her book, her husband has left her for his own penpal, a gay sheep farmer from New Zealand. Mary sinks into chronic depression and alcoholism; although Max decides to forgive Mary and sends her a present in an attempt to reconcile, Mary becomes a shut-in, leaving the box on her porch for several days. Ultimately, Mary decides to hang herself, unaware that she is pregnant.

Just as Mary is about to kill herself, Len knocks on her door, having conquered his agoraphobia to alert her of the package on her porch. Opening it, Mary finds Max's reconciliation gift, along with an accompanying letter detailing the reasons why he forgives her, how much their friendship means to him, and his hope that one day their lives will intersect and they will meet in person. It is enough to jar Mary from her depression, and she decides to start her life over again.

One year later, Mary travels to America with her infant son to finally visit Max. Entering his apartment, Mary discovers the now elderly Max, sitting on his couch, gazing upward, having passed away peacefully earlier that morning. SEeing this, Mary returns the removed "M" key to Max's typewriter and sits down next to him with her son. Looking around the apartment, Mary discovers that Max has organised the entire ceiling into a detailed scrapbook of his friendship with Mary, composed of all of her letters from over the years, which is what he was looking at when he died. Seeing how much Max valued their friendship and how happy it made him, Mary is moved to tears of joy as the film closes."

This movie was awesome. I didn't expect it to deal with such serious themes (broken home, loneliness, death, failed marriage, substance abuse, depression, suicide), but once I realised it was a movie for grown-ups, I quickly appreciated its quirky charm and unique story. The friendship between Mary and Max, two completely different individuals who have nothing in common apart from the fact that they are both social pariahs, is unorthodox yet beautiful. They find comfort and support in each other, and grow to genuinely love and care for one another. One particular scene of the film stood out for me. When Mary is still a young girl, Max tells her in one of his letters that he cannot cry. In response, Mary peels an onion, collects her tears in a jar and sends it to Max. Also, the whole movie is colourless: Mary's world is sepia, and Max's world is grey. While this doesn't change, it's clear that the characters' friendship brings colour to both their lives.

While the story was theatrical, it was moving and unusual, which I really liked. It drove home the truism that humans are made for relationships; Mary and Max become more human through their friendship. And the film conveyed the message of hope in its own wonderfully weird way. Things might look bleak and there may seem to be no way out of the deep pit you somehow got into, but you'll survive, with a little help from your loved ones.

If you're keen to watch something quaint and special, check out "Mary and Max".

Have a great day.

G.

I'm technically an author

I wrote my Law Honours dissertation last year on the repeal of the defence of provocation in New Zealand, and I got a decent grade for it, which means that there's a copy of it in the Davis Law Library. The other week I shamelessly looked up my name on Voyager (Auckland University's library catalogue), and my dissertation came up! It was pretty cool.

So I guess I'm technically an author! I wonder if anyone will borrow my dissertation (apart from Chris, who apparently got it out to check out my abstract and structure). I also wonder if any academics or judges will cite it in their articles or judgments. No harm in wishful thinking.

G.

Children with swag

I came across this blog called "Children With Swag" through some American friends of mine. The title says it all: it's a collection of photographs of stylish children. Here's the link to it:

http://childrenwithswag.tumblr.com/

I don't know whether I should feel like a paedo for rating this blog, but I can't help the fact that I love children and I love swag. Combining the two may seem unnatural at the outset, but once you embrace the concept you'll see that it's awesome.

Here are some of my favourite children with swag:

Cutest little gangster!

Rocking some shades.

Ohhhhh yeaaaaa.

Posing with a bicycle while friends hang off a gate.

S.W.A.G.

So much swag.

He must be a part-time model.

A young gentleman.

I heart hot milk.

"Swag" is my middle name.

I wish I had as much swag as these kids do.

G.

Happy birthday message for atheists

I don't mean to offend anyone, particularly because some of my dearest friends are atheists, but this e-card from www.someecards.com made me laugh.

I suppose atheists could turn this around by replacing "atheism" with "Christianity" or any other religion out there. Nevertheless, what a funny little birthday message. I wonder if I could give this e-card to someone I know for their birthday and not have them sever ties with me.

G.