Thank you for the spring and the flowers
and the shooting stars.
The sweet aroma of youth
and new beginning
and the excitement.
They moved so fast—the clouds, I mean
across the sky
tumbling in existential bliss
as I through the silks of color
faster an faster
until it was all around me
color
and your scent
and I found myself reflected in your eyes--
saw myself in you.
Thank you, too, for the autumn.
The colors, once again, in a different light.
The way they fall
and glide to the earth,
back to nature's arms.
Gravity makes me dizzy
the tumble through the air
to rest on the earth
solid.
Shavings of color brush around
and dance beautifully.
Again, I am colored
but differently.
I feel—I feel the touch
I remember the sun
And now I know the earth.
Thank you for the sun,
and thank you for the earth.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
An Unfortunate Mastication
I was paying attention--I really was! But when Dr. Dawson was going on about Transcendentalism, something the professor's background caught my eye. A pencil on the floor.
I'm sure it had dropped from a table and bounced into the corner where it laid still, unbeknown to its careless owner. The lonely pencil jolted a memory of the day before, while I was giving a campus tour to a group of perspective students. Thirty feet from the Performing Arts Center, I came upon a similarly lonely pencil in the road. Being an eyesore, I picked it up and slipped it into my glove, despite the fact that I had no idea where the pencil had been, or what it could have touched. I am not a fool; I do know it is not typically a good idea to pick things up off the disgusting asphalt to collect as keep sakes, but I wasn't really thinking about that as I delivered my spiel about the theatre to my perspectives. This tiny detail of my tour clung to my memory by a vague shred. Hours later, I was surprised to find the pencil in my glove, and I automatically shoved it into my purse.
Huh. I wondered dreamily where that pencil was, as Dr. Dawson's voice danced about the classroom. I giggled quietly and then stopped short. I pulled the pencil out of my mouth--I had been chewing on its eraser. Seeing the scrape marks and bits of dirt gouged into it's plastic, I found myself spitting in the middle of my lecture course.
I'm sure it had dropped from a table and bounced into the corner where it laid still, unbeknown to its careless owner. The lonely pencil jolted a memory of the day before, while I was giving a campus tour to a group of perspective students. Thirty feet from the Performing Arts Center, I came upon a similarly lonely pencil in the road. Being an eyesore, I picked it up and slipped it into my glove, despite the fact that I had no idea where the pencil had been, or what it could have touched. I am not a fool; I do know it is not typically a good idea to pick things up off the disgusting asphalt to collect as keep sakes, but I wasn't really thinking about that as I delivered my spiel about the theatre to my perspectives. This tiny detail of my tour clung to my memory by a vague shred. Hours later, I was surprised to find the pencil in my glove, and I automatically shoved it into my purse.
Huh. I wondered dreamily where that pencil was, as Dr. Dawson's voice danced about the classroom. I giggled quietly and then stopped short. I pulled the pencil out of my mouth--I had been chewing on its eraser. Seeing the scrape marks and bits of dirt gouged into it's plastic, I found myself spitting in the middle of my lecture course.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
1854
Aha! What a curiously cozy little library I have stumbled upon! I quietly congratulate myself as I make my way to a lumpy bean bag and crack open a dazzling picture book. 3-D fishes pop out and swim around my spectacles. I chuckle and set the book aside, now committed to finding books to feed my scientific and literary appetite. As I tip toe to the scholarly periodicals, I take a moment to gaze at the lush courtyard through the crystal-clear bay window. It is exploding with vegetation and flowering in ostentatious glory--pinks, oranges, yellows, reds! How charming--I say, how very charming.
A wall of books stretches as far as mine eye can see, stacking 7 or 8 tiers high. Gleaming ladders slide to and fro and crawl up the wall with a low rumble, being pushed by an invisible force. For a moment I am hypnotized, but before I have time to ponder the queer source of the ladders' movement, I find myself twenty feet down the row, on the second tier, holding a promising book--on justice and peace.
Delighted, I glide to the circulation counter where I am greeted by an adorably decrepit spinster. She peers at me through tiny glasses, which she adjusts before checking out the book. It is due on the 4738190234856th.
"I say," says I, "Where might the exit be?" Glancing about, there are towering shelves on every wall with no break for a door.
The tiny woman twitters and says quite pointedly, "Dear, this is a library located in hell. You may not leave, but you may sit anywhere you like!"
All sense of worth drains from the book in my hands as I ponder the irony of the situation.
A wall of books stretches as far as mine eye can see, stacking 7 or 8 tiers high. Gleaming ladders slide to and fro and crawl up the wall with a low rumble, being pushed by an invisible force. For a moment I am hypnotized, but before I have time to ponder the queer source of the ladders' movement, I find myself twenty feet down the row, on the second tier, holding a promising book--on justice and peace.
Delighted, I glide to the circulation counter where I am greeted by an adorably decrepit spinster. She peers at me through tiny glasses, which she adjusts before checking out the book. It is due on the 4738190234856th.
"I say," says I, "Where might the exit be?" Glancing about, there are towering shelves on every wall with no break for a door.
The tiny woman twitters and says quite pointedly, "Dear, this is a library located in hell. You may not leave, but you may sit anywhere you like!"
All sense of worth drains from the book in my hands as I ponder the irony of the situation.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
My Thoughts In Verse
Check-Out Check-Mate
The grocery store isle
and I'm trapped on the board,
I have to buy food
that I just can't afford.
I take out my card
and move like a pawn,
and after the swipe
it's 50 bucks gone.
Magneted to the Fridge with my Check
Here is my gas bill
and Here is my rent.
Though I don't want to,
it has to be sent.
You might hear me laugh
when there's nothing that's funny--
I open my purse
and lose all my money.
Dear Mr. Car
Please do not run me over
I really hope that you are sober
I'd like to live another day
or to the end of rent, next May.
The grocery store isle
and I'm trapped on the board,
I have to buy food
that I just can't afford.
I take out my card
and move like a pawn,
and after the swipe
it's 50 bucks gone.
Magneted to the Fridge with my Check
Here is my gas bill
and Here is my rent.
Though I don't want to,
it has to be sent.
You might hear me laugh
when there's nothing that's funny--
I open my purse
and lose all my money.
Dear Mr. Car
Please do not run me over
I really hope that you are sober
I'd like to live another day
or to the end of rent, next May.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Autumn Bliss
9:00am and a perfect morning for an autumn run. The air was soggy and saturated with the aroma of the tilted earth: a mixture of soil and cinnamon and the sweetness of apples in the distance. Apple cider. Apple pie. Caramel apple. All mixed into the breeze to be tasted by me, as I descend into the streets for my morning cardio.
The path before me was speckled with a canopy of greens and yellows. A shining puddle in every leaf beneath my shoes. I entered the world of fall splendor and sipped the air as I went.
To my delight, I realized that the trees were different down every road--like different parallel worlds on the grid of Grand Rapids. One lane of brightness brought the sight of spotted trees, sleek as if the bark had melted off. To my eyes, it looked as if the road was lined with giant lizards that had plunged themselves into the ground, with many tiny arms reaching up to embrace the sky and spilling pieces of the heavens' radiance to the ground. Peels of ruby and lime.
I bid the lizards farewell and entered the avenue of wood nymphs. They are beautiful, feminine creatures frozen eternally in place in various forms of arabesque and pirouette. Arms and legs extended and branching into a delicate tangle of ribbons in the sky, laced with lemon and mango feathers. The frozen ballet spread for a half mile and the silver blotted sky hummed a celestial melody of whimsical notes.
Another street was studded with Grecian statues. Holding themselves straight and erect, the trees proudly held up a grand hallow of fire, that rained quietly around me as I passed through their ancient shadows. A sight worthy of Demeter and celebrated by followers of Dionysus. The tattoo of my shoes against the pavement sang a dithyramb--a tribute to Classicism--and a fine accompaniment to the giggling saytrs, darting hither and thither in the grand spectacle of autumn.
The path before me was speckled with a canopy of greens and yellows. A shining puddle in every leaf beneath my shoes. I entered the world of fall splendor and sipped the air as I went.
To my delight, I realized that the trees were different down every road--like different parallel worlds on the grid of Grand Rapids. One lane of brightness brought the sight of spotted trees, sleek as if the bark had melted off. To my eyes, it looked as if the road was lined with giant lizards that had plunged themselves into the ground, with many tiny arms reaching up to embrace the sky and spilling pieces of the heavens' radiance to the ground. Peels of ruby and lime.
I bid the lizards farewell and entered the avenue of wood nymphs. They are beautiful, feminine creatures frozen eternally in place in various forms of arabesque and pirouette. Arms and legs extended and branching into a delicate tangle of ribbons in the sky, laced with lemon and mango feathers. The frozen ballet spread for a half mile and the silver blotted sky hummed a celestial melody of whimsical notes.
Another street was studded with Grecian statues. Holding themselves straight and erect, the trees proudly held up a grand hallow of fire, that rained quietly around me as I passed through their ancient shadows. A sight worthy of Demeter and celebrated by followers of Dionysus. The tattoo of my shoes against the pavement sang a dithyramb--a tribute to Classicism--and a fine accompaniment to the giggling saytrs, darting hither and thither in the grand spectacle of autumn.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
The Curious Case of the Couch--Part II
I honestly thought that one couch, suddenly materializing upon our roof, was enough.
It seems that I was wrong. Last night, during one of the darkest hours, another couch was surreptitiously planted on our front porch. My father was actually still awake, completing some work on the computer down stairs--he heard commotion but took it to be the nightly sounds of my nocturnal brother preparing lunch. When my father decided to retire for the night, he crept upstairs to turn off the porch light--and lo and behold! A thoroughly uninvited, large piece of furniture glared at my father through the bay windows. He must have just missed the culprits scurrying into the darkness.
Really? I mean--for real. Another couch? Do people have nothing better to do with their time than to terrorize the poor Pineiro's, startling us with sofas? Thank God they didn't steal one of those scary Big Boy statues. I will publicly admit to everyone on the Internet that I would crap myself if I woke up to one of those ten-foot, bulged-eyed creepers offering me a pie.
Naturally, my father called the police--and like a broken record, the police officer asked my father if he had any daughters. For real? Do people only pull pranks on people's daughters?
Perhaps I need to apply critical theory to this situation in order to understand it better...
Marxist Theory: The reiteration of the couch--first on top of the roof, and then on the porch-- is an ironic status symbol. My father was a Cuban immigrant and entered this country with little money or possessions. After being a dedicated member of the working class for 45 years, my father is rewarded by the invisible (but over-powering) governmental force with the patronizing symbol of luxury--an old lumpy couch with moth-eaten upholstery.
Queer Theory: For the past eleven years we've lived in Allendale, Michigan, our next door neighbor J---- has had a flaming, unrequited passion for my father. Because of their stark differences in political dispositions and because of my father's obvious heterosexuality and fidelity to my mother, J---- knew no other way to demonstrate his obsessive amorous attraction for my father then to send him couches--the unconventional gift being a metaphor for his unconventional sexuality in conservative Allendale.
Psychoanalytic theory: The couches are not real. They are simply a manifestation of some kind of latent dysfunction in my father's mind-- so deeply repressed into his subconscious--but made so real through projection that all the members of our family can see the couches, as well. The couch, as a symbol itself, represents our deep need for family therapy--in which we will sit on couches similar to the ones that appeared on our roof--or above--as in our minds, and on our porch--next to the front door, in which it sought entrance to our attentions.
I feel better now that I have applied my college degree to the curious case of the couches. I am reminded of the importance of higher education and am delighted that my tuition dollars are being put to some good use.
It seems that I was wrong. Last night, during one of the darkest hours, another couch was surreptitiously planted on our front porch. My father was actually still awake, completing some work on the computer down stairs--he heard commotion but took it to be the nightly sounds of my nocturnal brother preparing lunch. When my father decided to retire for the night, he crept upstairs to turn off the porch light--and lo and behold! A thoroughly uninvited, large piece of furniture glared at my father through the bay windows. He must have just missed the culprits scurrying into the darkness.
Really? I mean--for real. Another couch? Do people have nothing better to do with their time than to terrorize the poor Pineiro's, startling us with sofas? Thank God they didn't steal one of those scary Big Boy statues. I will publicly admit to everyone on the Internet that I would crap myself if I woke up to one of those ten-foot, bulged-eyed creepers offering me a pie.
Naturally, my father called the police--and like a broken record, the police officer asked my father if he had any daughters. For real? Do people only pull pranks on people's daughters?
Perhaps I need to apply critical theory to this situation in order to understand it better...
Marxist Theory: The reiteration of the couch--first on top of the roof, and then on the porch-- is an ironic status symbol. My father was a Cuban immigrant and entered this country with little money or possessions. After being a dedicated member of the working class for 45 years, my father is rewarded by the invisible (but over-powering) governmental force with the patronizing symbol of luxury--an old lumpy couch with moth-eaten upholstery.
Queer Theory: For the past eleven years we've lived in Allendale, Michigan, our next door neighbor J---- has had a flaming, unrequited passion for my father. Because of their stark differences in political dispositions and because of my father's obvious heterosexuality and fidelity to my mother, J---- knew no other way to demonstrate his obsessive amorous attraction for my father then to send him couches--the unconventional gift being a metaphor for his unconventional sexuality in conservative Allendale.
Psychoanalytic theory: The couches are not real. They are simply a manifestation of some kind of latent dysfunction in my father's mind-- so deeply repressed into his subconscious--but made so real through projection that all the members of our family can see the couches, as well. The couch, as a symbol itself, represents our deep need for family therapy--in which we will sit on couches similar to the ones that appeared on our roof--or above--as in our minds, and on our porch--next to the front door, in which it sought entrance to our attentions.
I feel better now that I have applied my college degree to the curious case of the couches. I am reminded of the importance of higher education and am delighted that my tuition dollars are being put to some good use.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Thoreau's Sublime Journey Into My Heart
"The full ethereal round,
Infinite worlds disclosing to the view,
Shines out intensely keen; and all one cope
Of starry glitter glows from pole to pole."
I decided that I love Henry David Thoreau, and I wish I could go ice skating with him.
My initial impression of Thoreau was not very pleasant. I was fifteen and my father bought me "Walden Pond" for a Christmas present; he told me it was an important book and I should read it. Being an obedient daughter and excited to acquaint myself with a venerated text, I cracked it open. Ten minutes later, I was asleep. When I woke up, I decided that I didn't even know how to pronounce the word "transcendental" and that it was lame anyway.
From that point on, I resigned myself to nodding enthusiastically whenever somebody spoke of the "genius" of Thoreau, even though I had no real clue as to what he was about.
Five years later, I find myself in a class called "Transcendentalism." By this point, I can not only pronounce it, but I can spell it as well. An undeniable improvement. My professor tells the class that during Thoreau's famous and allegedly independent time spent on Walden Pond, he was visiting the Emersons' every day to take home treats prepared by Emerson's wife. He wasn't doing much of his own cooking. Furthermore, his spinster Auntie was making weekly visits to wash his clothes in the river--the same Auntie who (out of embarrassment)bailed Thoreau out of jail when he refused to pay his taxes. The experience of incarceration, Thoreau claims, made him see that, "if there was a wall of stone between me and my townsmen, there was a still more difficult one to climb or break through, before they could get to be as free as I was. I did not for a moment feel confined, and the walls seemed a great waste of stone and mortar" (558 Thoreau,"The Transcendentalist." Ed. Joel Meyerson). Brave words for a man who spent a whopping one night in jail.
My initial disposition of Thoreau was disinterest, and my subsequent, partially educated opinion was cynical and scoffing. However, I am happy to publicly declare, after a half semester in the class, that my frigid disposition has melted into a kind of endeared warmth for the man.
After reading pages and pages of the dense philosophies of Emerson, Thoreau is like a breath of fresh air. Younger, more earnest, and (as I picture him) with eternally tostled hair and an untucked shirt. I honestly think he was oblivious to the way he used his Auntie and Mrs. Emerson; he was so (ironically) caught up in voicing the need for introspection and being acutely aware of one's conscience that he completely failed to read the demeaning signs of gender construction within his society. Thoreau was rather focused on the atrocity of slavery and what a citizen could do to radically withdraw their support. I applauded Thoreau's intrepidity in "Resistance to Civil Government" and "Slavery in Massachusetts."
Aside from his efforts for social reform, I was delighted by his child-like fascination with the world when he writes of nature, and the earnestness in which he talked about the "empire of fish" beneath this shoes, when ice skating over a frozen pond. He spent paragraphs discussing the watery kingdom and how even the fisherman thinks "fishy" thoughts, and how in a sense, he becomes a fish himself.
Transcendentalists were snickered at and called crack-pots because of their pure fascination with the world. Even the stiff-colored Emerson acted as a child in nature when he endorsed bending over and looking at the landscape upside-down, through the legs, just for a different perspective.
So in conclusion, I am glad that I didn't completely write Thoreau off when I deemed him boring and sexist. He is definitely more than he appears, initially. After reading so much Transcendental literature, I am able to see the color of Thoreau's personality and I have learned to recognize his sense of humor. And after reading "A Winter Walk" (1843) I think I might have found a poetic soul mate.
Infinite worlds disclosing to the view,
Shines out intensely keen; and all one cope
Of starry glitter glows from pole to pole."
I decided that I love Henry David Thoreau, and I wish I could go ice skating with him.
My initial impression of Thoreau was not very pleasant. I was fifteen and my father bought me "Walden Pond" for a Christmas present; he told me it was an important book and I should read it. Being an obedient daughter and excited to acquaint myself with a venerated text, I cracked it open. Ten minutes later, I was asleep. When I woke up, I decided that I didn't even know how to pronounce the word "transcendental" and that it was lame anyway.
From that point on, I resigned myself to nodding enthusiastically whenever somebody spoke of the "genius" of Thoreau, even though I had no real clue as to what he was about.
Five years later, I find myself in a class called "Transcendentalism." By this point, I can not only pronounce it, but I can spell it as well. An undeniable improvement. My professor tells the class that during Thoreau's famous and allegedly independent time spent on Walden Pond, he was visiting the Emersons' every day to take home treats prepared by Emerson's wife. He wasn't doing much of his own cooking. Furthermore, his spinster Auntie was making weekly visits to wash his clothes in the river--the same Auntie who (out of embarrassment)bailed Thoreau out of jail when he refused to pay his taxes. The experience of incarceration, Thoreau claims, made him see that, "if there was a wall of stone between me and my townsmen, there was a still more difficult one to climb or break through, before they could get to be as free as I was. I did not for a moment feel confined, and the walls seemed a great waste of stone and mortar" (558 Thoreau,"The Transcendentalist." Ed. Joel Meyerson). Brave words for a man who spent a whopping one night in jail.
My initial disposition of Thoreau was disinterest, and my subsequent, partially educated opinion was cynical and scoffing. However, I am happy to publicly declare, after a half semester in the class, that my frigid disposition has melted into a kind of endeared warmth for the man.
After reading pages and pages of the dense philosophies of Emerson, Thoreau is like a breath of fresh air. Younger, more earnest, and (as I picture him) with eternally tostled hair and an untucked shirt. I honestly think he was oblivious to the way he used his Auntie and Mrs. Emerson; he was so (ironically) caught up in voicing the need for introspection and being acutely aware of one's conscience that he completely failed to read the demeaning signs of gender construction within his society. Thoreau was rather focused on the atrocity of slavery and what a citizen could do to radically withdraw their support. I applauded Thoreau's intrepidity in "Resistance to Civil Government" and "Slavery in Massachusetts."
Aside from his efforts for social reform, I was delighted by his child-like fascination with the world when he writes of nature, and the earnestness in which he talked about the "empire of fish" beneath this shoes, when ice skating over a frozen pond. He spent paragraphs discussing the watery kingdom and how even the fisherman thinks "fishy" thoughts, and how in a sense, he becomes a fish himself.
Transcendentalists were snickered at and called crack-pots because of their pure fascination with the world. Even the stiff-colored Emerson acted as a child in nature when he endorsed bending over and looking at the landscape upside-down, through the legs, just for a different perspective.
So in conclusion, I am glad that I didn't completely write Thoreau off when I deemed him boring and sexist. He is definitely more than he appears, initially. After reading so much Transcendental literature, I am able to see the color of Thoreau's personality and I have learned to recognize his sense of humor. And after reading "A Winter Walk" (1843) I think I might have found a poetic soul mate.
Friday, October 23, 2009
A Dismal Preoccupation
I have found that it is possible to be wrapped up in the ideological closure of academia in a thoroughly unproductive manner. "Break will be over before you know it!" is a saying that has worn itself into a miserable clique. This fall break, I wanted to best the clique. I slapped it with my glove challenged it to a duel. Unfortunately, I lost. I am K.O., out of the ring, upside-down in a dumpster three blocks away covered in rotting fruit and fermenting in the stench of my own failure. Instead of getting all my homework and studying done and having time to relax, I worried my time away and consequently didn't accomplish the super-human "To-Do" list that is presently shut away in the depths of my student planner, lest the glaring pages mock me into insanity.
I need a vacation. How many students say that on their last day of break? I need a long, tropical vacation where I won't have assignments or projects to think about--where I can crack open a coconut and spend three hours figuring out how to turn it into an awesome bra. I need to travel to Costa Rica and learn belly dancing from the native women.
But most of all, I need to float on a raft constructed from bamboo shoots and balsa wood in the middle of the ocean on a warm, breezy summer night, where I can lie on my back and connect the diamond constellations in the velvet sky, while the silver peal of the moon pours its shining liquid light upon my raft and stirs ghostly ripples in the water around me. Then, like the monks in the Middle Ages, I can contemplate the harmony of the celestial orbs and the way I spontaneously add to the music...Me--a mere human, ontologically wounded and flawed by nature, who is more insignificant to the material world than the poems of Emerson. In nature, maybe I can be on par with genius...
What good are dreams and ambitions if the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak?
I need a vacation. How many students say that on their last day of break? I need a long, tropical vacation where I won't have assignments or projects to think about--where I can crack open a coconut and spend three hours figuring out how to turn it into an awesome bra. I need to travel to Costa Rica and learn belly dancing from the native women.
But most of all, I need to float on a raft constructed from bamboo shoots and balsa wood in the middle of the ocean on a warm, breezy summer night, where I can lie on my back and connect the diamond constellations in the velvet sky, while the silver peal of the moon pours its shining liquid light upon my raft and stirs ghostly ripples in the water around me. Then, like the monks in the Middle Ages, I can contemplate the harmony of the celestial orbs and the way I spontaneously add to the music...Me--a mere human, ontologically wounded and flawed by nature, who is more insignificant to the material world than the poems of Emerson. In nature, maybe I can be on par with genius...
What good are dreams and ambitions if the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak?
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
The Endless Contemplation of Death
Every now and then I am shaken from the illusion that life is perpetual, and am reminded that someday, I will die. Death is a difficult concept to grasp as nobody alive has experienced it; it can only be speculated at with an air of abstraction. But the fact remains that each and every one of us will eventually come to a point where we will experience it--and we will experience it alone.
Today I visited a funeral home, a mortuary. It was the brother of my sister's friend who passed away at the age of 31, leaving behind his wife and two young daughters. Nobody would have predicted that the seemingly healthy man would have a heart attack and pass away within minutes. The visitation was spinning with friends and family--some who were chatting and laughing at memories, others who were crippled with grief. I would imagine each took their turn at these extremes and in between.
The silent body in the adorned corner, of course, was the source of the poignant gathering. Being in the presence of such a man, without ever meeting him in life, was moving in a way I can not explain. I thanked God for the man's life and mourned for the little girls who won't remember their father. Tucked up next to the body inside of the casket was a piece of paper with blue crayon writing. "I love you Daddy!"
I am sorry for the family.
Tonight I am honoring the mortality of man, and appreciating the life that I have. There is no guarantee that any of us will live long lives. When it is time for me to take the hand of God and leave my family behind, I hope that I will be satisfied with the life that I had the chance to live.
Today I visited a funeral home, a mortuary. It was the brother of my sister's friend who passed away at the age of 31, leaving behind his wife and two young daughters. Nobody would have predicted that the seemingly healthy man would have a heart attack and pass away within minutes. The visitation was spinning with friends and family--some who were chatting and laughing at memories, others who were crippled with grief. I would imagine each took their turn at these extremes and in between.
The silent body in the adorned corner, of course, was the source of the poignant gathering. Being in the presence of such a man, without ever meeting him in life, was moving in a way I can not explain. I thanked God for the man's life and mourned for the little girls who won't remember their father. Tucked up next to the body inside of the casket was a piece of paper with blue crayon writing. "I love you Daddy!"
I am sorry for the family.
Tonight I am honoring the mortality of man, and appreciating the life that I have. There is no guarantee that any of us will live long lives. When it is time for me to take the hand of God and leave my family behind, I hope that I will be satisfied with the life that I had the chance to live.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
The Playground of Anarchy
I have always thought about the anarchy of the world in terms of children on a playground. There is no adult supervision. The kids are free to play as nicely or as meanly as suits their whims--it is a delicate balance between playing nicely and outright chaos.
The U.S., as the hegemony, has the status of "cool guy jock." He glides about the playground, avoiding certain shady looking corners, and uses his status to alter the behavior of the other children. "Israel was here first--you need to go over there, Palestine" and such of the sort. A lot of the kids are on U.S.'s side, even though they gossip, but there are many kids who hate U.S.
France is the sissy in nice clothing who sits at the top of the slide, and refuses to go down on the account that his shoes will get dirty.
North Korea is the skinny boy on ritalin who runs around and jabs unsuspecting kids with a stick.
The clique of Europeans are arm in arm, with England as the alpha female.
Russia, of course, is the big kid sitting by himself on the swing set, muttering to himself.
China is the bully who socks people when nobody's looking, and then blames it on somebody else as he trades his cheap toys for the U.S.'s allowance.
It wouldn't take much...perhaps Pakistan throws a punch. Maybe its Iran and Israel--and then it's chaos. Dirt and wood chips go flying. There's yelling and pulling hair, and as soon as somebody pushes France off the slide,everyone must take sides. If, for instance, Brazil tries to remain neutral, he won't last long. The children realize that, in order to avoid swirlies and sever wedgies, they must have an alliance of friends to help protect themselves.
The problem is, one of the kids found a bomb, and he realized he can blow up his neighbor with it. There are many bombs laying around, and all one has to do is pick it up. And throw it.
How long will they last?
The U.S., as the hegemony, has the status of "cool guy jock." He glides about the playground, avoiding certain shady looking corners, and uses his status to alter the behavior of the other children. "Israel was here first--you need to go over there, Palestine" and such of the sort. A lot of the kids are on U.S.'s side, even though they gossip, but there are many kids who hate U.S.
France is the sissy in nice clothing who sits at the top of the slide, and refuses to go down on the account that his shoes will get dirty.
North Korea is the skinny boy on ritalin who runs around and jabs unsuspecting kids with a stick.
The clique of Europeans are arm in arm, with England as the alpha female.
Russia, of course, is the big kid sitting by himself on the swing set, muttering to himself.
China is the bully who socks people when nobody's looking, and then blames it on somebody else as he trades his cheap toys for the U.S.'s allowance.
It wouldn't take much...perhaps Pakistan throws a punch. Maybe its Iran and Israel--and then it's chaos. Dirt and wood chips go flying. There's yelling and pulling hair, and as soon as somebody pushes France off the slide,everyone must take sides. If, for instance, Brazil tries to remain neutral, he won't last long. The children realize that, in order to avoid swirlies and sever wedgies, they must have an alliance of friends to help protect themselves.
The problem is, one of the kids found a bomb, and he realized he can blow up his neighbor with it. There are many bombs laying around, and all one has to do is pick it up. And throw it.
How long will they last?
Monday, October 19, 2009
The True Account of an Incident, happending on the 18th of October, 2009
12:00 noon. The police officer cannot conceal his giant smile as he scratches the incident onto his yellow notepad. "Couch discovered on roof." My father stands by, fuming over the audacity for someone to sneak in the dead of night and place a large piece of furniture on our roof. He mutters threats of lawsuit as he considers the sagging cushions of soggy blue, spilling awkwardly onto the roof from the couch's upside-down position.
Two and a half hours earlier, my father arises to drive Weston (my 9 year old brother) to Church School, at which point the couch was already in position. Somehow, it escapes my father's notice as he backs out of the driveway, and continues on his way. The sharp 4th grader, however, does notice the odd piece of furniture upon the roof. He doesn't say anything to my father, because, (as he claims after questioning later in the day) he "thought it was supposed to be there."
At approximately 9:45am, my father returns to our home after making a quick stop at Family Fare to purchase a Sunday bouquet for my Mother. While he is pulling into the driveway, he suddenly noticed the startling sofa above the garage, and stops with a screeching of the car. He promptly jogs into the house to alert my mother.
My Mother awoke at 9:46am to her husband holding a bouquet of flowers in his hand, and a most curious expression on his face. In over 25 years of marriage, she could not remember an expression of equal confusion.
"Here's some flowers. There's a couch on the roof."
"Oh, flowers!"
"I said there's a couch on the roof."
"You didn't have to get me these!"
"Did you hear me?"
"What are you talking about?"
Becoming increasingly agitated, my father says, "LOOK OUTSIDE! There's a COUCH on the ROOF!"
9:48, my sister wakes up after a long night working third shift at Jimmy Johns. The noise down stairs irritates her and she rolls over again, with her pillow over her head. To her great dismay, our mother bursts through the doors and says "Erika, there's a couch on the roof!" To which Erika replies, groggily, "Is someone sitting on it?"
It is a confusing morning.
The Pineiros dress, and attend mass with cartoon question marks floating above their heads. Weston rejoins the family, and when questioned in a whisper by his mother, "Weston, did you happen to notice a couch on our roof?", he replied, "Oh, you mean the one on the garage?" She is still dumbfounded by his casual reply.
The mystery of the Couch-Strander could not be solved by the police officer, who scratched down the note more out of amusement than duty. He shifted his weight and whimsically asked my irate father, "Do you happen to have a daughter?" My sister was outraged that he would suggest she was anyway at fault, because in her opinion, she is blamed for everything--even, apparently, large pieces of furniture that materialize on top of houses.
As for me, my true talent of observation showed when I returned from college later that day. I drove straight up the driveway, jolted into the house, bee-lined it to the fridge and made myself a sandwich. Later, I pretended that I noticed the couch on the roof, although in truth I probably wouldn't have noticed if the pavement was lined with gum-drop bricks or the house was painted purple. Nevertheless, I am left to impotently ponder the identity of the Couch-Strander with the rest of the family.
Maybe it spontaneously generated from the junk in our garage--the physical manifestation of our need to organize and donate stuff. Perhaps I have a secret admirer who thought the way to my heart was through a sofa. Or--what if, in some kind of modern Easter Island thing, the aliens are trying to communicate with my family? Or--even more delightfully, what if there are a bunch of stoned weirdos nearby with a truck and too much time on their hands?
Which ever the case may be, it is clear that the incident has brought the family together--at least as far as strange conversation goes--which is just as good as any.
Two and a half hours earlier, my father arises to drive Weston (my 9 year old brother) to Church School, at which point the couch was already in position. Somehow, it escapes my father's notice as he backs out of the driveway, and continues on his way. The sharp 4th grader, however, does notice the odd piece of furniture upon the roof. He doesn't say anything to my father, because, (as he claims after questioning later in the day) he "thought it was supposed to be there."
At approximately 9:45am, my father returns to our home after making a quick stop at Family Fare to purchase a Sunday bouquet for my Mother. While he is pulling into the driveway, he suddenly noticed the startling sofa above the garage, and stops with a screeching of the car. He promptly jogs into the house to alert my mother.
My Mother awoke at 9:46am to her husband holding a bouquet of flowers in his hand, and a most curious expression on his face. In over 25 years of marriage, she could not remember an expression of equal confusion.
"Here's some flowers. There's a couch on the roof."
"Oh, flowers!"
"I said there's a couch on the roof."
"You didn't have to get me these!"
"Did you hear me?"
"What are you talking about?"
Becoming increasingly agitated, my father says, "LOOK OUTSIDE! There's a COUCH on the ROOF!"
9:48, my sister wakes up after a long night working third shift at Jimmy Johns. The noise down stairs irritates her and she rolls over again, with her pillow over her head. To her great dismay, our mother bursts through the doors and says "Erika, there's a couch on the roof!" To which Erika replies, groggily, "Is someone sitting on it?"
It is a confusing morning.
The Pineiros dress, and attend mass with cartoon question marks floating above their heads. Weston rejoins the family, and when questioned in a whisper by his mother, "Weston, did you happen to notice a couch on our roof?", he replied, "Oh, you mean the one on the garage?" She is still dumbfounded by his casual reply.
The mystery of the Couch-Strander could not be solved by the police officer, who scratched down the note more out of amusement than duty. He shifted his weight and whimsically asked my irate father, "Do you happen to have a daughter?" My sister was outraged that he would suggest she was anyway at fault, because in her opinion, she is blamed for everything--even, apparently, large pieces of furniture that materialize on top of houses.
As for me, my true talent of observation showed when I returned from college later that day. I drove straight up the driveway, jolted into the house, bee-lined it to the fridge and made myself a sandwich. Later, I pretended that I noticed the couch on the roof, although in truth I probably wouldn't have noticed if the pavement was lined with gum-drop bricks or the house was painted purple. Nevertheless, I am left to impotently ponder the identity of the Couch-Strander with the rest of the family.
Maybe it spontaneously generated from the junk in our garage--the physical manifestation of our need to organize and donate stuff. Perhaps I have a secret admirer who thought the way to my heart was through a sofa. Or--what if, in some kind of modern Easter Island thing, the aliens are trying to communicate with my family? Or--even more delightfully, what if there are a bunch of stoned weirdos nearby with a truck and too much time on their hands?
Which ever the case may be, it is clear that the incident has brought the family together--at least as far as strange conversation goes--which is just as good as any.
Friday, October 16, 2009
A curiously mundane and slightly disappointing endeavor
It was a sad attempt at festive decoration. The pale green gourds, tiny and awkwardly shapen, appeared to be misplaced. Perhaps they were healthy gourds in their natural habitat of crispy leaves, disintegrating haystacks and the redolence of apple cider, but pressed up against a sliding glass window in the Campus Safety Office, the perturbingly phallic-shaped fruit withered into itself, anemically, and its presence struck me as unnecessary. I pondered for a moment about the tradition of decorating one's home or one's office place with such odd-looking Cucurbitaceae that are commonly mistaken for vegetables. I felt sorry for the poor things. I have been in environments that felt alien to me--I have felt like those little pathetic gourds, quivering wordlessly, awkward, in the corner.
--Just as I was sympathizing with the fall decorations, the window slid open.
"Sorry that took so long," nodding sideways, to the two-way radio. I blinked and, remembering where I was, proceeded to tell the absurdly thin blond chick about my missing bag.
"It's just--uh, a regular--plastic grocery bag, but it has my karate pants in it. And, uh, my black gloves and a sandwich with only one bite taken out--it was gross so I didn't eat it--I bought a bagel instead, at the Moose, you know--which is where--or when, I mean, I lost my bag. NoImean I realized it was gone when I got my bagel which came with cream cheese that I also didn't eat." At that point I vowed never to drink full strength coffee after serious sleep deprivation; when I do, I come across as an illiterate escapee from an institution who wandered onto campus and managed to chew off her straight jacket.
She blinked. "I'll take a look."
She began delicately fingering through various bits of lost key chains and cell phones that had accumulated in a narrow drawer, three times too small to fit the kind of bag I clearly described. I felt my left eyebrow raise involuntarily. Annoyed, I told her not to worry about it. I blinked sleepiness out of my eyes--a final wink to my squash friends--and exited out the door.
--Just as I was sympathizing with the fall decorations, the window slid open.
"Sorry that took so long," nodding sideways, to the two-way radio. I blinked and, remembering where I was, proceeded to tell the absurdly thin blond chick about my missing bag.
"It's just--uh, a regular--plastic grocery bag, but it has my karate pants in it. And, uh, my black gloves and a sandwich with only one bite taken out--it was gross so I didn't eat it--I bought a bagel instead, at the Moose, you know--which is where--or when, I mean, I lost my bag. NoImean I realized it was gone when I got my bagel which came with cream cheese that I also didn't eat." At that point I vowed never to drink full strength coffee after serious sleep deprivation; when I do, I come across as an illiterate escapee from an institution who wandered onto campus and managed to chew off her straight jacket.
She blinked. "I'll take a look."
She began delicately fingering through various bits of lost key chains and cell phones that had accumulated in a narrow drawer, three times too small to fit the kind of bag I clearly described. I felt my left eyebrow raise involuntarily. Annoyed, I told her not to worry about it. I blinked sleepiness out of my eyes--a final wink to my squash friends--and exited out the door.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Three people.
I can name three people, in particular, who make me a better person. Allyse, one of my roommates pushes me to be more responsible. I really don't know how to put it, other than if it weren't for Allyse, I would be a lot more messy and careless about my behavior--where I put my shoes when I come home, when I wash my dishes, when I pay my bills... Sometimes I get frustrated because I really don't feel like it's my fault when I don't have time to do something, but Allyse is there to remind me that I could organize my time better, and that I can make time. I think I am finally learning some lessons I should have been open to a long time ago. I am trying really hard to be a better house mate and a more responsible adult--it's just that sometimes I don't even have a clue...Allyse shows me that I can always be better and I really, really appreciate that.
My acting colleague, Lizzy, also makes me a better person. I can't even say how many times she's picked me up when I was sinking into despair. She has boosted my self-esteem when I felt so bad about myself that I wanted to jump off the side of a cliff. The funny thing about Lizzy is, she is the most talented actor I know, and she tells me that she's honored to work with me. Just last night, I was having a minor panic attack about a directing project due the next morning. I left a desperate message on her phone, not expecting her to angelically appear behind me 4 minutes later, saying "don't panic." She puts things into perspective for me and has talked me through a number of things I am eternally grateful for. Lizzy is helping me to face my future career with courage.
The third person I want to appreciate today, on this tiny sphere of the internet, will remain anonymous. He told me once to picture somebody that I really respected and admired. Once I had the person in mind, he told me that I could be better than that person. Something to strive for. I didn't think I could ever do that--I'd never even thought about it, but he told me to do it.
So here I am. I am dreaming about the possibilities in my life. I have no idea what I am going to do this summer, but it might be something incredible. It will be my last summer before I graduate...and from there? Who knows. But I'm going to find out.
My acting colleague, Lizzy, also makes me a better person. I can't even say how many times she's picked me up when I was sinking into despair. She has boosted my self-esteem when I felt so bad about myself that I wanted to jump off the side of a cliff. The funny thing about Lizzy is, she is the most talented actor I know, and she tells me that she's honored to work with me. Just last night, I was having a minor panic attack about a directing project due the next morning. I left a desperate message on her phone, not expecting her to angelically appear behind me 4 minutes later, saying "don't panic." She puts things into perspective for me and has talked me through a number of things I am eternally grateful for. Lizzy is helping me to face my future career with courage.
The third person I want to appreciate today, on this tiny sphere of the internet, will remain anonymous. He told me once to picture somebody that I really respected and admired. Once I had the person in mind, he told me that I could be better than that person. Something to strive for. I didn't think I could ever do that--I'd never even thought about it, but he told me to do it.
So here I am. I am dreaming about the possibilities in my life. I have no idea what I am going to do this summer, but it might be something incredible. It will be my last summer before I graduate...and from there? Who knows. But I'm going to find out.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
We are Golden
How fast can light travel? How easily can light warm the earth as it spills from the horizon to illuminate the land--to set ablaze the drops of dew that cling to each blade of grass, freshly melted from the crisp of frost. Light can free all things--it can expose, illuminate, it can separate into many different colors through a prism of glass or drops of rain.
I want to fly with the light and be collected by daisies and orchids--to enrich the greenery that carpets the lush earth when the stars vanish behind the silky veil of blue. Maybe someday I can join the sun in its blaze in the heavens and help to set the clouds aflame--the soft waves of fire, suspended above the earth in perpetual, breathing motion, billowing and dissipating on the whim of the thermal.
Light breaths heat into our midst like swirling ribbons of gold, that cling to our bodies and melt like butter. Comfort. The fire place. A cup of tea. An embrace.
Maybe someday I can help to embrace. To comfort. To tread upon the land that is cold and warm it with my steps and comfort the crying child. The wounded soldier.
Light can heal--dry tears--warm--expose--renew--love--embrace--minister--love--feed--cover--love--dazzle--spread--light travels quickly. The fastest motion.
I want to fly with the light and be collected by daisies and orchids--to enrich the greenery that carpets the lush earth when the stars vanish behind the silky veil of blue. Maybe someday I can join the sun in its blaze in the heavens and help to set the clouds aflame--the soft waves of fire, suspended above the earth in perpetual, breathing motion, billowing and dissipating on the whim of the thermal.
Light breaths heat into our midst like swirling ribbons of gold, that cling to our bodies and melt like butter. Comfort. The fire place. A cup of tea. An embrace.
Maybe someday I can help to embrace. To comfort. To tread upon the land that is cold and warm it with my steps and comfort the crying child. The wounded soldier.
Light can heal--dry tears--warm--expose--renew--love--embrace--minister--love--feed--cover--love--dazzle--spread--light travels quickly. The fastest motion.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Procrastination Is Like Masterbation...you're only screwing yourself.
This shall be my checklist to help me delineate my habitual crimes of procrastination, in the midst of the act. It shall be in the form of active questions and answers.
1. Am I asking "Am I procrastination?"
(Yes. I'm procrastinating.)
2. Have I consumed a disgusting amount of chocolate and I-don't-even-know-what, as a means of "helping" me think?
(Yes. Then I procrastinated 15 minutes ago.)
3. Am I doing my daily blog past the hour of midnight--so as to not even count as part of the day?
(Yes..but it's only 41 minutes after midnight...)
4. Have I suddenly become acutely aware of all the noise in my house and have embarked on an epic (and failing) journey to silence all noises?
(Well...I didn't silence Alyse because that would have entailed killing her.)
5. Has the crack in the wall suddenly struck strangeness and meaning in my mind so as to reconcile my staring at it for several minutes on end without so much as blinking?
(I refuse to answer that question.)
With the results I have quickly gathered from myself, I suppose it is safe to say that I fall prey to procrastination, at times. For the sake of education, I find it worthy to record an account of the biological sensations attached to procrastination, and perhaps it will help to further diagnose my condition.
I maintain an outward objective to write the paper. Underneath, however, are uninvited thoughts. "Ice Cream." "YouTube." "Anything on this bloody earth besides this paper." I experience an inner conflict-a tug, to and fro, that I fear will drag me out into the wasteland of disinterest or academic self-consciousness. At that moment, I give in and seek another occupation for ten minutes, rather than confront the bubbling panic in my mind and turn off the burner of hysteria. Then my laundry becomes important. Then some kind of emotional drama dances through my consciousness. Two hours later, I am startled back into reality, and am disgusted that I've taken so long to write my thesis sentence. My initial reaction is to cry loudly and hit somebody, but there is no one in sight. (And furthermore, I have become rather more cultivated than that in my 20 years of life.) I suffice, instead, by blogging my problems away...and here I am.
Thank you for listening, I'm going to bed now.
1. Am I asking "Am I procrastination?"
(Yes. I'm procrastinating.)
2. Have I consumed a disgusting amount of chocolate and I-don't-even-know-what, as a means of "helping" me think?
(Yes. Then I procrastinated 15 minutes ago.)
3. Am I doing my daily blog past the hour of midnight--so as to not even count as part of the day?
(Yes..but it's only 41 minutes after midnight...)
4. Have I suddenly become acutely aware of all the noise in my house and have embarked on an epic (and failing) journey to silence all noises?
(Well...I didn't silence Alyse because that would have entailed killing her.)
5. Has the crack in the wall suddenly struck strangeness and meaning in my mind so as to reconcile my staring at it for several minutes on end without so much as blinking?
(I refuse to answer that question.)
With the results I have quickly gathered from myself, I suppose it is safe to say that I fall prey to procrastination, at times. For the sake of education, I find it worthy to record an account of the biological sensations attached to procrastination, and perhaps it will help to further diagnose my condition.
I maintain an outward objective to write the paper. Underneath, however, are uninvited thoughts. "Ice Cream." "YouTube." "Anything on this bloody earth besides this paper." I experience an inner conflict-a tug, to and fro, that I fear will drag me out into the wasteland of disinterest or academic self-consciousness. At that moment, I give in and seek another occupation for ten minutes, rather than confront the bubbling panic in my mind and turn off the burner of hysteria. Then my laundry becomes important. Then some kind of emotional drama dances through my consciousness. Two hours later, I am startled back into reality, and am disgusted that I've taken so long to write my thesis sentence. My initial reaction is to cry loudly and hit somebody, but there is no one in sight. (And furthermore, I have become rather more cultivated than that in my 20 years of life.) I suffice, instead, by blogging my problems away...and here I am.
Thank you for listening, I'm going to bed now.
Monday, October 12, 2009
My Dream Of The Earth
I want to see the crumbling ruins of ancient Peru, and the vast desert sands of Egypt. I want to touch the pyramids--that loomed mysteriously above even Cleopatra and her people, already the dusty relics of antiquity. I want to set foot in the poisonous jungle of the Amazon, the saturated rice patties of China, and the sit in the shadow of the skeletal Collusion. One day I will be attacked by a giant squid in the waters off the Land of the Rising Sun and sacrificed on the savage alters of the Aztecs--a wreath of flowers about my head--the only virgin in sight. Maybe Shakespeare will cast me in his play--Lady MacBeth, or Ophelia--I'll be the first women to perform in Renaissance England, before the Queen. As I dig my feet into the sun-soaked sand of Pangaea, I will watch the plates of the Earth shift--a rumbling deep below--and sigh as Africa and South America separate from their embrace to reach longingly across the Atlantic. Australia drifts off by itself, alone for eternity...while Europe and Asia cling in a violent lock in the middle east, forever bloody. I shall sit alone, watching with calm serenity, until I turn to stone, and the tangle of roots and vines--arteries of the living earth--grind me to dust. I vanish.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Creatio Continua
This morning, I awoke long before my roommates would even dream of it. 7:30am on a Sunday. And I went out for a run.
I wondered why I didn't start every day in the same way. As Dr. Marshall--a beloved and feared Theology professor at Aquinas College--once said, each morning is a miracle. We don't continue existing out of necessity, but because of grace; therefor, each day is a gift and a miracle. Creation is continuously renewing itself: Creatio Continua.
I saw this to be true when I laced by Asics tight and broke myself against the chilled air of dawn. Over puddled sidewalks, beneath fiery trees dripping leafy autumn flame. Tiny birds chirped and fluttered from my path like bits of flighty confetti. The baby blue sky was dotted with the V pattern of geese flying south, and below, the icy shreds of emerald grass crunched delicately, and glimmered.
At Reed's Lake, the trees crowding the East parted to reveal the marvel of morning beauty--the rising sun. Hallowed and heavenly, the flaming star rose brilliantly over the glass of the lake, casting it's celestial twin into an equal spectacle in reflection. Mirroring its creator, I could not look at its grandeur without destroying my human eyes; I was left to bask in its warmth radiating. Though I could not see the sun (or even its reflection) directly, I could look down into the water--still as a sheet of glass--and see the golden sunbeams sparkle through the mist, swirling and tumbling upon the icy surface. I felt then as if I was among the living clouds, gliding through the holy light that warmed my body and gave me peace.
I wondered why I didn't start every day in the same way. As Dr. Marshall--a beloved and feared Theology professor at Aquinas College--once said, each morning is a miracle. We don't continue existing out of necessity, but because of grace; therefor, each day is a gift and a miracle. Creation is continuously renewing itself: Creatio Continua.
I saw this to be true when I laced by Asics tight and broke myself against the chilled air of dawn. Over puddled sidewalks, beneath fiery trees dripping leafy autumn flame. Tiny birds chirped and fluttered from my path like bits of flighty confetti. The baby blue sky was dotted with the V pattern of geese flying south, and below, the icy shreds of emerald grass crunched delicately, and glimmered.
At Reed's Lake, the trees crowding the East parted to reveal the marvel of morning beauty--the rising sun. Hallowed and heavenly, the flaming star rose brilliantly over the glass of the lake, casting it's celestial twin into an equal spectacle in reflection. Mirroring its creator, I could not look at its grandeur without destroying my human eyes; I was left to bask in its warmth radiating. Though I could not see the sun (or even its reflection) directly, I could look down into the water--still as a sheet of glass--and see the golden sunbeams sparkle through the mist, swirling and tumbling upon the icy surface. I felt then as if I was among the living clouds, gliding through the holy light that warmed my body and gave me peace.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Say goodbye...to the world you thought you lived in
Last semester, I took a class called "The World in Crisis," and it literally shook my world. I hadn't been paying attention to the rest of the world, and as a student trying to maintain a high GPA, I buried myself in the sophism of my personal academic life. Consequently, I missed out on a lot of current events...
There are so many ugly, terrifying things happening right now in the world. Uganda. Rwanda. Sri Lanka. Sierra Leone. Darfur in the Sudan... What really shook me was learning about the horrific use of children as soldiers--especially the Lord's Resistance Army of Uganda. (Researching this and uncovering this knowledge almost made me with I could have remained ignorant) Joseph Koney is the individual who organized the Lord's Resistance Army (a terrorist organization in every grueling sense) and he is probably the closest manifestation to evil I can think of.
Children are kidnapped from their homes and forced into bloodshed and warfare. The process is positively inhuman. In order to "break" the children, they torture, force intoxicate, and drug these innocent children--some as young as 6--to dull their sensitivities to their new life. Rape is also used as a means of torture--and to break the young ones to their first killing, the higher up officers will make them kill their parents or siblings. In a stupor caused by substances, the children are sent into the rage or war, and are at the mercy of cruel chance.
In Uganda, particularly, the "invisible children" spend their entire days walking, seeking a safe place to spend the night--so that they wont be picked up by the Lord's Resistance Army and made into soldiers.
I have been moved by this knowledge of the world, and I just wish there was something I could do. I feel called to help, somehow. I don't want this to be something I learn about and toss in the back of my closet--with my old books and worn out notebooks. This is what actually matters. There are children being damaged on so many different levels--so many children, and what about their future? The youth now is the future of the world, and with such a large population profoundly disturbed--what will happen if this is never dealt with and treated? If there is no healing, it is bound to get worse.
There are so many ugly, terrifying things happening right now in the world. Uganda. Rwanda. Sri Lanka. Sierra Leone. Darfur in the Sudan... What really shook me was learning about the horrific use of children as soldiers--especially the Lord's Resistance Army of Uganda. (Researching this and uncovering this knowledge almost made me with I could have remained ignorant) Joseph Koney is the individual who organized the Lord's Resistance Army (a terrorist organization in every grueling sense) and he is probably the closest manifestation to evil I can think of.
Children are kidnapped from their homes and forced into bloodshed and warfare. The process is positively inhuman. In order to "break" the children, they torture, force intoxicate, and drug these innocent children--some as young as 6--to dull their sensitivities to their new life. Rape is also used as a means of torture--and to break the young ones to their first killing, the higher up officers will make them kill their parents or siblings. In a stupor caused by substances, the children are sent into the rage or war, and are at the mercy of cruel chance.
In Uganda, particularly, the "invisible children" spend their entire days walking, seeking a safe place to spend the night--so that they wont be picked up by the Lord's Resistance Army and made into soldiers.
I have been moved by this knowledge of the world, and I just wish there was something I could do. I feel called to help, somehow. I don't want this to be something I learn about and toss in the back of my closet--with my old books and worn out notebooks. This is what actually matters. There are children being damaged on so many different levels--so many children, and what about their future? The youth now is the future of the world, and with such a large population profoundly disturbed--what will happen if this is never dealt with and treated? If there is no healing, it is bound to get worse.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Death, I guess, is on my mind.
I seriously can not wait until Fall Break! It is a little over a week away...but before I can get to this panacea of nap-time, I must first do two more performances of "Sun,Stand Thou Still," rehearse several directing projects, and by the grace of God, do well on my Transcendentalism American Literature exam.
If I fail any of these prerequisites, I will most certainly die a most horrific and bloody death. I can see it now. My Professors all gathered round, clothed in the loin-cloths of Academia, binding me to my laptop and sacrificing me to the god of scholarship, as punishment for my failing. Pencils to and fro. My roommates pillage my room as the entire events of my life flash, gloomily, through my conscience like the many inky transactions scrawled in my checkbook.
I wonder what it will be like to die. Nobody can answer this for me, and I don't believe I would actually want to know. For my character in the play, I journaled on this very topic--and what it would be like to be resurrected...
Here is what I wrote:
First, it's pain. Enormous, incredible pain--shocking until I can't stand it anymore and I can't see, and then I slip. Quickly. I lose feeling and I sink into the ground. Then, maybe it's years later, I don't know, but it feels like I've been away for a long time--a black spell that I can't remember. Then it's a tug--a feeling like I'm floating. Dizzy, warm, disoriented, tumbling and spinning and faster and faster until I'm on fire and then my body surrounds me with a lurch and it's 1000 lbs and cold like ice. It moves but I don't have control. It's like I thaw out. My fingers hurt--pain shoots all over--flickers through my body like an electric shock and I'm suddenly aware of an uncomfortable throbbing in my neck. My pulse. Disoriented. I'm back.
If I fail any of these prerequisites, I will most certainly die a most horrific and bloody death. I can see it now. My Professors all gathered round, clothed in the loin-cloths of Academia, binding me to my laptop and sacrificing me to the god of scholarship, as punishment for my failing. Pencils to and fro. My roommates pillage my room as the entire events of my life flash, gloomily, through my conscience like the many inky transactions scrawled in my checkbook.
I wonder what it will be like to die. Nobody can answer this for me, and I don't believe I would actually want to know. For my character in the play, I journaled on this very topic--and what it would be like to be resurrected...
Here is what I wrote:
First, it's pain. Enormous, incredible pain--shocking until I can't stand it anymore and I can't see, and then I slip. Quickly. I lose feeling and I sink into the ground. Then, maybe it's years later, I don't know, but it feels like I've been away for a long time--a black spell that I can't remember. Then it's a tug--a feeling like I'm floating. Dizzy, warm, disoriented, tumbling and spinning and faster and faster until I'm on fire and then my body surrounds me with a lurch and it's 1000 lbs and cold like ice. It moves but I don't have control. It's like I thaw out. My fingers hurt--pain shoots all over--flickers through my body like an electric shock and I'm suddenly aware of an uncomfortable throbbing in my neck. My pulse. Disoriented. I'm back.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
An Analysis of First-Degree Sleep Deprivation
The effects of sleep deprivation can be rather curious and sensational. It begins with a dull pounding in the fore-front of the brain that can be identified as the evaporation of coherent thoughts. Grammatically incorrect speech typically follows this dull pounding, and rightfully so, as brain cell after brain cell is dissolved by the artificial caffeine in your bloodstream, taking the place of oxygen.
Shortly after, a tingling sensation will cascade through your arteries and throw off your balance, but on the plus side, everything will feel comfier and easier to fall asleep against. While walking to class, you may become apt to scuffing you shoes on the floor, creating an alarming screeching noise that will only disorient you further.
The longer you deprive yourself of sleep, the more interesting your imagination becomes, particularly about all the bad things that could possibly go wrong. For instance, on my way to my student ambassador's shift, I imagined that I arrived three minutes late and that I had a tour waiting for me. There was a handicapped person in my group and I was forced to use the ramp instead of the stairs, but I didn't know where it was so my boss took me aside and fired me, and as I was staggering out of Hruby hall, blinded with tears I fell down the handicapped ramp I didn't know existed and cracked my two front teeth and broke three of my ribs and my wrist, so that when I showed up for my play later that evening, I had to play The Apple Woman as a disfigured hillbilly, and when I was thrown over Jon's shoulder in Act II, my three broken ribs punctured my right lung and I died a painful death of suffocation and internal bleeding in front of a paying crowd that didn't know that I wasn't acting.
In addition to an over-active-horrifying imagination, you may also experience frequent ten-second napping that may occur while you are walking. 85% of the time, nothing bad will happen as your body will simply continue in the direction you were already moving. The other 15% of the time may occur while walking down stairs, or in the advent of making a turn--in which case, the outcome may be very similar to what your over-active and horrifying imagination could fathom.
Ultimately, when your body reaches such extreme levels of sleep deprivation that you repeat the same sentence over 4 to 7 times, you may be due for a fainting spell which will happen very suddenlaf;jklsd `vbchhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
Shortly after, a tingling sensation will cascade through your arteries and throw off your balance, but on the plus side, everything will feel comfier and easier to fall asleep against. While walking to class, you may become apt to scuffing you shoes on the floor, creating an alarming screeching noise that will only disorient you further.
The longer you deprive yourself of sleep, the more interesting your imagination becomes, particularly about all the bad things that could possibly go wrong. For instance, on my way to my student ambassador's shift, I imagined that I arrived three minutes late and that I had a tour waiting for me. There was a handicapped person in my group and I was forced to use the ramp instead of the stairs, but I didn't know where it was so my boss took me aside and fired me, and as I was staggering out of Hruby hall, blinded with tears I fell down the handicapped ramp I didn't know existed and cracked my two front teeth and broke three of my ribs and my wrist, so that when I showed up for my play later that evening, I had to play The Apple Woman as a disfigured hillbilly, and when I was thrown over Jon's shoulder in Act II, my three broken ribs punctured my right lung and I died a painful death of suffocation and internal bleeding in front of a paying crowd that didn't know that I wasn't acting.
In addition to an over-active-horrifying imagination, you may also experience frequent ten-second napping that may occur while you are walking. 85% of the time, nothing bad will happen as your body will simply continue in the direction you were already moving. The other 15% of the time may occur while walking down stairs, or in the advent of making a turn--in which case, the outcome may be very similar to what your over-active and horrifying imagination could fathom.
Ultimately, when your body reaches such extreme levels of sleep deprivation that you repeat the same sentence over 4 to 7 times, you may be due for a fainting spell which will happen very suddenlaf;jklsd `vbchhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
The Light at the End of my Checkbook
I'm sure that when I die, and my entire life flashes before me, it will be something like balancing my checkbook. When balancing my checkbook, I see the history of my life before me, and it's depressing.
Why did I pay seven dollars for a cup of coffee and a muffin on the 6th day of September?
Why did I have to eat out two weeks ago, and spend $15 on one meal?
Curses upon curses. Rather than take the proactive action of selling my kidney or going door to door pop-bottle collecting to be able to pay my rent, I shall fume for a while in passive-aggression. Here I go...
What gives restaurants the right to charge so much for so little? I'll tell you why. It's a conspiracy. The restaurant people prey upon our human desires for love and comfort.
First of all, acknowledge the general artifice of happiness attached to restaurants. No matter what, when you walk through the doors, the hostess will smile at you and the servers will be "happy" to see you. It's all for the business, but it makes us feel good. It doesn't matter if it is World War III outside, and grenades are exploding hither and thither, when you're inside, it's always Friday...
Secondly, take the semi-scripted rhetoric into consideration. A waiter approaches you and says "Hi, I'm So-And-So and I'll be taking care of you." Thank God. Somebody is going to take care of me. Freud might contribute this desire to be taken care of to a general lack of parental affection, which is largely manifest in society.
Thirdly, it is a mixture of human laziness and the natural fear of starvation that drives the masses to the restaurants. "I don't know how to cook anything but oatmeal...I'm going to Steak N' Shake."
It's the story of my life.
Why did I pay seven dollars for a cup of coffee and a muffin on the 6th day of September?
Why did I have to eat out two weeks ago, and spend $15 on one meal?
Curses upon curses. Rather than take the proactive action of selling my kidney or going door to door pop-bottle collecting to be able to pay my rent, I shall fume for a while in passive-aggression. Here I go...
What gives restaurants the right to charge so much for so little? I'll tell you why. It's a conspiracy. The restaurant people prey upon our human desires for love and comfort.
First of all, acknowledge the general artifice of happiness attached to restaurants. No matter what, when you walk through the doors, the hostess will smile at you and the servers will be "happy" to see you. It's all for the business, but it makes us feel good. It doesn't matter if it is World War III outside, and grenades are exploding hither and thither, when you're inside, it's always Friday...
Secondly, take the semi-scripted rhetoric into consideration. A waiter approaches you and says "Hi, I'm So-And-So and I'll be taking care of you." Thank God. Somebody is going to take care of me. Freud might contribute this desire to be taken care of to a general lack of parental affection, which is largely manifest in society.
Thirdly, it is a mixture of human laziness and the natural fear of starvation that drives the masses to the restaurants. "I don't know how to cook anything but oatmeal...I'm going to Steak N' Shake."
It's the story of my life.
Monday, October 5, 2009
I May Have Taken This Too Far...
I decided to do my honors contract work on a E.M. Forster's Room With A View in light of New Historical and Cultural criticism of the Edwardian time period, in comparison to the same analysis on present-day productions of the play adaptation. Unfortunately, when when I conceived this idea and attained approval from the head of the English department and facilitator of the Insignis program, I had neither read the play adaptation of Room With A View, nor had any background in New Historical and Cultural criticism. After reading said play and attaining said background, I am now obliged to beg the question "WHAT DID I GET MYSELF INTO?!" For the love of Pete, this is going to be a lot of work. Thankfully, I shall be held within the obligating bounds of deadlines, thanks to graded research project administered by Dr. Coogan.
Within the realm of the literary theory I have blindly become married to, I find myself confronted with personal dissension. The theory rejects history in the traditional sense and asserts that all accounts of "history" are tainted with bias to some degree and based in the unstable grounds of cultural subjectivity. I will grant the truth of this allegation, however, I resent the nihilism toward which this disposition leans. New Historical criticism infers that we can not actually know anything about history--that historical accounts should be viewed in the same way as fiction is viewed. New Historical criticism seeks, rather, to determine in which ways the even has been interpreted and what we can therefor conclude about the interpreters. What can we interpret from the few facts we can be (relatively) certain about--in regards to the competing ideologies and conflicting social, political, and cultural agendas of the time?
In other words, my task is to write a 7 to 10 page paper (with a thorough, annotated bibliography) on what E.M. Forster's agenda was in creating Room With A View, --what he was saying about the discourses of society, and how he interpreted those discourses. I will also discuss the agenda and social discourses brought into question by the present-day play adaptation, and why it is important to us as a theatre-goers and members of the culture.
I am game. However, I will only allow New Historical and Cultural criticism to percolate into my intellectual inclination as far as my research will allow me to uncover about these interpretations. I will not accept every facet of New Historical criticism, including Foucault's argument that "insanity," "crime,: and "sexual perversion" are social constructions implaced by the individuals in power. Furthermore, to the editor of my critical theory book, I demand proof for her claim that incest and cannibalism have been deemed admirable within certain cultures. Cannibalism and incest are ugly realities, of course, but I would like a shred of evidence of cannibalism being deemed "admirable" when it takes place within the cannibalistic tribe itself.
An behalf of mankind, I argue that human beings posses a will and an intellect, and though society does play a significant role in how we view the world, it is not indicative of our personal identities. Furthermore, the claim very atheistic and that the legacy of human history is "like an improvised dance consisting of an infinite variety of steps, following any new route at any given moment, and having no particular goal or destination." This pessimism does not sit well in my mind--it agitates me quite profoundly.
My argument is thus: human beings can sense the gradation of various levels of goodness and truth, and hence there must be an ultimate source of goodness and truth. This ultimate source is God. Because we live in this tension of God's existence and the existence of perfection, we will continually strive for that, thus giving humanity an ultimate goal and destination. I don't believe we will ever actually reach that, because mankind is wounded, but we will for sure try.
Within the realm of the literary theory I have blindly become married to, I find myself confronted with personal dissension. The theory rejects history in the traditional sense and asserts that all accounts of "history" are tainted with bias to some degree and based in the unstable grounds of cultural subjectivity. I will grant the truth of this allegation, however, I resent the nihilism toward which this disposition leans. New Historical criticism infers that we can not actually know anything about history--that historical accounts should be viewed in the same way as fiction is viewed. New Historical criticism seeks, rather, to determine in which ways the even has been interpreted and what we can therefor conclude about the interpreters. What can we interpret from the few facts we can be (relatively) certain about--in regards to the competing ideologies and conflicting social, political, and cultural agendas of the time?
In other words, my task is to write a 7 to 10 page paper (with a thorough, annotated bibliography) on what E.M. Forster's agenda was in creating Room With A View, --what he was saying about the discourses of society, and how he interpreted those discourses. I will also discuss the agenda and social discourses brought into question by the present-day play adaptation, and why it is important to us as a theatre-goers and members of the culture.
I am game. However, I will only allow New Historical and Cultural criticism to percolate into my intellectual inclination as far as my research will allow me to uncover about these interpretations. I will not accept every facet of New Historical criticism, including Foucault's argument that "insanity," "crime,: and "sexual perversion" are social constructions implaced by the individuals in power. Furthermore, to the editor of my critical theory book, I demand proof for her claim that incest and cannibalism have been deemed admirable within certain cultures. Cannibalism and incest are ugly realities, of course, but I would like a shred of evidence of cannibalism being deemed "admirable" when it takes place within the cannibalistic tribe itself.
An behalf of mankind, I argue that human beings posses a will and an intellect, and though society does play a significant role in how we view the world, it is not indicative of our personal identities. Furthermore, the claim very atheistic and that the legacy of human history is "like an improvised dance consisting of an infinite variety of steps, following any new route at any given moment, and having no particular goal or destination." This pessimism does not sit well in my mind--it agitates me quite profoundly.
My argument is thus: human beings can sense the gradation of various levels of goodness and truth, and hence there must be an ultimate source of goodness and truth. This ultimate source is God. Because we live in this tension of God's existence and the existence of perfection, we will continually strive for that, thus giving humanity an ultimate goal and destination. I don't believe we will ever actually reach that, because mankind is wounded, but we will for sure try.
Friday, October 2, 2009
I can feel it in the air
Today I am thinking about the magic in the world. I know that I'm young and there's a lot for me to learn, but sometimes I see something or experience something and I realize that I've been viewing the world in the wrong light. It is not a different universe, but it is a few degrees off and it's a different shade than I previously conceived. Tonight was another performance of my play, "Sun, Stand Thou Still" and I experienced a transcendence that I had yet never felt. I think it might have had to do with a full house (very responsive) and several people in the audience who are close to me (or I had a history with). It was just strange. After the show, when I came out covered in blood (you have to see the show to understand) my roommate Allyse hugged me and cried.
The experience of tonight left me feeling stunned. Two other encounters a bit later turned my world a couple more degrees on its axis, and my breath has been taken away. I'm not really sure what's going on; I am the same person I was before but I can feel how I am different than I was yesterday, and the previous day. It's strange to be aware of the growing pains in the midst.
I am not sure what is going to happen tomorrow or what I am going to do with my life. Everything is a mystery and every now and then I can sense this feeling of magic. The sensation rides on the air, and it is moving me somewhere. Perhaps it is possibility. Maybe it's God.
The experience of tonight left me feeling stunned. Two other encounters a bit later turned my world a couple more degrees on its axis, and my breath has been taken away. I'm not really sure what's going on; I am the same person I was before but I can feel how I am different than I was yesterday, and the previous day. It's strange to be aware of the growing pains in the midst.
I am not sure what is going to happen tomorrow or what I am going to do with my life. Everything is a mystery and every now and then I can sense this feeling of magic. The sensation rides on the air, and it is moving me somewhere. Perhaps it is possibility. Maybe it's God.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
A Compliment From The Playwright
"I really enjoyed your performance." Those five words totally made my day. I was so nervous to meet Steven Gridley, the playwright of "Sun, Stand Thou Still," who was flown from New York City to watch our performance of his play on Aquinas College campus. He arrived on Wednesday--the night of our preview show for theatre majors--and I spent all day baking homemade apple pie for him. I am playing his character called "The Apple Woman," which is the only female role in the show. The other characters are Driver, Hitchhiker, Man and Officer. The baking of the pies was sort of an endeavor to method act--but more so because I wanted Steven Gridley to like me. I hope it worked; either way, he complimented my performance.
Wednesday's theatre major preview rocked the house. Since the entire audience consisted of dramatic, emotional people, there was continual reaction and subsequent reinforcement for the actors the entire way through.
Opening night, however, was a competition with the hypnotist demonstration across campus. Our show lost. We had about four people in the audience, but without the extra tension we were able to play and experiment a bit, and I feel more pumped for tomorrows show.
So, the good news is THE PLAYWRIGHT (who I have already compared to a god in my last post) COMPLIMENTED ME!! My pie rocked, and my roommates have great stories about being hypnotized.
Wednesday's theatre major preview rocked the house. Since the entire audience consisted of dramatic, emotional people, there was continual reaction and subsequent reinforcement for the actors the entire way through.
Opening night, however, was a competition with the hypnotist demonstration across campus. Our show lost. We had about four people in the audience, but without the extra tension we were able to play and experiment a bit, and I feel more pumped for tomorrows show.
So, the good news is THE PLAYWRIGHT (who I have already compared to a god in my last post) COMPLIMENTED ME!! My pie rocked, and my roommates have great stories about being hypnotized.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
