The piece by Steve Winn in today's SF Chronicle about stand-up performers made me ponder whether bloggers who talk about themselves (like I do here) raise the same issues as the performers:

What are we actually getting when performers stand up and talk about themselves? Where does offstage end and onstage begin in first-person theater?

The answers are complex -- bedeviling to performers and directors and endlessly alluring to audiences. We're instinctively drawn to stories that arrive in the envelope of truth.

Believing that the artist standing before us actually lived through the experiences he or she re-enacts has a kind of testimonial power. We become de facto participants and fellow travelers in shows by Spalding Gray, Marga Gomez, Reno, Tanya Shaffer, Tim Miller or anyone else who chooses to stand and deliver autobiographically onstage.

Although it's way too late to write coherently about the "problem of evil" (How is it possible that a perfectly good and omnipotent God allow evil?), I did want write a bit about one particular spin on the problem that I've been particularly puzzled by as a Christian. If there is a heaven, then why do we have to go through this present age of suffering? It seems to me that heaven (or the new earth) will be a place in which humans will be not do evil but who are still free beings. So if such a state can exist, why could not God have been created right from the start? Genesis 1-3 shows that humans were created innnocent but ultimately fell, leading to the rest of history. But was the fall inevitable? That is, are free beings destined to become corrupted. No, according to traditional Christian teaching -- Jesus is an example of a free but perfectly good God/Man.

The reason I dwell on this particular spin on the problem of evil is that evil is often explained as the consequence of having beings having real freedom. So I picture a time in which we will be gloriously free but gloriously not wanting to sin -- that heavenly state. But can such a state really exist? In heaven, will humans never do wrong again? What's so special about heaven?

But is history the journey that must be taken to get to the glorious future? So it would seem that there is something very special about history, about our lives, our journeys that God deemed as worthwhile in some sense.

I have rambled here, struggling to express the question I have. Maybe I have to try again later....

My parents were and are generous to a fault. The spared no expense to get my sisters and me the educational opportunities that we needed and wanted to succeed. Two particular gifts stand out in my own mind as specific and profoundly influential shapers of my own life. I'll tell you about one today: a copy of the 15th edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica.

I have only vague memories of how we ended up with the 30 volumes of that incredible set of books. I see images of a door-to-door encyclopaedia sales man, a contract signed in multiple parts ordering the Britannica. I was ten years old at the time, and I couldn't wait to get my Britannica set.

The day that it was set to arrive, I ran home. I was not the type of kid to run too often -- but on that day, nothing was going to keep me from bursting through the door and racing down to the basement of the house in which there were three very heavy boxes of books.

I loved the EB. So many days would I just take down the volumes and thumb through the pages, diving into the mystery of things I couldn't quite grasp but knew to be incredibly fascinating. One day, I swore, I would understand this all.

If it weren't for the EB (along with the reams of yearbooks to keep the EB "up to date") -- a big expense for my parents who were part-restaurant owners -- I would not have: 1) gotten into the big questions about how human knowledge is organized, 2) created an independent study course as a senior to study the Britannica outline of human knowledge (called the Propaedia -- the brainchild of Mortimer Adler), 3) become so disappointed now with the online EB 4) become so curious about so many things as I am today.

I still have a copy of the EB Propaedia on my shelf today in Berkeley -- though not all 30 volumes.

Besides the magnificent oeuvre of Bach, the work of art that has spoken most profoundly and insistently to me the last several years has been Anton Chekhov's Uncle Vanya, as particularly manifested in Louis Malle's film Vanya on 42nd Street, which in turn, was based David Mamet's adaptation. I've long wanted to write in depth about Uncle Vanya but have yet to muster the focus and energy to do so.

But I feel that I'm entering a new phase in my life in which I'm letting go of some old things to embrace a new vision. Part of that transition, I feel, will be aided in looking at why Uncle Vanya has meant so much to me and why I now feel the desire to move on.

So now I want to play a bit.
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From a Salon interview with Garrison Keillor:

If you could give me one piece of advice, what would it be?

Get outside more and take long walks. Much sadness is caused by lack of sunlight and exercise and visual stimulation.

One of the many stunningly arresting passages from David Mamet's adaptation of Chekhov's Uncle Vanya in which Astrov says (pp.16-17):

You understand? Yes, sometimes we cut wood out of necessity, but why be wanton? Why? Our forests fall before the ax. Billions of trees. All perishing. The homes of birds and beasts being laid waste. The level of the rivers falls, and they dry up. And sublime landscapes disappear, never to return, because man hasn't sense enough to bend down and pick fuel up from the ground. Isn't this so? What must man be, to destroy what he never can create? God's given man reason and power of thought, so that he may improve his lot. What have we used these powers for but waste? We have destroyed the forest, our rivers run dry, our wildlife is all but extinct, our climate ruined, and every day, every day, wherever one looks, our life is more hideous[....]I see. You think me amusing. These seem to you the thoughts of some poor eccentric. Perhaps, perhaps it's naive too on my part. Perhaps you think that, but I pass by the woods I've saved from the ax. I hear the forest sighing...I planted that forest. And I think: perhaps things may be in our power. You understand. Perhaps the climate itself is in our control. Why not? And if, in one thousand years, man is happy, I will have played a part in that happiness. A small part. I plant a birch tree. I watch it take root, it grows, it sways in the wind, and I feel such pride....

When I first heard Larry Pine deliver this magnificent proto-environmental monologue in Vanya on 42nd Street, I found it hard to believe that Chekhov's words, which resonate so well in contemporary ears, were written over 100 years ago in 1896 -- long before our current debates over global warming and SUVs.

This afternoon, I had a wonderful time at the SF Asian Art Museum with my friends Walt, Ginny, and Lily. Because I have a contributing level membership, I'm able to take up to 3 adults with me free of charge every time I go. The big plus of doing so is the companionship of friends who are interested in the museum and Asian art. One thing I haven't worked out though is how to keep myself from having to see the same pieces over and over again, or at least in the same cursory, overview fashion. Next time, I might go by myself in the morning and meet friends for lunch and an afternoon jaunt through the galleries.

Not that I can't benefit from such repeated surveys of the core collection -- as I learned today. When the four of us arrived at the upper floor where the suggested sequence begins, a docent by the name of Mabel was guiding a group of two museum visitors. Lily and I joined in, though we were a bit shy since it wasn't totally clear why the tour was for and who was included. I'm very glad that we fell in with the tour, as apparently were the dozens of folks who congregated along the way.

I learned quite a bit about every piece that Mabel talked us through -- and I was amazed that I could have missed such basic and interesting things in previous visits. I have been reading the tags, used the audio-video equipment, borrowed books to do background reading -- and have seen many of the pieces four, five, or six times already. But it wasn't until our enthusiastic, knowledgeable, engaging docent pointed what in retrospect seems to be obvious, that a lot of the pieces and connections among pieces came alive.

So the next time I visit the AAM, I'll tag along with a docent. I hope to find another tour led by Mabel or one of her equally qualified colleagues.

I was all set for a nice relaxing evening away from my computer when I discovered tonight that my notebook computer is acting up. Thanks, Microsoft. I should learn to not stress about it but it's not so easy.

At any rate, I will turn it off and go to bed. I'll try to make sure that the very least, it doesn't ruin my night of sleep!

I own so many books that I will never read but find it difficult to get rid of any of my books. I often think about what I'd actually miss if my house burned down. Another way to ask the question is what would I grab if my house were on fire. Simple: my computer (thankfully, a notebook computer), my wallet and passport, and maybe some pictures. All my books could burn without any long-term loss. In other words, the vast majority of my books sit around, gathering dust, weighing me down -- much like lugging around an extra ten pounds of fat all the time.

I resolved that I would start shedding my collection with my set of science books. On Sunday, as I was about to head off to church, I reached for the first such book I could find: From Physical Concept to Mathematical Structure: An Introduction to Theoretical Physics . Instead of steeling my resolve to simplify my life, alas, holding and paging through the book made me relive some of the longings that prompted the purchase of such books in the first place.

Various schemes have crossed my mind for getting rid of my books. I've toyed with selling them for money, to places like half.com. Maybe I would lend them all out. As Chris pointed out yesterday, there is even a Distributed Library Project that helps people in the SF Bay Area share their books and videos with each other. Perhaps, I would just give away the books, drop them off at locations I publicize so that others can find them (as in the bookcrossing model).

The latest idea that I've come up is this: if there is someone who could provide a good home for one of my books or CD and who would take me out for lunch to convince me of that fact, I would give that person the book or CD in question. I figure that the Berkeley campus is full of people who could be simultaneously appreciative recipients of my books and stimulating lunch companions. I'm not sure exactly how to pull this off though. Matching people to books is not going to be easy.

This process struck me as ideal. Sure, I can make some money from reselling books -- but I don't really want to manage the process, quite frankly. I want my books to circulate and I love great conversation with smart people. It is surprisingly difficult to meet people from different fields on the campus, however. I want to find some way to do so in a fun way.

BTW, this type of offer extends to my friends too! If you see a book that I own and can make a good case for why I should give it to you -- and if I'm ready to part with it -- then take me out for lunch and the book will be yours.