My love revolves around this:
"People, there is only one show you watch when you're sick. The one show that has medicinal qualities. You flip on the TV, and it's just there...waiting for you. You know what it is...the PRICE. IS. RIGHT."
My God, man! My God!!
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Break the Union
New York City is in the dark. At least, it might as well be. For the second time in 2 years, I have seen streams of New Yorkers walking the streets out of need. The first time it was because of the heat. The second time, now, it is because of the transit strike. No buses, no trains are moving. I went to New York last summer for the first time in my life. No big whoop, so I have little to comment on regarding the how stricken the city is. But considering I have visited every major city in the world (except for the East), dude, I freakin' know what the transit system means to any city, any people. And they strike? That's understandable, really. Strikes are sometimes amazingly useful. Not when they actually strike, mind you. But the threat of a strike often brings to the table compromise and understanding in the midst of a possible shutdown.
However, now the entire NYC transit system is offline - now 3 days before Christmas. And this marks the third day of the strike. Fantastic, we have effectually run past the usefulness of strikes. Neither side is willing the compromise, that much is absolutely clear. I personally think the transit union's demands are ridiculous. A 24% hike in pay over the next 3 years? I believe the rough estimate of the average transit worker's salary is $57,000. At the end of three years, if the transit union achieves its demands, the salary would be just over $70,000. I realize NYC is an expensive place to live, but that's a lot of money nomatter where you live. The economy is growing with respectably low and stable inflation. Is there that great of a need for an additional $13,000 or is the union simply falling into step with all the unions that have come before? I tend to lean towards the latter. However, the transit union president declares that it is not about the money, in fact it's all about respect. Funny though, there is no mention of how respect is garnered in the eyes of the transit workers without the increase in pay. Not a strange concept that, money equaling respect.
Bloomberg won't budge. Despite all that the union is barking for, NYC mayor Bloomberg refuses to grant the pay raise. I believe the city won't go for anything more than a 9% hike at the end of three years. Bloomberg has even gone so far as to call the transit workers nothing more than thugs. Harsh language, eh?
So, this is a huge deadlock. They be buttin' heads.
The solution? Break the union.
A judge has already requested the presence of the important folks in the transit union, hinting at possible jail sentences. The city is already penalizing the union $1 million per day of the strike. This is new, surely? Not quite. We have an amazing past when it comes to how the United States deals with union strikes that are particularly invasive. Calvin Coolidge as governor of MA broke the Boston Police strike with the MA National Guard. He wrote, "there is no right to strike against the public safety by anybody, anywhere, anytime." Ronald Reagan fired those people in the tower thingy who direct the planes in - with computers instead of those cute wand things that light up. They striked in 1981 and he fired them so that the flight of the States would not come to a standstill. (Oh my word, the new Madonna song. I love it!)
The transit strike is not effectively placing the public into harms way. However, it is fundamentally changing the city every moment that the public transportation refuses to move. This is completely a state matter, thankfully Bush hasn't addressed the situation yet. So, Bloomberg and Pataki must do something and protect not only the standard of lives of their people but also their livelihood. So break the union. Grow some balls and fire the transit workers who are striking. Or put them in prison. Bloomberg quite likes saying how illegal the strike is. Well, do something about it big boy. Words are nothing right now. Hell, words caused the situation. Only action matters.
I am not a fan of abusive government. But this would not be abuse, should the NY government take action as I believe it should. The government would be taking it's rightful place and allowing the city to run as it must. The transit workers are employees of the state. The transit union is not the employer of the state. The workers must have rights and some ability to leverage, this is what the union is for. However, the union has gone to far as I think most unions will if left alone. I don't believe in big government. But neither do I support a select minority ruling the government (oh...oh....oooohhhh). Something has to be done to fix this gordian knot. Cut it.
However, now the entire NYC transit system is offline - now 3 days before Christmas. And this marks the third day of the strike. Fantastic, we have effectually run past the usefulness of strikes. Neither side is willing the compromise, that much is absolutely clear. I personally think the transit union's demands are ridiculous. A 24% hike in pay over the next 3 years? I believe the rough estimate of the average transit worker's salary is $57,000. At the end of three years, if the transit union achieves its demands, the salary would be just over $70,000. I realize NYC is an expensive place to live, but that's a lot of money nomatter where you live. The economy is growing with respectably low and stable inflation. Is there that great of a need for an additional $13,000 or is the union simply falling into step with all the unions that have come before? I tend to lean towards the latter. However, the transit union president declares that it is not about the money, in fact it's all about respect. Funny though, there is no mention of how respect is garnered in the eyes of the transit workers without the increase in pay. Not a strange concept that, money equaling respect.
Bloomberg won't budge. Despite all that the union is barking for, NYC mayor Bloomberg refuses to grant the pay raise. I believe the city won't go for anything more than a 9% hike at the end of three years. Bloomberg has even gone so far as to call the transit workers nothing more than thugs. Harsh language, eh?
So, this is a huge deadlock. They be buttin' heads.
The solution? Break the union.
A judge has already requested the presence of the important folks in the transit union, hinting at possible jail sentences. The city is already penalizing the union $1 million per day of the strike. This is new, surely? Not quite. We have an amazing past when it comes to how the United States deals with union strikes that are particularly invasive. Calvin Coolidge as governor of MA broke the Boston Police strike with the MA National Guard. He wrote, "there is no right to strike against the public safety by anybody, anywhere, anytime." Ronald Reagan fired those people in the tower thingy who direct the planes in - with computers instead of those cute wand things that light up. They striked in 1981 and he fired them so that the flight of the States would not come to a standstill. (Oh my word, the new Madonna song. I love it!)
The transit strike is not effectively placing the public into harms way. However, it is fundamentally changing the city every moment that the public transportation refuses to move. This is completely a state matter, thankfully Bush hasn't addressed the situation yet. So, Bloomberg and Pataki must do something and protect not only the standard of lives of their people but also their livelihood. So break the union. Grow some balls and fire the transit workers who are striking. Or put them in prison. Bloomberg quite likes saying how illegal the strike is. Well, do something about it big boy. Words are nothing right now. Hell, words caused the situation. Only action matters.
I am not a fan of abusive government. But this would not be abuse, should the NY government take action as I believe it should. The government would be taking it's rightful place and allowing the city to run as it must. The transit workers are employees of the state. The transit union is not the employer of the state. The workers must have rights and some ability to leverage, this is what the union is for. However, the union has gone to far as I think most unions will if left alone. I don't believe in big government. But neither do I support a select minority ruling the government (oh...oh....oooohhhh). Something has to be done to fix this gordian knot. Cut it.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Virginity Defenestrated
What in the hell is a Meme? Definition be damned though. Giggle, Damion, for now I am now even more whored out than usual by dancing to the beat of the Blogger.
Four jobs you have had in your life: Tutor, Computer Lab Person Thingie, Secretary/Postal Boy Thingie, Pitcher
Four movies you could watch over and over: Notthing Hill, Equilibrium, Pride and Prejudice (1995 & 2005), The Lord of the Rings [comedy, action, period-piece drama, fantasy...yessssssssssssss]
Four places you've lived: San Francisco, CA; Charlotte, NC; Fort Mill, SC; Rock Hill, SC (in chronological order, no less)
Four TV shows you love to watch: Smallville, Stargate: SG-1, Battlestar Galatica, House
Four places you've been on vacation: San Francisco, London, Florence, Paris
Four websites you visit daily: C.H.U.D., Queering the Apparatus, Ain't It Cool News, CNN
Four of your favorite foods: Red wine [a cabernet sauvignon, please], Brie slathered on french bread, Strawberries, Filet Mignon
Four places you'd rather be right now: Perugia with the girl, Atlanta with the father, Cambridge, Simply with the girl on a deserted beach
Four Bloggers you are tagging: Erin, Jared, Jon, and ....dude, I don't know that many people on here.
Four jobs you have had in your life: Tutor, Computer Lab Person Thingie, Secretary/Postal Boy Thingie, Pitcher
Four movies you could watch over and over: Notthing Hill, Equilibrium, Pride and Prejudice (1995 & 2005), The Lord of the Rings [comedy, action, period-piece drama, fantasy...yessssssssssssss]
Four places you've lived: San Francisco, CA; Charlotte, NC; Fort Mill, SC; Rock Hill, SC (in chronological order, no less)
Four TV shows you love to watch: Smallville, Stargate: SG-1, Battlestar Galatica, House
Four places you've been on vacation: San Francisco, London, Florence, Paris
Four websites you visit daily: C.H.U.D., Queering the Apparatus, Ain't It Cool News, CNN
Four of your favorite foods: Red wine [a cabernet sauvignon, please], Brie slathered on french bread, Strawberries, Filet Mignon
Four places you'd rather be right now: Perugia with the girl, Atlanta with the father, Cambridge, Simply with the girl on a deserted beach
Four Bloggers you are tagging: Erin, Jared, Jon, and ....dude, I don't know that many people on here.
Red Nail Polish
Facebook is all the rage, isn't it? Yet, boy, has it jumped the shark. One knows that some fad has bit the big one when Fox News advertises a special on how pervasive/dangerous/explosive said fad is. Oh great white, how unmerciless you are!
However, Facebook is incredibly uselful (I actually wrote useless without thinking) in this mediocre age for finding out what exactly those nyerds ('y' completely intentional) I went to high school with are up to these days. Of note and the reason for this digression, today I leafed through an old friend's photos. She is quite a beautiful, smiley girl and the object of much affection in the latter years of highschool (i.e. major crush on the chick). As I looked through these photos I found a picture in which she has donned a black dress. With her pale skin, the dress looked fantastic. Yet when I looked at her nails, which were prominently displayed, my eyes went wide at how red her nail polish was. I mutter some obscenity, cursing the taste and nail polish of said pretty girl and promptly close the window, forbidding myself to see anymore. My taste can be exceptionally judgmental.
My only question is, who does this?
After agreeing with another pretty girl to act together in our final project for Acting this semester, I spied same girl wearing those funky, atrocious (on some girls) looking pants that are as faddish as Facebook. On sight of those pants: "I can't work with her." Yet when I saw her do a Tiggerish, sprite-like jump mid-stride: "Well...the pants don't make the girl." Needless to say we worked incredibly well together, especially after she confessed that the pants were so comfortable they obfuscated how wretched they looked. Now that I can respect.
But really, who does this?
However, Facebook is incredibly uselful (I actually wrote useless without thinking) in this mediocre age for finding out what exactly those nyerds ('y' completely intentional) I went to high school with are up to these days. Of note and the reason for this digression, today I leafed through an old friend's photos. She is quite a beautiful, smiley girl and the object of much affection in the latter years of highschool (i.e. major crush on the chick). As I looked through these photos I found a picture in which she has donned a black dress. With her pale skin, the dress looked fantastic. Yet when I looked at her nails, which were prominently displayed, my eyes went wide at how red her nail polish was. I mutter some obscenity, cursing the taste and nail polish of said pretty girl and promptly close the window, forbidding myself to see anymore. My taste can be exceptionally judgmental.
My only question is, who does this?
After agreeing with another pretty girl to act together in our final project for Acting this semester, I spied same girl wearing those funky, atrocious (on some girls) looking pants that are as faddish as Facebook. On sight of those pants: "I can't work with her." Yet when I saw her do a Tiggerish, sprite-like jump mid-stride: "Well...the pants don't make the girl." Needless to say we worked incredibly well together, especially after she confessed that the pants were so comfortable they obfuscated how wretched they looked. Now that I can respect.
But really, who does this?
Ice on the Umbrella
Ever since m'mum's car rolled over and died she has been in possession of my car for escapes into Charlotte for work. As such, when I haven't had to be at work at 5 (a grand total of two days, including today) I've walked to school. The walk is quite nice, averaging about 35 minutes -- up a hill, down a hill, passing through 2 stop lights and over rail road tracks. I consider it an ironic thing for me to be walking to college in the final year of attendning the institution. Ironic, for I spent the early years of grade school walking from my house in Fort Mill to the place of ill repute. So I end school as I began it. This is sweet and lovely, as long as the hope that I continue with school is utterly and completely ignored. I have faith I can accomplish this most readily.
Though the lower half of my pants and my socks are utterly soaked, I still thoroughly enjoyed the walk to school. The cause of my shivering limbs and bitterly cold finger tips also gives rise to the extreme enjoyment I found in the walk. Perhaps no more than any other day, the most miserable day to be walking anywhere for any length of time was the same day I was glad and thankful to be walking out in such misery. Temperature: roughtly 20*C. Rain: heavy. Admittedly not the most conducive elements to an enjoyable saunter to school.
And yet, how fun it was. How brilliant the mixture the remaining black of night, ice adorning every surface, and my body. So thrillling this experience that I was completely taken from the body of a dog long dead, which has captured my mind with every step as I pass it. Death in the midst of life, though "miserable life" many would call it. While my mind is always taken with death, I'm thankful that life always trumps the decay of lifelessness.
As I walked, icicles actually formed on my umbrella. It surprised the hell out of me. I don't know why, there's nothing particularly fascinating about ice. Ice is rather a simple substance. But perhaps the lack of it in my childhood substantiates the aura of mystery around it. Deprived of snow and snow days in my youth, I relish any chance to embrace the days of cold, slippery stuff that falls from the sky. Simplicity is the birth of all childish delights. Thankfully I've not grown out of those delights just yet. So while ice is surely ordinary, to even see the sparkling wonder of frozen, barely moving particles of water is fascinating, to say the least of getting to crunch on the stuff with booted feet!
I came to the lab and shook off the ice from my umbrella. I entered the warmth of the building and was sumpremely glad for the hum of electricity attempting to resuscitate my cold columns of flesh. Yet I cannot soon forget the cold and the black of night, black as black even at the time 7:25 AM. Nor would I wish to forget that experience. I was safe and warm in my clothes, jacket and Welsh scarf. [Stuff that Erin, I have leaks on my scarf!] Safe and warm enough to experience and enjoy the cold, the wet, the expanse or extreme of another life. There is something singularly beautiful about casting a haze of mist as you exhale. I love watching the mist form, as I love why it forms. I am so not a fan of the cold. But what that cold creates is a beautiful, magical thing. And I can only say for myself that one facet of that creation is the allowance for me to dance on frozen grass -- smiling to hear the crunch of the blades and ice, embraced in a world so suddenly changed overnight.
Though the lower half of my pants and my socks are utterly soaked, I still thoroughly enjoyed the walk to school. The cause of my shivering limbs and bitterly cold finger tips also gives rise to the extreme enjoyment I found in the walk. Perhaps no more than any other day, the most miserable day to be walking anywhere for any length of time was the same day I was glad and thankful to be walking out in such misery. Temperature: roughtly 20*C. Rain: heavy. Admittedly not the most conducive elements to an enjoyable saunter to school.
And yet, how fun it was. How brilliant the mixture the remaining black of night, ice adorning every surface, and my body. So thrillling this experience that I was completely taken from the body of a dog long dead, which has captured my mind with every step as I pass it. Death in the midst of life, though "miserable life" many would call it. While my mind is always taken with death, I'm thankful that life always trumps the decay of lifelessness.
As I walked, icicles actually formed on my umbrella. It surprised the hell out of me. I don't know why, there's nothing particularly fascinating about ice. Ice is rather a simple substance. But perhaps the lack of it in my childhood substantiates the aura of mystery around it. Deprived of snow and snow days in my youth, I relish any chance to embrace the days of cold, slippery stuff that falls from the sky. Simplicity is the birth of all childish delights. Thankfully I've not grown out of those delights just yet. So while ice is surely ordinary, to even see the sparkling wonder of frozen, barely moving particles of water is fascinating, to say the least of getting to crunch on the stuff with booted feet!
I came to the lab and shook off the ice from my umbrella. I entered the warmth of the building and was sumpremely glad for the hum of electricity attempting to resuscitate my cold columns of flesh. Yet I cannot soon forget the cold and the black of night, black as black even at the time 7:25 AM. Nor would I wish to forget that experience. I was safe and warm in my clothes, jacket and Welsh scarf. [Stuff that Erin, I have leaks on my scarf!] Safe and warm enough to experience and enjoy the cold, the wet, the expanse or extreme of another life. There is something singularly beautiful about casting a haze of mist as you exhale. I love watching the mist form, as I love why it forms. I am so not a fan of the cold. But what that cold creates is a beautiful, magical thing. And I can only say for myself that one facet of that creation is the allowance for me to dance on frozen grass -- smiling to hear the crunch of the blades and ice, embraced in a world so suddenly changed overnight.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Pride and Prejudice
I love Jane Austen! I think she, unequivocally, kicks tremendous amounts of ass with cutting dialogue and superb creations and deconstructions of class. However, despite my love of Austen, I was not raised on her novels. Instead I suckled from the breast of the various BBC/Fox/A&E adaptations of her novels. I, of course, came later to her novels and her words. But my first introduction and experience of Austen's self came from the flickering images and witty words of amazing actors giving even more life to her creations. Pretty cool childhood, eh?
Therefore, I am a complete snob when it comes to adaptations of Austen's works. I really think nothing can even approach the greatness of the 1995 A&E mini of Pride and Prejudice along with the multitudinous versions of Sense and Sensibility and Emma from Miramax, BBC, A&E, and Ang Lee (Ang Lee???? Damn right, Ang Lee). Suffice to say, I looked on with extreme prejudice as Keira Knightley prepared to play Lizzie. I laughed outright when I saw various pictures of Knightley poised on on rocks in the English countryside. I certainly don't dislike the damnably young and successful woman as an actor, she is delightful. What significantly weirded me out was the simplicity of the incredulousness of her casting. I mean, really. As a another knell, a few months ago I sought out the most recent trailer and was horrified at how loud and abrasive everything was. I am quite used to subtlty and intrigue when works of Austen and others are worked with as films. The music, the noise, all of it was invasive. I couldn't shut the damn thing off quickly enough.
Good thing I got over my prejudice. Thanks, against, go to the girl's sister for giving me some hope. Bravo, you served me well with combative, supportive thoughts of Knightley and well-wrought sexiness.
Indeed, I loved this 2005 Pride and Prejudice. I have yet to see Bride and Prejudice so I cannot lay judgment on its worth. Yet for a decade of movies, books, songs and political guffaws, 2005's Pride and Prejudice bubbled with the life of Austen and the passion of England as no other movie I've seen since 1995. Colour me amazed, my love of the 1995 mini is now supremely matched by 2005's version. Truly, I mean amazed.
Keira Knightley, the sexiest beanpole on the planet, deserves every credit for bringing to life the greatest heroine of the limited literature I have read. My father calls Jennifer Ehle the "running Lizzie." So, with some liberty, I daringly call Knightley the "longing Lizzie." Such a title might seem odd, and indeed it is. But I think even odder might be to call her the "eye Lizzie," as I naturally am of want to do. Longing is expressed by the eyes. By the body too, of course. But longing is by its very nature evocative of the heart and there is no greater portal to the heart than through the eyes. So longing=eyes. Knightley's eyes were truly startling in laughter, in sadness, and in love. Often, it can be said that actors are vapid and souless. Regardless of truth, Elizabeth's eyes evoke pure life force in such a way that Knightley's superb acting is manifested and bolstered by such expression. Eyes are a big thing for me. I pride myself on looking someone dead in the eyes, within reason, whenever I talk to them. (This is especially helpful in today's age of plunging cleavage. ...the girl's eyes, if I do say so myself, are like kaleidoscopes of fire and sea.) So to see every emotion poured out through not only her voice and body but also her eyes was a delight and reason alone to see this movie. Yet, giggle, friends, giggle -- for there are many reasons to go for Pride and for Prejudice.
(Keira Knightley is a tomboy, out and out. Granted, a gorgeous one, but still a tomboy. Let it not be said that I am a breast man, for, truly, what breasts? What breasts?)
The director Joe Wright and the cinematographer Roman Osin masterfully recreate Austen's world of Darcy and Elizabeth with colours, scenes, and sounds that leave nothing to the imagination whilst never limiting it. The girl's sister said it best with
I cannot wait to see 2005's Pride and Prejudice again.
(...how cool is it that Emma Thompson performed a special, uncredited rewrite of the script?)
Therefore, I am a complete snob when it comes to adaptations of Austen's works. I really think nothing can even approach the greatness of the 1995 A&E mini of Pride and Prejudice along with the multitudinous versions of Sense and Sensibility and Emma from Miramax, BBC, A&E, and Ang Lee (Ang Lee???? Damn right, Ang Lee). Suffice to say, I looked on with extreme prejudice as Keira Knightley prepared to play Lizzie. I laughed outright when I saw various pictures of Knightley poised on on rocks in the English countryside. I certainly don't dislike the damnably young and successful woman as an actor, she is delightful. What significantly weirded me out was the simplicity of the incredulousness of her casting. I mean, really. As a another knell, a few months ago I sought out the most recent trailer and was horrified at how loud and abrasive everything was. I am quite used to subtlty and intrigue when works of Austen and others are worked with as films. The music, the noise, all of it was invasive. I couldn't shut the damn thing off quickly enough.
Good thing I got over my prejudice. Thanks, against, go to the girl's sister for giving me some hope. Bravo, you served me well with combative, supportive thoughts of Knightley and well-wrought sexiness.
Indeed, I loved this 2005 Pride and Prejudice. I have yet to see Bride and Prejudice so I cannot lay judgment on its worth. Yet for a decade of movies, books, songs and political guffaws, 2005's Pride and Prejudice bubbled with the life of Austen and the passion of England as no other movie I've seen since 1995. Colour me amazed, my love of the 1995 mini is now supremely matched by 2005's version. Truly, I mean amazed.
Keira Knightley, the sexiest beanpole on the planet, deserves every credit for bringing to life the greatest heroine of the limited literature I have read. My father calls Jennifer Ehle the "running Lizzie." So, with some liberty, I daringly call Knightley the "longing Lizzie." Such a title might seem odd, and indeed it is. But I think even odder might be to call her the "eye Lizzie," as I naturally am of want to do. Longing is expressed by the eyes. By the body too, of course. But longing is by its very nature evocative of the heart and there is no greater portal to the heart than through the eyes. So longing=eyes. Knightley's eyes were truly startling in laughter, in sadness, and in love. Often, it can be said that actors are vapid and souless. Regardless of truth, Elizabeth's eyes evoke pure life force in such a way that Knightley's superb acting is manifested and bolstered by such expression. Eyes are a big thing for me. I pride myself on looking someone dead in the eyes, within reason, whenever I talk to them. (This is especially helpful in today's age of plunging cleavage. ...the girl's eyes, if I do say so myself, are like kaleidoscopes of fire and sea.) So to see every emotion poured out through not only her voice and body but also her eyes was a delight and reason alone to see this movie. Yet, giggle, friends, giggle -- for there are many reasons to go for Pride and for Prejudice.
(Keira Knightley is a tomboy, out and out. Granted, a gorgeous one, but still a tomboy. Let it not be said that I am a breast man, for, truly, what breasts? What breasts?)
The director Joe Wright and the cinematographer Roman Osin masterfully recreate Austen's world of Darcy and Elizabeth with colours, scenes, and sounds that leave nothing to the imagination whilst never limiting it. The girl's sister said it best with
its quite an interesting study in the art of movie making if nothing elseI so freakin' concur man, I concur. Almost every scene came to life as a masterfully created painting leaps off the canvas. This movie is wonderful, sexy, and brilliantly lovely. In one word, with thoughts of acting, direction, and photography, SEXY.
I cannot wait to see 2005's Pride and Prejudice again.
(...how cool is it that Emma Thompson performed a special, uncredited rewrite of the script?)
Monday, December 12, 2005
Rent
I must admit to being slightly puzzled over the disappointment that manifested itself as Rent opened in theatres. On the whole, it seems that most of the disappointment comes from those who fell in love with the theatrical production surely now almost 10 years past its prime. Considering that, I must confess that I never saw the stage show and thus had no preconceptions beyond these stamp words: "musical" and "NYC" as I cuddled into the theatre seat a day after taking the GREs for the second time.
The experience was entirely weird -- the experience of being on the outside of a movement, as it were, and looking it. For the past 5 years I have very much been on the inside of book to movie adaptations - deeply ensconced in the worlds so recently brought to cinema. From my obsessive love Lord of the Rings to my temporarily grudging understanding of Harry Potter, I was at the forefront of those who knew the pages that were translated to voice and movement. There was nothing, absolutely nothing in my head about Rent. I have only recently discovered musicals as a film genre and it was only when I was in London two summers ago that I finally saw onstage musicals (a fantastic production of Phantom and a so-so take on Les Mis). And, yeah, I so totally love musicals now.
To say the least, then, Rent was to be a new experience. I have thoroughly enjoyed the reawakening of the musical in movies -- although I maintain my unvouched for hatred of Moulin Rogue. The movie to be seen that afternoon was actually undecided -- quite the toss up between Rent and Jarhead. So, naturally, I asked the girl's sister and she told me to go see Rent. I acquiesced both to scout the movie for her and to satisfy my desire for a musical - a desire whose strength I just couldn't determine as greater or less than that to see Sam Mendes' treatment of War.
Thanks Ab: Hot damn, I liked it!
Chris Columbus is not my favorite director, by any stretch of the imagination. I feel he, unequivocally, "ruined" the first two Harry Potter movies. His direction here isn't sparkling, nor does he even come close to his desire to create "the greatest thing [he's] ever done." But, all that said, Columbus created a terse, tense, warm environment with some inspired shots which, while standing side by side the plethora of stock and standard camera angles, sparkled with a wee bit of life.
Rent started out gloriously with a stage rendition of "Seasons of Love." The melodies and the lyrics brought me right into the heart and purpose of the movie. I love voice and I love the stage, so I was hooked from the first chord.
I adored the love story between Angel and Collins. I was delighted by the creation of Angel -- not only her character but also her interaction with the others. ["Today 4 U" was one of those moments that was filled with tremendous amounts of giggles.] There was a simplicity and an understanding that was so poignant and loving that I just got caught up in it. Angel's song, dance, and rhythm were simply lovely standing beside Collins. "I'll Cover You" at the onset of their relationship was as beautiful as "I'll Cover You" after Angel's funeral. Such a beautiful, sad love story, I have not seen lately, if at all.
(Is there any way we can get the studios to understand that fake snow looks exactly that - fake!? During "I Should Tell You" I almost couldn't stop myself from trying to brush away the building towers of "snow" on top of Mimi and Roger's eyelashes. Is ice that expensive?)
There were disconnects throughout the movie, however, I felt the passion and I felt the...love, as horrifically cornwallish as that surely sounds. I will be forever jealous with those who've seen Rent on stage, especially those who saw the original cast and ESPECIALLY those who saw the first performance -- I read so many emotional interviews after the movie flashed. The emotion I saw in the theatre and onscreen were, to be as simple as possible, lovely. "La Vie Boheme" was scinitilating and for a Jewish woman Idina Menzel has a fantastic white ass. No, that's too harsh. For a woman with an extremely large nose, Idina Menzel has a fantastic white ass.
Not that an ass should lead to the message of the story, but, this is how the cookie crumbles.
AIDS. Our society and culture has, by and large, forgotten about it. And based on certain conceptions and words choices used in the script, I can understand how some felt the message of AIDS as a waking monster was dated. However, the message felt crisp if yellowed - pertinent if a bit aged. As Damion so gloriously put it, AIDS is now "livable" -- an unbelievable lie. It is this perception that AIDS "just a disease," I believe, that has aged the message of Rent and not the literal age of the message. Society does not see the danger of AIDS, either here or abroad, ,so why should any message of danger about the disease resonate when all other warnings are absorbed into the constant talk of today's life? Such a message must be presented in respect, passion, sobriety, humour and above all else reality. For me, Rent accomplished this, if not perfectly, convincingly. The performance of "Life Support" was purely stark with images of disappearing lives, most numbingly the loss of Angel. The song, subtle and soft married deftly with defiance impitomized the attempt to present a story of life, complete with the monster of our times.
Maybe we can get over that it felt a little too 1996.
The experience was entirely weird -- the experience of being on the outside of a movement, as it were, and looking it. For the past 5 years I have very much been on the inside of book to movie adaptations - deeply ensconced in the worlds so recently brought to cinema. From my obsessive love Lord of the Rings to my temporarily grudging understanding of Harry Potter, I was at the forefront of those who knew the pages that were translated to voice and movement. There was nothing, absolutely nothing in my head about Rent. I have only recently discovered musicals as a film genre and it was only when I was in London two summers ago that I finally saw onstage musicals (a fantastic production of Phantom and a so-so take on Les Mis). And, yeah, I so totally love musicals now.
To say the least, then, Rent was to be a new experience. I have thoroughly enjoyed the reawakening of the musical in movies -- although I maintain my unvouched for hatred of Moulin Rogue. The movie to be seen that afternoon was actually undecided -- quite the toss up between Rent and Jarhead. So, naturally, I asked the girl's sister and she told me to go see Rent. I acquiesced both to scout the movie for her and to satisfy my desire for a musical - a desire whose strength I just couldn't determine as greater or less than that to see Sam Mendes' treatment of War.
Thanks Ab: Hot damn, I liked it!
Chris Columbus is not my favorite director, by any stretch of the imagination. I feel he, unequivocally, "ruined" the first two Harry Potter movies. His direction here isn't sparkling, nor does he even come close to his desire to create "the greatest thing [he's] ever done." But, all that said, Columbus created a terse, tense, warm environment with some inspired shots which, while standing side by side the plethora of stock and standard camera angles, sparkled with a wee bit of life.
Rent started out gloriously with a stage rendition of "Seasons of Love." The melodies and the lyrics brought me right into the heart and purpose of the movie. I love voice and I love the stage, so I was hooked from the first chord.
I adored the love story between Angel and Collins. I was delighted by the creation of Angel -- not only her character but also her interaction with the others. ["Today 4 U" was one of those moments that was filled with tremendous amounts of giggles.] There was a simplicity and an understanding that was so poignant and loving that I just got caught up in it. Angel's song, dance, and rhythm were simply lovely standing beside Collins. "I'll Cover You" at the onset of their relationship was as beautiful as "I'll Cover You" after Angel's funeral. Such a beautiful, sad love story, I have not seen lately, if at all.
(Is there any way we can get the studios to understand that fake snow looks exactly that - fake!? During "I Should Tell You" I almost couldn't stop myself from trying to brush away the building towers of "snow" on top of Mimi and Roger's eyelashes. Is ice that expensive?)
There were disconnects throughout the movie, however, I felt the passion and I felt the...love, as horrifically cornwallish as that surely sounds. I will be forever jealous with those who've seen Rent on stage, especially those who saw the original cast and ESPECIALLY those who saw the first performance -- I read so many emotional interviews after the movie flashed. The emotion I saw in the theatre and onscreen were, to be as simple as possible, lovely. "La Vie Boheme" was scinitilating and for a Jewish woman Idina Menzel has a fantastic white ass. No, that's too harsh. For a woman with an extremely large nose, Idina Menzel has a fantastic white ass.
Not that an ass should lead to the message of the story, but, this is how the cookie crumbles.
AIDS. Our society and culture has, by and large, forgotten about it. And based on certain conceptions and words choices used in the script, I can understand how some felt the message of AIDS as a waking monster was dated. However, the message felt crisp if yellowed - pertinent if a bit aged. As Damion so gloriously put it, AIDS is now "livable" -- an unbelievable lie. It is this perception that AIDS "just a disease," I believe, that has aged the message of Rent and not the literal age of the message. Society does not see the danger of AIDS, either here or abroad, ,so why should any message of danger about the disease resonate when all other warnings are absorbed into the constant talk of today's life? Such a message must be presented in respect, passion, sobriety, humour and above all else reality. For me, Rent accomplished this, if not perfectly, convincingly. The performance of "Life Support" was purely stark with images of disappearing lives, most numbingly the loss of Angel. The song, subtle and soft married deftly with defiance impitomized the attempt to present a story of life, complete with the monster of our times.
Maybe we can get over that it felt a little too 1996.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Shame
I hear nothing but good things about myself. I really don't. I have friends and loved ones who encourage me in all that I do. This is certainly not to say that those same ones do not kick my ass every now and then. I definitely need it at times and they happily oblige my need. And yet, despite that reality, I hear positive, uplifiting comments about my accomplishments, my desires, and the things that run around in my head. This is lovely, I never want anything else from those that surround me. In fact, I never thank them enough for the power of persuasion and confidence they give to me.
However, such thoughts are often quite lost on me. I doubt myself, constantly. Often, it seems, I find rather creative ways to fail at the goals I set for myself or are set for me. Indeed, it often feels like I would much prefer taking second place instead of the first place it seems most think I could attain. These thoughts are a constancy in my life. In fact, ever since middle school and the age of 11 or 12 I became completely convinced that the only reason people expected so much of me was because I was just that adept at deceiving everyone around me. I used to walk to my middle school and I remember, quite plainly, thinking how expertly I have pulled the wool over everyone's eyes. I still think this and am utterly convinced that one day I will be found out to be the faux-intellectual and undeserved interloper that I am. Many times I wonder how others would react if they only knew how...stupid I perceive myself to be. And I don't mean stupid in that ridiculously and failingly self-reflective way. I mean stupid, as harsh as that surely sounds. All these papers that I write in 2 hours and receive A's or B's for them, I want to go to the professors and tell them how little time I spent on their paper and how little of myself I gave to them. Though I will joke about how "good" I am because I can churn out mediocre shite such as those papers in mere hours, it is nothing of the sort. It is an exercise in stupidity.
This is brought to the forefront of my mind as I think of yet another stupid thing accomplished. I had 36 hours to study for two tests, one a math probability and states and the other a microeconomic analysis. I studied about 3 hours, at most, for the probability and an hour, again at most, for the micro. I performed reasonably well on the math and sucked as hard as Chloë Sevigny. What boring things to comment on, no? Yet as I think of the horrors of my performance on the micro test, I am truly ashamed of what I gave -- I gave so little and will reap just that. That saddens me, as it always has.
Now, before the girl trumpets in here, I have a history of doing this. I think only once before have I really failed a test as badly in reality (Calculus III final -- which my professor blames on my not attending the X-Men II premier in Charlotte) as I had in my mind. In fact, more often than not, I get A's on tests I convince myself that I failed. So, this really might be just an obessively overwrought piece on how ridiculous I feel. I do feel ridiculous. I hate how this rakes over my heart and burns my mind, because I know I did poorly. Though I have not said it to her, I desperately want to apologize to the girl for not being good enough -- and it is not only her. Ach, that sounds pathetic and I want to make it not so. Yet, if it does sound pathetic, then so be it. (Good gracious white woman, be gone with thy beaded hair!) Surely I am pathetic in many moments, so I cannot hide that. No doubt I have an overwhelming desire to prove myself and please those around me. The interesting thing is that I really don't do much to the ends of either of those 'goals.'
Not helping the state of my mind is the very simple fact that the professor whose exam I miserably failed is the same who was so eager to fill out my first two recommendation forms (UNC and Maryland). And all I can think of is..."holy shit, Batman, holy shit."
I was reminded today, actually yesterday by myself, that no doubt I have the perfect excuse to explain away how atrociously I have performed not only in this semester but also throughout university. Yet, how is that good enough? It's not. I'm disappointed I lived up to unknown and unspoken expectations.
*waves his hands in the air* Forgive me for the fruitlessness of this. I have four journals to choose from and this was the quickest at hand. I don't know how to end this...so.
However, such thoughts are often quite lost on me. I doubt myself, constantly. Often, it seems, I find rather creative ways to fail at the goals I set for myself or are set for me. Indeed, it often feels like I would much prefer taking second place instead of the first place it seems most think I could attain. These thoughts are a constancy in my life. In fact, ever since middle school and the age of 11 or 12 I became completely convinced that the only reason people expected so much of me was because I was just that adept at deceiving everyone around me. I used to walk to my middle school and I remember, quite plainly, thinking how expertly I have pulled the wool over everyone's eyes. I still think this and am utterly convinced that one day I will be found out to be the faux-intellectual and undeserved interloper that I am. Many times I wonder how others would react if they only knew how...stupid I perceive myself to be. And I don't mean stupid in that ridiculously and failingly self-reflective way. I mean stupid, as harsh as that surely sounds. All these papers that I write in 2 hours and receive A's or B's for them, I want to go to the professors and tell them how little time I spent on their paper and how little of myself I gave to them. Though I will joke about how "good" I am because I can churn out mediocre shite such as those papers in mere hours, it is nothing of the sort. It is an exercise in stupidity.
This is brought to the forefront of my mind as I think of yet another stupid thing accomplished. I had 36 hours to study for two tests, one a math probability and states and the other a microeconomic analysis. I studied about 3 hours, at most, for the probability and an hour, again at most, for the micro. I performed reasonably well on the math and sucked as hard as Chloë Sevigny. What boring things to comment on, no? Yet as I think of the horrors of my performance on the micro test, I am truly ashamed of what I gave -- I gave so little and will reap just that. That saddens me, as it always has.
Now, before the girl trumpets in here, I have a history of doing this. I think only once before have I really failed a test as badly in reality (Calculus III final -- which my professor blames on my not attending the X-Men II premier in Charlotte) as I had in my mind. In fact, more often than not, I get A's on tests I convince myself that I failed. So, this really might be just an obessively overwrought piece on how ridiculous I feel. I do feel ridiculous. I hate how this rakes over my heart and burns my mind, because I know I did poorly. Though I have not said it to her, I desperately want to apologize to the girl for not being good enough -- and it is not only her. Ach, that sounds pathetic and I want to make it not so. Yet, if it does sound pathetic, then so be it. (Good gracious white woman, be gone with thy beaded hair!) Surely I am pathetic in many moments, so I cannot hide that. No doubt I have an overwhelming desire to prove myself and please those around me. The interesting thing is that I really don't do much to the ends of either of those 'goals.'
Not helping the state of my mind is the very simple fact that the professor whose exam I miserably failed is the same who was so eager to fill out my first two recommendation forms (UNC and Maryland). And all I can think of is..."holy shit, Batman, holy shit."
I was reminded today, actually yesterday by myself, that no doubt I have the perfect excuse to explain away how atrociously I have performed not only in this semester but also throughout university. Yet, how is that good enough? It's not. I'm disappointed I lived up to unknown and unspoken expectations.
*waves his hands in the air* Forgive me for the fruitlessness of this. I have four journals to choose from and this was the quickest at hand. I don't know how to end this...so.
Happy Welsh Trails, Erin!
I would give you some delightfully snarky welcome of good greeting in Welsh, but then you'd just correct my pronunciation. *sigh*
Just for you:
"There, there Mr. Tumnus, it's all right."
"But Lucy, I'm a horrible fawn!"
"What could you have done, Mr. Tumnus?"
"It's not what I have done or even will do. It's what I'm doing."
"What are you doing, Mr. Tumnus."
"I'm kidnapping you, Lucy. The White Witch commanded it."
"Like bloody hell you are! You goat flippin' bastard, touch me and I'll rip out those cute little horns of yours. All this airy fairy fawn shit. You're a goat, and a bastard at that. You...you....goat bastard!"
"But Lucy..."
"No! I'm fed up of everyone telling me what to do. Peter wants me to do this. Susan wants me to do that. And now this frigid bitch wants me for some perverted icicle fantasy."
"Lucy...Lucy, there's still time to get away."
"No, Mr. Tumnus, there's no time to get away."
"But...why? Why can't we leave right now?"
"Oh, my dear Mr. Tumnus. My dear friend. Because it's time now for me to EAT YOUR SOUL!"
*some 5 minutes later*
"Lord, all that fur."
Just for you:
"There, there Mr. Tumnus, it's all right."
"But Lucy, I'm a horrible fawn!"
"What could you have done, Mr. Tumnus?"
"It's not what I have done or even will do. It's what I'm doing."
"What are you doing, Mr. Tumnus."
"I'm kidnapping you, Lucy. The White Witch commanded it."
"Like bloody hell you are! You goat flippin' bastard, touch me and I'll rip out those cute little horns of yours. All this airy fairy fawn shit. You're a goat, and a bastard at that. You...you....goat bastard!"
"But Lucy..."
"No! I'm fed up of everyone telling me what to do. Peter wants me to do this. Susan wants me to do that. And now this frigid bitch wants me for some perverted icicle fantasy."
"Lucy...Lucy, there's still time to get away."
"No, Mr. Tumnus, there's no time to get away."
"But...why? Why can't we leave right now?"
"Oh, my dear Mr. Tumnus. My dear friend. Because it's time now for me to EAT YOUR SOUL!"
*some 5 minutes later*
"Lord, all that fur."
The Disappoint of Narnia
I am just home from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. And I simply must express how disappointed I am in the whole venture. This past summer I went back to reread the series - for partial want of prepping myself before the movie came and simple desire to immerse myself again in the story. I never got past The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. The book wasn't bad, it just bored me. I'm not sure if that's because I'm more mature now (haHA!) or if it is just that pedantic. Sadly enough, that question has been brought to the forefront of my mind tonight.
The movie adaptation begins wonderfully, my heart swelled and my eyes brimmed with tears as I watched a Briton family torn apart by the constant Blitzkrieg. I shan't bore the 2 people who read this with any kind of real review -- I once thought I'd do that in my life and realized I'd much rather write about parts of a movie instead of the whole thing. Anyway, Moriarty at AICN has a review here that puts any of my efforts to shame, perhaps including those which are to follow. He is an excellent writer and, I feel, a savy mind in the realm of film.
And yet despite the movie's delightful, heartfelt setup -- once Narnia is fully revealed, I became so freakin' bored. Liam Neeson is boring as Aslan, Aslan is boring, the constant close ups of Lucy are boring, the poor lad who plays Peter is boring as he struggles to act dramatically with a sword, and the ultimate pay off is just so gobsmackingly boring. I don't disconnect from movies often. In fact, it takes a lot to bring me out of the world I go into when I watch a film. The Chronicles made me disconnect so easily that was quite startling.
This isn't to say I didn't like the film. As I said, it started off wonderfully...full of magic and promise. And there are truly magnificent touches such as Lucy and Mr. Tumnus, the Secret Police, the White Witch, the centaurs, the Battle set up and beginning, and a few family dynamics. I think the film is entirely worth seeing if but for only one of those moments. However, for all of those moments, I walked out of the theatre not wanting to revisit Narnia. Aslan's sacrifice is the stuff of heartache and I couldn't have cared less. There is no unity is this movie. Dare I say, there is no magic.
I have yet to say this, despite my frivilous wants of becoming a director, but tonight, as I watched various scenes, I thought to myself that I wished I had the chance to play with the scene -- for editing, dynamics, movement and voice. I wanted the chance to see if I could fix whatever was wrong. I wanted to stand up and throttle whomever I could (preferably the assholes sitting behind me who kept up a relatively quite rundown of the film behind me) for the nothingness of Narnia.
The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe is no literary masterpiece. It's a quaint, awfully short tale which has some cool stuff in it. That's it. I came out of the theatre thinking the book and the movie are relatively the same in encouraging a reaction of apathy from me. Clearly both are children's stories. Yet does that allow them to be pedantic and solely for children? I agrue, that, no it does not. I bawled my eyes out during The Little Princess, I have no problem investing myself in a children's tale. The world of children and adulthood are not separate. They are different, but not separate. And I simply don't understand why there continues to be a separation of ideas, thoughts, hopes and wishes between those worlds. To be fair, I don't think neither Lewis nor Adamson (director) left out the intertwining of those worlds. There trills and touches of such promise in both creations. There are the briefest comments of loyalty, bravery, compassion, and even the much preached sacrifice and treachery. Yet neither men explore those touches of the soul. And that is the source of my disappointment! I wanted so much more from this film. How sad am I not to have it.
The movie adaptation begins wonderfully, my heart swelled and my eyes brimmed with tears as I watched a Briton family torn apart by the constant Blitzkrieg. I shan't bore the 2 people who read this with any kind of real review -- I once thought I'd do that in my life and realized I'd much rather write about parts of a movie instead of the whole thing. Anyway, Moriarty at AICN has a review here that puts any of my efforts to shame, perhaps including those which are to follow. He is an excellent writer and, I feel, a savy mind in the realm of film.
And yet despite the movie's delightful, heartfelt setup -- once Narnia is fully revealed, I became so freakin' bored. Liam Neeson is boring as Aslan, Aslan is boring, the constant close ups of Lucy are boring, the poor lad who plays Peter is boring as he struggles to act dramatically with a sword, and the ultimate pay off is just so gobsmackingly boring. I don't disconnect from movies often. In fact, it takes a lot to bring me out of the world I go into when I watch a film. The Chronicles made me disconnect so easily that was quite startling.
This isn't to say I didn't like the film. As I said, it started off wonderfully...full of magic and promise. And there are truly magnificent touches such as Lucy and Mr. Tumnus, the Secret Police, the White Witch, the centaurs, the Battle set up and beginning, and a few family dynamics. I think the film is entirely worth seeing if but for only one of those moments. However, for all of those moments, I walked out of the theatre not wanting to revisit Narnia. Aslan's sacrifice is the stuff of heartache and I couldn't have cared less. There is no unity is this movie. Dare I say, there is no magic.
I have yet to say this, despite my frivilous wants of becoming a director, but tonight, as I watched various scenes, I thought to myself that I wished I had the chance to play with the scene -- for editing, dynamics, movement and voice. I wanted the chance to see if I could fix whatever was wrong. I wanted to stand up and throttle whomever I could (preferably the assholes sitting behind me who kept up a relatively quite rundown of the film behind me) for the nothingness of Narnia.
The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe is no literary masterpiece. It's a quaint, awfully short tale which has some cool stuff in it. That's it. I came out of the theatre thinking the book and the movie are relatively the same in encouraging a reaction of apathy from me. Clearly both are children's stories. Yet does that allow them to be pedantic and solely for children? I agrue, that, no it does not. I bawled my eyes out during The Little Princess, I have no problem investing myself in a children's tale. The world of children and adulthood are not separate. They are different, but not separate. And I simply don't understand why there continues to be a separation of ideas, thoughts, hopes and wishes between those worlds. To be fair, I don't think neither Lewis nor Adamson (director) left out the intertwining of those worlds. There trills and touches of such promise in both creations. There are the briefest comments of loyalty, bravery, compassion, and even the much preached sacrifice and treachery. Yet neither men explore those touches of the soul. And that is the source of my disappointment! I wanted so much more from this film. How sad am I not to have it.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Christmas & Christians
'Tis the season, oh, 'tis the season.
I love Christmas. I love my family's 12 foot Christmas tree (recently scaled down due to moving), Handel's 'Messiah' and all other glorious music, and of course all the presents - those that I greedily accept and connivingly conspire to give.
I also love Christmas because it gives the community of Christians a self-accepted period of the year to remember Christ's birth - even though he was born during roughly the same time period in which he was crucified. Though since most Christians are self-delude snipes of a ridiculously transparent nature, not much of a shock there. Since I believe every day is a day to remember the death and resurrection, I've never really considered the day as "the day" to be all that important. But, rather cool that there is a conscious idea to focus attention on Christ's birth specifically. Anything that gets the community of the church to focus on Christ instead of itself is wonderful thing. However, there are two things that upset me about the season.
First, the non-Christian or secular or atheist response to "Christmas." I have no affinity or love for Christmas as a Christian 'holiday.' It's not. So I don't celebrate it as such. I'm not sure I would even consider Christmas to be a church holiday. It's largely and primarily, I would argue, a social holiday - a day in which communities/churches originally gathered to celebrate Christ's birth (and announce in the face of the pagan's Winter Solstice). As communities changed so, too, did the celebration change. Consider how society has changed, we now have numerous religious and non-religious marks for the season - logically introducing "Happy Holidays" instead of and beside "Merry Christmas." That said, it makes me sad that there seems to be a prohibition against the word and symbols associated with Christmas as a "Christian" holiday. I have forever been saddened by attempts to restrict free speech in order to preserve, or supposedly preserve,....not offending anyone. (Think of Dogbert: "You're insensitive to my insensitivity!") It's like people think Christmas has something to do with Christ. Sadly, too many do. While I understand attempts to remove "Christmas" and Christmas religious symbols from the public landscape, such still rankles me. I enjoy saying "Merry Christmas" because of it's social construction and social meaning. It's not the equivalent of saying "God bless." However, I get that most people, even in passing, equate Christmas with Christ's birth. So I suppose it's not the ACLU/atheists/ect. that piss me off, it's stupid Christians. Which brings me to my second point.
The second is like unto the first. As I dislike attempts to remove words from our lexicon, I dislike attempts by Christians to define Christmas by Christ - the demands to remove the world from Christmas. To put it bluntly, Christ is my Lord, my God and established one day and one day only to be set aside: Sunday. It was the church (little 'C') who constructed celebrations on December 25th (without Biblical precedence) and even Easter (with Biblical precedence), the church alone. By that, what loyalty and need possesses me to define a socially important day as a religiously important day? None, whatsoever. Of course, for me, social leads to religion; but such a bridge is not an IFF statement. (IFF being a mathematical logic statement which literally means "If and only if." ) Individually, I associate but do not define my social need with my religious desire. In the most extreme way of expressing this point, attending a Christmas party is as "socially important" as attending a special, non-Sabbath gathering of the church ('cause I would so totally only attend a party with people I considered worthy of my time and effort).
All that said, it was this article about churches closing on Christmas day that inspired these thoughts. Not so bad, eh? It's a little weirding, I must confess, because this year Christmas lands on a Sunday. Above I looked at two extremes regarding the Christmas season - both positions intrinsically associating Christmas with Christ. (Note: I'm not arguing that Christmas isn't by definition linked with Christ. It is. I'm just saying the link is...completely wrong.) Now there is another extreme that is, I don't know, frightening. These churches are closing on Sunday, the 25th, with most holding Christmas eve services. Can someone explain the logic of that to me? Ignore THE day of worship, substitute another, all for the sake of a socially important day of family and community. Now, if churches were simply a business, the logic of these actions would make imminent sense - the church and all those involved in running it deserve a break. And yet, churches are not businesses. They are (or should be, goodness knows they, by and large, are not!) the very definition of family and communion.
...I think I'm arguing something completely fruitless. Most churches, bar a few, probably all, are not communities and are not families. They exist to make a profit and evagelize (whatever that means in today's Christian-speak). And if they are not apart from the world, why should they not take part of it? Why not?
To take a line from Robert Ballard, the explorer who discovered the Titanic and said, "It hit an iceberg and it sank. Get over it".....
"There is no Christ in Christmas. Get over it."
I love Christmas. I love my family's 12 foot Christmas tree (recently scaled down due to moving), Handel's 'Messiah' and all other glorious music, and of course all the presents - those that I greedily accept and connivingly conspire to give.
I also love Christmas because it gives the community of Christians a self-accepted period of the year to remember Christ's birth - even though he was born during roughly the same time period in which he was crucified. Though since most Christians are self-delude snipes of a ridiculously transparent nature, not much of a shock there. Since I believe every day is a day to remember the death and resurrection, I've never really considered the day as "the day" to be all that important. But, rather cool that there is a conscious idea to focus attention on Christ's birth specifically. Anything that gets the community of the church to focus on Christ instead of itself is wonderful thing. However, there are two things that upset me about the season.
First, the non-Christian or secular or atheist response to "Christmas." I have no affinity or love for Christmas as a Christian 'holiday.' It's not. So I don't celebrate it as such. I'm not sure I would even consider Christmas to be a church holiday. It's largely and primarily, I would argue, a social holiday - a day in which communities/churches originally gathered to celebrate Christ's birth (and announce in the face of the pagan's Winter Solstice). As communities changed so, too, did the celebration change. Consider how society has changed, we now have numerous religious and non-religious marks for the season - logically introducing "Happy Holidays" instead of and beside "Merry Christmas." That said, it makes me sad that there seems to be a prohibition against the word and symbols associated with Christmas as a "Christian" holiday. I have forever been saddened by attempts to restrict free speech in order to preserve, or supposedly preserve,....not offending anyone. (Think of Dogbert: "You're insensitive to my insensitivity!") It's like people think Christmas has something to do with Christ. Sadly, too many do. While I understand attempts to remove "Christmas" and Christmas religious symbols from the public landscape, such still rankles me. I enjoy saying "Merry Christmas" because of it's social construction and social meaning. It's not the equivalent of saying "God bless." However, I get that most people, even in passing, equate Christmas with Christ's birth. So I suppose it's not the ACLU/atheists/ect. that piss me off, it's stupid Christians. Which brings me to my second point.
The second is like unto the first. As I dislike attempts to remove words from our lexicon, I dislike attempts by Christians to define Christmas by Christ - the demands to remove the world from Christmas. To put it bluntly, Christ is my Lord, my God and established one day and one day only to be set aside: Sunday. It was the church (little 'C') who constructed celebrations on December 25th (without Biblical precedence) and even Easter (with Biblical precedence), the church alone. By that, what loyalty and need possesses me to define a socially important day as a religiously important day? None, whatsoever. Of course, for me, social leads to religion; but such a bridge is not an IFF statement. (IFF being a mathematical logic statement which literally means "If and only if." ) Individually, I associate but do not define my social need with my religious desire. In the most extreme way of expressing this point, attending a Christmas party is as "socially important" as attending a special, non-Sabbath gathering of the church ('cause I would so totally only attend a party with people I considered worthy of my time and effort).
All that said, it was this article about churches closing on Christmas day that inspired these thoughts. Not so bad, eh? It's a little weirding, I must confess, because this year Christmas lands on a Sunday. Above I looked at two extremes regarding the Christmas season - both positions intrinsically associating Christmas with Christ. (Note: I'm not arguing that Christmas isn't by definition linked with Christ. It is. I'm just saying the link is...completely wrong.) Now there is another extreme that is, I don't know, frightening. These churches are closing on Sunday, the 25th, with most holding Christmas eve services. Can someone explain the logic of that to me? Ignore THE day of worship, substitute another, all for the sake of a socially important day of family and community. Now, if churches were simply a business, the logic of these actions would make imminent sense - the church and all those involved in running it deserve a break. And yet, churches are not businesses. They are (or should be, goodness knows they, by and large, are not!) the very definition of family and communion.
...I think I'm arguing something completely fruitless. Most churches, bar a few, probably all, are not communities and are not families. They exist to make a profit and evagelize (whatever that means in today's Christian-speak). And if they are not apart from the world, why should they not take part of it? Why not?
To take a line from Robert Ballard, the explorer who discovered the Titanic and said, "It hit an iceberg and it sank. Get over it".....
"There is no Christ in Christmas. Get over it."
Saturday, December 03, 2005
Can We Say Pushup Bra?
There's this chick in the lab today, just walked past me in fact. And as I look at her in her 2005 cuteness chic (surely everyone knows what that is), I am ruled by one overriding thought: "Those breasts have high ambitions."
I suppose within our culture the idea of what female breasts should look like has been overrun by the multitudes of women whose surgically enhanced bossoms look more like ballooning torpedoes than anything else. As lovely as they might be, I must admit to being completely nonplussed by this desire to "lift and separate." I just want to talk the girl who continues to bounce past me and plead with her to to stop putting her "lady lumps" (Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas: I hate you forever for that line) under such tremendous pressure.
Curves on a woman are wonderful and I wholeheartedly celebrate them. However, nothing can be more distracting than when a woman tries too much. When men try too much, in a lot of ways they just go about it by deluging themselves with cologne and trying to whore out to the newest fashion craze. Not to say that some women don't do that, but their trying more often than not engages in enhancements to body, whether those changes be temporary or permanent. (Again with the bouncing. I enjoy bouncing, I assure you, in fact I enjoy this bouncing. However, I do have a point....I think....) And I just don't get that desire. No, I take that back.
I fully understand not being happy with your body. I want to be as appealing as I can be. I'm sure everyone does. Yet it seems so many people define appeal by the world around them. Now that, I really don't get.
Let's take, for example, the faux-mohawk for women fad that started 1999/2000 and still has not died. Every time I see this on a woman, most recently Gwen Stefani and that big-mouthed chick from the Real World, I want to squash the moussed up hair. How and why do people find this in any way attractive?? I surmise that they don't. I would even go so far to posit that the attractiveness and desirability of the fad exists because a few foolish, high profile women became enraptured by some idiot's brainwave for hair...and are still enthralled. Our culture is celebrity-obsessed. So it should be of no surprise that individual sexual identity seems to no longer exist for most people. Fashion and sex is in the media, touted by celebrity. Therefore it seems like fashion and sex is defined for the masses with little or no desire to escape tenuous boundaries that seem to fetter like iron instead of the vapors they really are.
I pick on this woman, I realize. The way she wears her bra may simply be the way she wears her bra. I don't know. Bras are creatures of foreign origin to me, existing solely to puzzle me. However, I use her simply as a window into a more general comment about the world at large.
I am odd, I firmly profess. I profess that not because I enjoy it or feel justified or sanctified by saying it. No, I say it by virtue of the fact that I am. I walk through this life and know that I am odd. I like and love things that many people like and love. Yet, the way I combine certain facets of life, love, and spirit is really weird. I know I'm not the only person who does it (I am gloriously in love with a woman who finds the same desire to combine loves). But I know there aren't that many people who do.
Perhaps I am only justifying and kidding myself, but I like to think that trends appeal to me simply because, whatever the trend is, is attractive and those that are unattractive I toss over my shoulder. I just don't see most people objectively or, more importantly, subjectively examining the world that our culture creates and choosing what appeals, damning what does not. I see most people accepting that world without question and without hesitance. No wonder the RIAA and MPAA reign like tyrants, nomatter the shit put out, people buy buy buy buy buy.
I love the world around me. As much as I am apart from it, I am an intrinsic part of it. Yet instead of going through the world with glazed eyes, I hope I'm a bit more observant than most of the trolls out there.
I recently discovered an old lunch box I used to take to school when I was a wee tyke. It is a very cool and fun Care Bears lunch box. Considering the lunch thingie I have been using whilst trapsing about campus has committed suicide (helped considerably along the way by me), I have started to take this Care Bear box with me to school. I love it: it is a part of my childhood and deftly, for a little metal box, goes a long way to explain who I am - a 22 year old guy who can in a half hour go from talking about God and David, to a macabre discussion about grad school, to giggling like a schoolgirl with the girl. And I have gotten the oddest stares. And that pisses me off. At least, it kinda does. The people who know me laugh - I suppose enjoying another part of me is being manifested.
I guess the entire point of this is to say I see little joy in most people. Even through the worst trials of my life, I can honestly say I am full of joy. There is so much laughter, along with the worry and heartache. ...I have ten fingers. I can fill up those fingers with exactly the amount of people I know who live life with joy.
The lack of happiness surely manifests itself in life, just as the presence does.
I suppose within our culture the idea of what female breasts should look like has been overrun by the multitudes of women whose surgically enhanced bossoms look more like ballooning torpedoes than anything else. As lovely as they might be, I must admit to being completely nonplussed by this desire to "lift and separate." I just want to talk the girl who continues to bounce past me and plead with her to to stop putting her "lady lumps" (Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas: I hate you forever for that line) under such tremendous pressure.
Curves on a woman are wonderful and I wholeheartedly celebrate them. However, nothing can be more distracting than when a woman tries too much. When men try too much, in a lot of ways they just go about it by deluging themselves with cologne and trying to whore out to the newest fashion craze. Not to say that some women don't do that, but their trying more often than not engages in enhancements to body, whether those changes be temporary or permanent. (Again with the bouncing. I enjoy bouncing, I assure you, in fact I enjoy this bouncing. However, I do have a point....I think....) And I just don't get that desire. No, I take that back.
I fully understand not being happy with your body. I want to be as appealing as I can be. I'm sure everyone does. Yet it seems so many people define appeal by the world around them. Now that, I really don't get.
Let's take, for example, the faux-mohawk for women fad that started 1999/2000 and still has not died. Every time I see this on a woman, most recently Gwen Stefani and that big-mouthed chick from the Real World, I want to squash the moussed up hair. How and why do people find this in any way attractive?? I surmise that they don't. I would even go so far to posit that the attractiveness and desirability of the fad exists because a few foolish, high profile women became enraptured by some idiot's brainwave for hair...and are still enthralled. Our culture is celebrity-obsessed. So it should be of no surprise that individual sexual identity seems to no longer exist for most people. Fashion and sex is in the media, touted by celebrity. Therefore it seems like fashion and sex is defined for the masses with little or no desire to escape tenuous boundaries that seem to fetter like iron instead of the vapors they really are.
I pick on this woman, I realize. The way she wears her bra may simply be the way she wears her bra. I don't know. Bras are creatures of foreign origin to me, existing solely to puzzle me. However, I use her simply as a window into a more general comment about the world at large.
I am odd, I firmly profess. I profess that not because I enjoy it or feel justified or sanctified by saying it. No, I say it by virtue of the fact that I am. I walk through this life and know that I am odd. I like and love things that many people like and love. Yet, the way I combine certain facets of life, love, and spirit is really weird. I know I'm not the only person who does it (I am gloriously in love with a woman who finds the same desire to combine loves). But I know there aren't that many people who do.
Perhaps I am only justifying and kidding myself, but I like to think that trends appeal to me simply because, whatever the trend is, is attractive and those that are unattractive I toss over my shoulder. I just don't see most people objectively or, more importantly, subjectively examining the world that our culture creates and choosing what appeals, damning what does not. I see most people accepting that world without question and without hesitance. No wonder the RIAA and MPAA reign like tyrants, nomatter the shit put out, people buy buy buy buy buy.
I love the world around me. As much as I am apart from it, I am an intrinsic part of it. Yet instead of going through the world with glazed eyes, I hope I'm a bit more observant than most of the trolls out there.
I recently discovered an old lunch box I used to take to school when I was a wee tyke. It is a very cool and fun Care Bears lunch box. Considering the lunch thingie I have been using whilst trapsing about campus has committed suicide (helped considerably along the way by me), I have started to take this Care Bear box with me to school. I love it: it is a part of my childhood and deftly, for a little metal box, goes a long way to explain who I am - a 22 year old guy who can in a half hour go from talking about God and David, to a macabre discussion about grad school, to giggling like a schoolgirl with the girl. And I have gotten the oddest stares. And that pisses me off. At least, it kinda does. The people who know me laugh - I suppose enjoying another part of me is being manifested.
I guess the entire point of this is to say I see little joy in most people. Even through the worst trials of my life, I can honestly say I am full of joy. There is so much laughter, along with the worry and heartache. ...I have ten fingers. I can fill up those fingers with exactly the amount of people I know who live life with joy.
The lack of happiness surely manifests itself in life, just as the presence does.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
In My Absence
Though this would have certainly been much more timely about 5 days ago considering I still haven't written anything....eh, such it is as it comes to me.
A friend of my from Ancient English (I call it Ancient because it seems to me to be the best descriptive for a course that studies Homer, the Koran, the Bible, and...ancient Islamic poetry. I mean, hello.) recently posted his final project from the class. Our project was to mimic the journey of Dante, specifically purporting to be a microcosm of the Inferno. Jared posted his here and while I haven't read it yet (I will, I promise), he's a snazzy bloke so I expect good things from him. So here is mine, with weird, manipulated footnotes.
(OH!!!! I love the Darkness. I truly do. Erin, Damion, Marhsall, Andrew: I would have their rock-lovin' babies.)
A note: The stars were the only way I could think of how to include footnotes.
-----------------------------------------------------
Philip S. Gear
Dr. Naufftus
ENGL 205-H
December 6th, 2004
I Attest that Neither Drugs Nor Medication were Taken in the Creation of:
Mr. Gear’s Inferno or 1/3rd of a Comedy
Lost in mind, my ink-stained hands guided my Pathfinder. The bleak, overcast evening fit all too well with the end of my semester. It had to be a Monday, this thirteenth day of December. I know not how I stayed on the road, as my mind reeled from my comparison of Cervantes’ wicked down-spiral of madness, Don Quixote with Homer's Iliad*. I sent weak prayers that Doctor Naufftus would be kind to me.
I suddenly found myself in the parking lot of the Regal Cinema at Stonecrest. The shock was immense and I slammed my foot on the brake. I looked and there was nary a soul in the popular theatre. Slipping on my leather jacket, I got out of my car and gazed at the surrounding mall. It too was empty, startling my frail senses. I left the Pathfinder, walking toward the cinema, the one of comfort in this freakishly surreal experience.
I had too many dreams inspired by zombie movies, in which I was chased by hordes of the living undead in a lonely world, to believe this was happenstance. I walked toward the light pole nearest the theatre doors and leaned against it. A caw shattered the eerie peace around me. Looking up I spotted a crow perched on top of the light post. This crow was odd. It was drunk. I swear. By Thor god of Thunder, the crow above me barely stayed upright. I laughed as I backed away from the post, amazed at the sight.
And then I stumbled over a pigeon. I barely kept my balance, arms and legs shooting out in all directions. Finally purchase held and I spied the pigeon who usurped me. The pigeon had one eye. Not so atypical, however, this particular pigeon was not simply bereft of his other eye, he had a glass eye. It was red with a black, reptilian pupil, nearly three times larger than his other eye. The bird growled at me, grimaced even! My own eyes were wide in shock, even more so when a canary flew up to the pigeon. First the canary smoothed the ruffled feathers caused by our incongruous meeting. Yet then the yellow thing went ballistic, attacking the one-eyed rat-bird. Grey and yellow feathers flew from the mêlée.
This was all just too odd. I turned from the uproar and was about to walk towards my car when a voice called to me from the theatre.
“You poor child, lost are you?
Come to Miss Piggy**
find the assurance you seek.”
Miss Piggy? I had heard that name before. I turned from my car and approached the small figure propping open the lone door to the Regal Cinema.
“The ink now covering my hands
erases the otherwise clear memory
that would surely spring quick
and give me no cause to distrust.
So forgive, for this ink demands much of me
and I yield so much of myself.”
She stepped into the light laughing. And by gracious King George, the woman was a three foot pig!
“Have no fear of trust sweet child
I have been sent by the one trusted one,
Jim Henson***, seeing that you were lost,
unsure and weak in your words.
(Cervantes and Homer? Really, child, really.)
You have a chance to see others like you
who were too weak and fell, lost forever,
forsaking Art for simple pleasures
and now, never relenting of arduous measures.”
“Sweet pig, you are from my innocent childhood!
I shall follow you, trusting you as I would the great Henson,
but please, I have just been raked through the coals of a horrific final.”
“Tut, tut. Have no fear of temptation,
the weakness from exertion is the very reason
you and I are here.”
I trembled with excitement. All my life had I dreamed of the surreal and here it had found me! She smirked up at me in that way of hers.
“Would you like a pork rind?
Ach, don't look so shocked kid.
Where I come from, you need a sense of humor.
I took the lady's hand, stooping of course, following her into the darkened theatre. She led me to cinema number one, snorting occasionally. I gasped; however, as a rather stern, pimply cinema attendant bared our way with a waggling flashlight. He demanded with a squeak a ticket from me.
“What is this Miss Piggy?
I have no ticket for this runt
nor for the thousand shades surrounding us!”
“As I said young one, fear not and trust Miss Piggy!
Charles here will not bar our way, though he shall many others.
Get you gone and let us pass, pimple boy!”
I know it was wrong, but I giggled again, watching the poor fellow’s face crumble as he let us pass. We walked into the theatre and Miss Piggy led me to the forty foot screen. I happened to look over my right shoulder and saw a bright shining light from the projectionist's booth. I smiled and waved at the ghostly old hand that passed before the light.
“Soon that will come, listen to Miss Piggy now!
Beyond the screen lies the depths of popular culture,
You must gird yourself well, by the grace of Spielberg.
Rest upon the power of Cameron and Scorsese**** to give strength
you must be strong to resist its temptation.
To keep you swift of feet, we have these!”
With a flick of a hoof, Miss Piggy revealed two hover skateboards! I had not seen such great technology since Back to the Future*****. I was so excited that darkness began to swirl through my mind. Yet before I blacked out completely, I saw a vision of the Great Gonzo wrapping his nose around his body to damn a confessing sinner (quite possibly Madonna who was thrown to the third circle). The blue fellow's nose was so long, I could not have suffered that surreal image if I had been fully within my mind.
I woke with a start, a sensation of weightlessness surrounding me. I was hovering in midair with Miss Piggy beside me in a large forest. Beckoning me to follow her, Miss Piggy took off and flew through the trees. I smiled as the leaves gently brushed my face. The hum of the hover skateboard mingled with the sweet hum that I heard through the trees.
“Miss Piggy, what is that, music?
Surely it must be, and it’s so beautiful!
I hear, I hear, Queen!”
“So you do child, so easy to please.
Beyond these trees lies a campfire,
I shall wait on the other side - not exactly my cup of tea, you know.”
I flew off without even a second thought. Suddenly through a wall of green leaves a roaring fire appeared, around which lounged many musicians either plucking at instruments or singing into makeshift microphones made of pinecones. I spied my Queen, seeing him helping Janis Joplin to hit a high note. I jumped off the hoverboard and raced towards Freddie Mercury******. He stopped me with a big toothed grin before I could even speak.
“Yes, even me in Hell, yet worry not faithful fan.
I am not punished here in this first circle
It is beyond this campfire sing-a-long where that begins.
No, we are here because our lives lived beyond what we were given
Voices and swift fingers but never swift enough feet
to outrun the devil in the blues.
But the kindly old fellow above, along with puppets,
seems to enjoy our music when we lived
so we sing and play for him now, as we were meant.”
I was snapped out of my reverie by a sharp hog whistle from above me. I hopped above my skateboard, waving to Freddie as he and Janis sang me away. I found Miss Piggy and we descended a sharp slope which abruptly turned into a blackened plain. Littering the plain were hundreds of instruments. A man was racing around every instrument, shouting at each. With a look from Miss Piggy, I went off to find out the man's name. It was becoming clear to me that the wee pig was here to act as an enticing ham for all those that might hinder me.
I hopped down in front of the crazed man. He looked at me in a stunned manner, thumped my head, shouted and ran off. I ran and grabbed him, demanding his name. I shook him until he looked at me and sighed loudly.
“I suppose you need my name or something, yes?
Its no good speaking to me, the old man struck down my sugar-inclined ears.
Mozart*******, if you didn’t know.”
As I stood he put his hand to a nearby harpsichord and played a delicate chord.
"You like what you hear?
I can't hear a thing, deaf as a post I've gone.
You'd think the man would understand the people want sweet music."
Surely the wire-haired man said more, yet he kept playing that chord over and over again. I winced, its saccharine nature too much for me. The last I saw as I fell was his tongue sticking out.
I woke up in a slightly more wooded plain, though equally dark. Above me I heard a whistle and saw Miss Piggy who motioned me forward. I believe she might have been munching on the previously mentioned pork rinds. Before me was a rather portly man attempting to sort through about two million pens (the figure came to me later) with a single piece of paper before him.
"Hallo old chap, haven't got a pen on you by chance?
No, didn't think so, ‘tis just my fortune.
Dickens by the way, forgive me if I don't shake your hand,
my hands are rather cursed to forever search for a pen are dry.
I understand the old man appreciated my fiction, even Bleak House********,
yet he took umbrage at my periodicals, forsaking my words."
I backed away, suddenly remembering how his periodicals were so beloved by the public. I struggled to keep my senses as jumped onto the hoverboard and sped away to where Miss Piggy was waiting.
"Indulgence have you passed through,
and now come to violence, but we must stay far back.
You shall know all you need to know by watching."
We passed from the last remnants of the black plain, reaching a sharp cliff. The pink one bade me wait. I immediately spied Willie E. Coyote shackled to a safe just before the cliff’s edge. He whined as Cher drug an Acme safe to the edge of the cliff. She readied it and suddenly dropped it on the dashing Roadrunner. Unlike past performances, the safe squashed the self-righteous bird. However, Cher's failing eyes could not see what happened so she bent over the edge. Unexpectedly the edge cracked and she went tumbling down the cliff to join equal demise with the Roadrunner. I must have looked dumbfounded.
"Coyote can harm himself no longer,
Roadrunner dies in penance for the Coyote's wounds.
Cher finally dies a natural death,
unable to escape the final Grim Reaper.
Really, it is quite simple boy*********.
Naufftus did quite the number on you didn't he?"
Miss Piggy patted my head and we carried on. We flew down past the cliff, winding our way past dead trees and random poor (and only slightly famous) souls pottering about. Suddenly a beach presented itself, upon which was situated a rather sophisticated gym system complete with dumbbells. I went on by myself with my hoverboard under my arm. I found a lone black man attempting to lift a five pound weight. He could not though, as his arms were too skinny to even lift it a fraction above his shoulder. His voice was so squeaky as he strained to lift the wait that I laughed
loudly.
"A little trouble with the weight there Barry?
I wish I could help,
but I'm afraid the burden of proof is on you to lift it yourself."
"That’s Mr. Bonds*********** to you, punk.
I get no respect, I don't get no respect.
I had to be a bigger hypocrite than the Babe was, don't you see?"
My laughter turned to disgust and I pushed the frail fool over before hopping back on to my speeding skateboard. Miss Piggy smiled wanly and led me to the surf where a crowd of scantily clad models gathered. In the midst of them was a rather odd-nosed man in a suit. I got off my board and joined the crowd. The fellow was running around chasing the women, shouting all the while.
"Why won't these damn pants come off?
I can get them off for Monica and not these beauties?
Oh cruel world, please, please come off!"
"I'm sure the water is rather cold, Slick Willy************,
might help you cool off
even if the suit becomes a little uncomfortable."
Bill gave me a glowering look,
"I tried good man, I keep trying, but I can't get in
The water repels me and the pants stay on!
I say, you wouldn’t want to..."
The livid man left me, mid-rant and knowing my answer, to at his tightly fastened
pants. I felt somewhat sorry for the intrepid liar and was startled to find Miss Piggy waiting for me on the beach. Leaving our boards behind she led me onto the solid water as Bill began to shout jealous words after us. We approached a large group of people surrounding a great big glass elevator in the middle of the solid ocean. Inside the elevator was a rather portly man covered in plaid and a most unfortunate hair-do. Those surrounding the glass structure were pounding on it, shouting out:
"You betrayed our trust,
You raped our childhood,
Greedo didn't shoot first!"
The pig and I pushed through the crowd and entered the elevator with the horrified, crying George Lucas*************. Miss Piggy pushed the down-to-go-up button and Lucas looked at her with hope in his eyes.
"You mean, wondrous pig, you're freeing me?
After all these years surrounding by the freaks who made me
and who hate me for the prequels and changing the originals?"
Miss Piggy smiled grimly, shook her head and pushed the screaming Lucas into the hordes of fan boys. She assured me that he would make it back into the elevator once it returned. I listened to the quaint elevator music, reveling in my experience. Suddenly the elevator stopped and out we popped into the ground level of cinema room number one. Yet Miss Piggy had vanished. I looked tentatively outside the elevator and saw a ghostly image of Kermit the Frog beckoning me forward with a smile. He took my hand as the elevator disappeared.
"Before we make our way up the stairs,
I had a question.
Why Cervantes and Homer?"
* December 13th, 2004 – A date largely believed to be the date of an ancient literature final of which the focus was Cervantes’ Don Quixote. The continual comparison between it and Homer’s Iliad is believed to be humorous.
** Miss Piggy is often viewed as a window to an innocent childhood long lost and never to be recaptured but for the most surreal of times.
*** Jim Henson was the creator of the muppets, many of which are seen in this text including Miss Piggy, Kermit the Frog, and Gonzo. His presence as lord and creator is not widely understood.
**** Steven Spielberg, James Cameron and Martin Scorsese were three celebrated filmmakers of their time clearly called upon here for clarity and protection from the mediocre.
***** Back to the Future - a movie that starred the glorious Michael J. Fox and featured in two scenes a skateboard that hovered above the ground.
****** Freddie Mercury the lead singer of the supergroup Queen. Clearly Mercury is given a vaulted position here.
******** Although Mozart was a widely celebrated composer, he was often viewed as producing very sweet, popular and flighty music.
******** Much like Mozart before him, Dickens is both appreciated and scorned. Not only for the overproduced serials of his time but for Bleak House.
********* This entire sequence has been much debated and the meaning is still largely undecided. Often though, it is taken that the simplest explanation is the most appropriate. The author felt the need to readdress the Coyote, Roadrunner conflict all the while unleashing his fury at the forever undying singer, Cher.
********** Barry Bonds, a cruel hypocrite of the age when baseball was stained irreparably.
*********** Bill Clinton, a lauded president who was ultimately tainted by allegations of sexual misconduct. A wonderful target in subsequent ages of sharp wit.
************ George Lucas, the celebrated creator of A New Hope, Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi yet whose piddlings in his creations unleashed a blacklash that still has not calmed.
A friend of my from Ancient English (I call it Ancient because it seems to me to be the best descriptive for a course that studies Homer, the Koran, the Bible, and...ancient Islamic poetry. I mean, hello.) recently posted his final project from the class. Our project was to mimic the journey of Dante, specifically purporting to be a microcosm of the Inferno. Jared posted his here and while I haven't read it yet (I will, I promise), he's a snazzy bloke so I expect good things from him. So here is mine, with weird, manipulated footnotes.
(OH!!!! I love the Darkness. I truly do. Erin, Damion, Marhsall, Andrew: I would have their rock-lovin' babies.)
A note: The stars were the only way I could think of how to include footnotes.
-----------------------------------------------------
Philip S. Gear
Dr. Naufftus
ENGL 205-H
December 6th, 2004
I Attest that Neither Drugs Nor Medication were Taken in the Creation of:
Mr. Gear’s Inferno or 1/3rd of a Comedy
Lost in mind, my ink-stained hands guided my Pathfinder. The bleak, overcast evening fit all too well with the end of my semester. It had to be a Monday, this thirteenth day of December. I know not how I stayed on the road, as my mind reeled from my comparison of Cervantes’ wicked down-spiral of madness, Don Quixote with Homer's Iliad*. I sent weak prayers that Doctor Naufftus would be kind to me.
I suddenly found myself in the parking lot of the Regal Cinema at Stonecrest. The shock was immense and I slammed my foot on the brake. I looked and there was nary a soul in the popular theatre. Slipping on my leather jacket, I got out of my car and gazed at the surrounding mall. It too was empty, startling my frail senses. I left the Pathfinder, walking toward the cinema, the one of comfort in this freakishly surreal experience.
I had too many dreams inspired by zombie movies, in which I was chased by hordes of the living undead in a lonely world, to believe this was happenstance. I walked toward the light pole nearest the theatre doors and leaned against it. A caw shattered the eerie peace around me. Looking up I spotted a crow perched on top of the light post. This crow was odd. It was drunk. I swear. By Thor god of Thunder, the crow above me barely stayed upright. I laughed as I backed away from the post, amazed at the sight.
And then I stumbled over a pigeon. I barely kept my balance, arms and legs shooting out in all directions. Finally purchase held and I spied the pigeon who usurped me. The pigeon had one eye. Not so atypical, however, this particular pigeon was not simply bereft of his other eye, he had a glass eye. It was red with a black, reptilian pupil, nearly three times larger than his other eye. The bird growled at me, grimaced even! My own eyes were wide in shock, even more so when a canary flew up to the pigeon. First the canary smoothed the ruffled feathers caused by our incongruous meeting. Yet then the yellow thing went ballistic, attacking the one-eyed rat-bird. Grey and yellow feathers flew from the mêlée.
This was all just too odd. I turned from the uproar and was about to walk towards my car when a voice called to me from the theatre.
“You poor child, lost are you?
Come to Miss Piggy**
find the assurance you seek.”
Miss Piggy? I had heard that name before. I turned from my car and approached the small figure propping open the lone door to the Regal Cinema.
“The ink now covering my hands
erases the otherwise clear memory
that would surely spring quick
and give me no cause to distrust.
So forgive, for this ink demands much of me
and I yield so much of myself.”
She stepped into the light laughing. And by gracious King George, the woman was a three foot pig!
“Have no fear of trust sweet child
I have been sent by the one trusted one,
Jim Henson***, seeing that you were lost,
unsure and weak in your words.
(Cervantes and Homer? Really, child, really.)
You have a chance to see others like you
who were too weak and fell, lost forever,
forsaking Art for simple pleasures
and now, never relenting of arduous measures.”
“Sweet pig, you are from my innocent childhood!
I shall follow you, trusting you as I would the great Henson,
but please, I have just been raked through the coals of a horrific final.”
“Tut, tut. Have no fear of temptation,
the weakness from exertion is the very reason
you and I are here.”
I trembled with excitement. All my life had I dreamed of the surreal and here it had found me! She smirked up at me in that way of hers.
“Would you like a pork rind?
Ach, don't look so shocked kid.
Where I come from, you need a sense of humor.
I took the lady's hand, stooping of course, following her into the darkened theatre. She led me to cinema number one, snorting occasionally. I gasped; however, as a rather stern, pimply cinema attendant bared our way with a waggling flashlight. He demanded with a squeak a ticket from me.
“What is this Miss Piggy?
I have no ticket for this runt
nor for the thousand shades surrounding us!”
“As I said young one, fear not and trust Miss Piggy!
Charles here will not bar our way, though he shall many others.
Get you gone and let us pass, pimple boy!”
I know it was wrong, but I giggled again, watching the poor fellow’s face crumble as he let us pass. We walked into the theatre and Miss Piggy led me to the forty foot screen. I happened to look over my right shoulder and saw a bright shining light from the projectionist's booth. I smiled and waved at the ghostly old hand that passed before the light.
“Soon that will come, listen to Miss Piggy now!
Beyond the screen lies the depths of popular culture,
You must gird yourself well, by the grace of Spielberg.
Rest upon the power of Cameron and Scorsese**** to give strength
you must be strong to resist its temptation.
To keep you swift of feet, we have these!”
With a flick of a hoof, Miss Piggy revealed two hover skateboards! I had not seen such great technology since Back to the Future*****. I was so excited that darkness began to swirl through my mind. Yet before I blacked out completely, I saw a vision of the Great Gonzo wrapping his nose around his body to damn a confessing sinner (quite possibly Madonna who was thrown to the third circle). The blue fellow's nose was so long, I could not have suffered that surreal image if I had been fully within my mind.
I woke with a start, a sensation of weightlessness surrounding me. I was hovering in midair with Miss Piggy beside me in a large forest. Beckoning me to follow her, Miss Piggy took off and flew through the trees. I smiled as the leaves gently brushed my face. The hum of the hover skateboard mingled with the sweet hum that I heard through the trees.
“Miss Piggy, what is that, music?
Surely it must be, and it’s so beautiful!
I hear, I hear, Queen!”
“So you do child, so easy to please.
Beyond these trees lies a campfire,
I shall wait on the other side - not exactly my cup of tea, you know.”
I flew off without even a second thought. Suddenly through a wall of green leaves a roaring fire appeared, around which lounged many musicians either plucking at instruments or singing into makeshift microphones made of pinecones. I spied my Queen, seeing him helping Janis Joplin to hit a high note. I jumped off the hoverboard and raced towards Freddie Mercury******. He stopped me with a big toothed grin before I could even speak.
“Yes, even me in Hell, yet worry not faithful fan.
I am not punished here in this first circle
It is beyond this campfire sing-a-long where that begins.
No, we are here because our lives lived beyond what we were given
Voices and swift fingers but never swift enough feet
to outrun the devil in the blues.
But the kindly old fellow above, along with puppets,
seems to enjoy our music when we lived
so we sing and play for him now, as we were meant.”
I was snapped out of my reverie by a sharp hog whistle from above me. I hopped above my skateboard, waving to Freddie as he and Janis sang me away. I found Miss Piggy and we descended a sharp slope which abruptly turned into a blackened plain. Littering the plain were hundreds of instruments. A man was racing around every instrument, shouting at each. With a look from Miss Piggy, I went off to find out the man's name. It was becoming clear to me that the wee pig was here to act as an enticing ham for all those that might hinder me.
I hopped down in front of the crazed man. He looked at me in a stunned manner, thumped my head, shouted and ran off. I ran and grabbed him, demanding his name. I shook him until he looked at me and sighed loudly.
“I suppose you need my name or something, yes?
Its no good speaking to me, the old man struck down my sugar-inclined ears.
Mozart*******, if you didn’t know.”
As I stood he put his hand to a nearby harpsichord and played a delicate chord.
"You like what you hear?
I can't hear a thing, deaf as a post I've gone.
You'd think the man would understand the people want sweet music."
Surely the wire-haired man said more, yet he kept playing that chord over and over again. I winced, its saccharine nature too much for me. The last I saw as I fell was his tongue sticking out.
I woke up in a slightly more wooded plain, though equally dark. Above me I heard a whistle and saw Miss Piggy who motioned me forward. I believe she might have been munching on the previously mentioned pork rinds. Before me was a rather portly man attempting to sort through about two million pens (the figure came to me later) with a single piece of paper before him.
"Hallo old chap, haven't got a pen on you by chance?
No, didn't think so, ‘tis just my fortune.
Dickens by the way, forgive me if I don't shake your hand,
my hands are rather cursed to forever search for a pen are dry.
I understand the old man appreciated my fiction, even Bleak House********,
yet he took umbrage at my periodicals, forsaking my words."
I backed away, suddenly remembering how his periodicals were so beloved by the public. I struggled to keep my senses as jumped onto the hoverboard and sped away to where Miss Piggy was waiting.
"Indulgence have you passed through,
and now come to violence, but we must stay far back.
You shall know all you need to know by watching."
We passed from the last remnants of the black plain, reaching a sharp cliff. The pink one bade me wait. I immediately spied Willie E. Coyote shackled to a safe just before the cliff’s edge. He whined as Cher drug an Acme safe to the edge of the cliff. She readied it and suddenly dropped it on the dashing Roadrunner. Unlike past performances, the safe squashed the self-righteous bird. However, Cher's failing eyes could not see what happened so she bent over the edge. Unexpectedly the edge cracked and she went tumbling down the cliff to join equal demise with the Roadrunner. I must have looked dumbfounded.
"Coyote can harm himself no longer,
Roadrunner dies in penance for the Coyote's wounds.
Cher finally dies a natural death,
unable to escape the final Grim Reaper.
Really, it is quite simple boy*********.
Naufftus did quite the number on you didn't he?"
Miss Piggy patted my head and we carried on. We flew down past the cliff, winding our way past dead trees and random poor (and only slightly famous) souls pottering about. Suddenly a beach presented itself, upon which was situated a rather sophisticated gym system complete with dumbbells. I went on by myself with my hoverboard under my arm. I found a lone black man attempting to lift a five pound weight. He could not though, as his arms were too skinny to even lift it a fraction above his shoulder. His voice was so squeaky as he strained to lift the wait that I laughed
loudly.
"A little trouble with the weight there Barry?
I wish I could help,
but I'm afraid the burden of proof is on you to lift it yourself."
"That’s Mr. Bonds*********** to you, punk.
I get no respect, I don't get no respect.
I had to be a bigger hypocrite than the Babe was, don't you see?"
My laughter turned to disgust and I pushed the frail fool over before hopping back on to my speeding skateboard. Miss Piggy smiled wanly and led me to the surf where a crowd of scantily clad models gathered. In the midst of them was a rather odd-nosed man in a suit. I got off my board and joined the crowd. The fellow was running around chasing the women, shouting all the while.
"Why won't these damn pants come off?
I can get them off for Monica and not these beauties?
Oh cruel world, please, please come off!"
"I'm sure the water is rather cold, Slick Willy************,
might help you cool off
even if the suit becomes a little uncomfortable."
Bill gave me a glowering look,
"I tried good man, I keep trying, but I can't get in
The water repels me and the pants stay on!
I say, you wouldn’t want to..."
The livid man left me, mid-rant and knowing my answer, to at his tightly fastened
pants. I felt somewhat sorry for the intrepid liar and was startled to find Miss Piggy waiting for me on the beach. Leaving our boards behind she led me onto the solid water as Bill began to shout jealous words after us. We approached a large group of people surrounding a great big glass elevator in the middle of the solid ocean. Inside the elevator was a rather portly man covered in plaid and a most unfortunate hair-do. Those surrounding the glass structure were pounding on it, shouting out:
"You betrayed our trust,
You raped our childhood,
Greedo didn't shoot first!"
The pig and I pushed through the crowd and entered the elevator with the horrified, crying George Lucas*************. Miss Piggy pushed the down-to-go-up button and Lucas looked at her with hope in his eyes.
"You mean, wondrous pig, you're freeing me?
After all these years surrounding by the freaks who made me
and who hate me for the prequels and changing the originals?"
Miss Piggy smiled grimly, shook her head and pushed the screaming Lucas into the hordes of fan boys. She assured me that he would make it back into the elevator once it returned. I listened to the quaint elevator music, reveling in my experience. Suddenly the elevator stopped and out we popped into the ground level of cinema room number one. Yet Miss Piggy had vanished. I looked tentatively outside the elevator and saw a ghostly image of Kermit the Frog beckoning me forward with a smile. He took my hand as the elevator disappeared.
"Before we make our way up the stairs,
I had a question.
Why Cervantes and Homer?"
* December 13th, 2004 – A date largely believed to be the date of an ancient literature final of which the focus was Cervantes’ Don Quixote. The continual comparison between it and Homer’s Iliad is believed to be humorous.
** Miss Piggy is often viewed as a window to an innocent childhood long lost and never to be recaptured but for the most surreal of times.
*** Jim Henson was the creator of the muppets, many of which are seen in this text including Miss Piggy, Kermit the Frog, and Gonzo. His presence as lord and creator is not widely understood.
**** Steven Spielberg, James Cameron and Martin Scorsese were three celebrated filmmakers of their time clearly called upon here for clarity and protection from the mediocre.
***** Back to the Future - a movie that starred the glorious Michael J. Fox and featured in two scenes a skateboard that hovered above the ground.
****** Freddie Mercury the lead singer of the supergroup Queen. Clearly Mercury is given a vaulted position here.
******** Although Mozart was a widely celebrated composer, he was often viewed as producing very sweet, popular and flighty music.
******** Much like Mozart before him, Dickens is both appreciated and scorned. Not only for the overproduced serials of his time but for Bleak House.
********* This entire sequence has been much debated and the meaning is still largely undecided. Often though, it is taken that the simplest explanation is the most appropriate. The author felt the need to readdress the Coyote, Roadrunner conflict all the while unleashing his fury at the forever undying singer, Cher.
********** Barry Bonds, a cruel hypocrite of the age when baseball was stained irreparably.
*********** Bill Clinton, a lauded president who was ultimately tainted by allegations of sexual misconduct. A wonderful target in subsequent ages of sharp wit.
************ George Lucas, the celebrated creator of A New Hope, Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi yet whose piddlings in his creations unleashed a blacklash that still has not calmed.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
To Smile About
This past week in my life has been rather, for lack of a better word, depressed. It seems like everything is frustrating - from school, to love, to family, and finally to self. School continues to defy me. Love is my constant yet often superficially so transparent by the many thousands of miles. My family seeks the solid ground so long departed. And I seek myself and God, with very only a few assurances to give me rest until the next derision of panic hits. Silly things, though they all seem to define me.
All that said, in the past few days I have fundamentally smiled and found contentment through various experiences. I would like to share them.
Yesterday evening as I finished a read through with Meredith (my partner on the final project for Acting), I saw Rique. Rique is a truly lovely person I met at Campus Crusade for Christ last year. Though I never went back to the KKK (a nickname of affection) except for a few times, Rique and I seemed to form a quick, shallow but deep friendship - shallow meaning I think I've only seen and talked with the guy five times, never for more than 2 minutes. I think he might be the kind of guy who does that with everyone he meets, but I'll entertain thoughts otherwise. Seeing him was a great end to the night. We hugged and chatted for the tiniest bit of a moment. Jessica, a friend from highschool and the KKK, once told me that a true friend is one who enligtens your day. Last night I experienced that. Though I believe I experience that whenever I speak with my true friends, seeing Rique seemed to encapsulate that thought.
Earlier that day, in between my talking to the girl, I called Damion. I was returning a wonderful message he left me....on some day of this week...whichever it might have been.........yeah. Damion, I told you yesterday, but I gladly say again - it was so fantastic hearing from you. I was delighted we could talk and catch up the littlest bit. I would like to say you're the queerest bit of fresh air in my life. But no, I think I am probably the screwiest facet in my own life. So you must take second cake, my dear man.
Today I learned that Chris, a friendly acquiantance from two of my Economics classes, landed one of the internships I applied for earlier in the semester. It was sad to have hammered home again my inability to be desirable enough, and I admit some jealousy. However, I am happy for him. He's an awesome guy and I know he'll do fantastically in such a job (guaranteed after graduation). And he's so freakin' tall. I'm convinced tall people are it in this world. *sighs*
Finally and most fundamental, after talking to Damion, Elisabeth and I were able to talk. Nothing completes my day nor allows me to smile again like escaping my world and entering ours.
The past two days have been good. Now to hell and back with two papers and a test in the two busiest weeks of my life. Wahooo!
(Erin has just the cutest picture of a puppy. Well, she and the puppy are cute together. But...you know...I'm focusing on the puppy here, people.)
All that said, in the past few days I have fundamentally smiled and found contentment through various experiences. I would like to share them.
Yesterday evening as I finished a read through with Meredith (my partner on the final project for Acting), I saw Rique. Rique is a truly lovely person I met at Campus Crusade for Christ last year. Though I never went back to the KKK (a nickname of affection) except for a few times, Rique and I seemed to form a quick, shallow but deep friendship - shallow meaning I think I've only seen and talked with the guy five times, never for more than 2 minutes. I think he might be the kind of guy who does that with everyone he meets, but I'll entertain thoughts otherwise. Seeing him was a great end to the night. We hugged and chatted for the tiniest bit of a moment. Jessica, a friend from highschool and the KKK, once told me that a true friend is one who enligtens your day. Last night I experienced that. Though I believe I experience that whenever I speak with my true friends, seeing Rique seemed to encapsulate that thought.
Earlier that day, in between my talking to the girl, I called Damion. I was returning a wonderful message he left me....on some day of this week...whichever it might have been.........yeah. Damion, I told you yesterday, but I gladly say again - it was so fantastic hearing from you. I was delighted we could talk and catch up the littlest bit. I would like to say you're the queerest bit of fresh air in my life. But no, I think I am probably the screwiest facet in my own life. So you must take second cake, my dear man.
Today I learned that Chris, a friendly acquiantance from two of my Economics classes, landed one of the internships I applied for earlier in the semester. It was sad to have hammered home again my inability to be desirable enough, and I admit some jealousy. However, I am happy for him. He's an awesome guy and I know he'll do fantastically in such a job (guaranteed after graduation). And he's so freakin' tall. I'm convinced tall people are it in this world. *sighs*
Finally and most fundamental, after talking to Damion, Elisabeth and I were able to talk. Nothing completes my day nor allows me to smile again like escaping my world and entering ours.
The past two days have been good. Now to hell and back with two papers and a test in the two busiest weeks of my life. Wahooo!
(Erin has just the cutest picture of a puppy. Well, she and the puppy are cute together. But...you know...I'm focusing on the puppy here, people.)
Monday, November 14, 2005
I Lost My Virginity on 11-4-05
...my moving virginity, that is. Most women complain that their first times are rather painful due to rushing and inexperience. Everything I did that day was rushed and ensconced in the embrace of inexperience. And yet, the moving was not painful. Of course, those women might have been talking about sex. Who knows.
This is the fascinating part of having no close friends in close proximity - no one knows where it is I lived for the better part of my life, except for Elisabeth of course. (I have had the rather happy opportunity to show the girl my home and the town I grew up in before I had to so quickly leave it. I never actually thought I would get the chance. So, bully on me.) Most of my friends live in excess of 40 miles away from me (really 100+ if we count Marshall living permanently in Chapel Hill). So it is a strange and perhaps complicated thing to impart the utter wonder and disbelief that can well up at the thought of moving. Of course, now that I have moved, the disbelief is as minimal as can be, I think. Yet it still remains - the house was as much a part of my childhood as my parents, pets, and childhood friends were. So to leave it, the walls of my youth and rather misstepping manhood, is rather like leaving that cherished loved one. It truly is time to go, not because the relationship has soured. But because the time is right and ripe to be taken. Yet timing does not take away the sting of leaving my childhood.
I believe I can say without mispeaking, my house is a manifestation of my life (or, at least, parts of it) because of how it lived with me. As I child, my house defined who I was. I - the very energetic, eccentric child - was not only the redhead but also the kid whose house was a towering pink/white/grey Victorian, 3 story with an acre of lawn, and a lovely white picket fence. Kids in school identified the house with me and me with the house. So much so that, in highschool, friends of mine would honk their car horns as they passed the house or even shout my name. I was never the most social creature outside of school (see protective parents), so the shouting and the honking was a very demonstrative way of keeping in touch. I also remember as a very young one that my similarly young peers used to rib me for living in a house that was actually paint, in part, pink. I never really understood why kids made fun of it, though I can imagine why now.
My house, or rather my perception of it, grew as I grew. When I was young, it was often scary and too very big. My mom, as the time struck for me to jump into bed, had to turn on the hall lamp which lit the stairs and a part of the upstairs so I wouldn't have to trundle to my room in the dark. Lots of very high ceilings inspire lots of very deep shadows which can inspire, even now, my imagination to think more upon the supernatural than usual. So you can just imagine how my mind raced as a wee thing. I remember, encouraged by various creaks and bumps in the night, that I would convince myself a monster was not only in my room but laying on the right side of the bed (had I chosen the left to curl up in) next to me. Of course I promptly fell asleep, but those were a terrifying few moments before sleep actually carried me away.
My house was just....big. And as I grew up, its largeness became comfortable, comfort which manfisted itself into a relaxed, "large" understanding of life. I realize now that I like space. But not wasted space, as, sadly, the space in my house was at times. I enjoy depth, heighth and width in tandem with the delicacies of decoration. There is something undoubtedly expansive and impressive to my mind when one can take a 30 foot by 15 foot room (my dinning room) and make it smaller and more intimate, all the while not hiding the fact of a huge ass room. I love my house - not for any silly sense of perfect design, though. No, I love my house because of it's character. There's a feeling of family, warmth, comfort, excitement, intelligence (dude, we had three book rooms, two with floor to ceiling shelves), and above all, again, family. Perhaps every house with the right people feels like that. I simply have no idea if that's true. All I know is that my old house was wonderful because it was another part to our family - as mushy as that sounds. I look forward to experiencing the creation of the kind of house I grew up in - with children, a wife, family, and friends. If any house can ever feel like the house I just moved out of, I will be so happy.
I also liked the way my house smelled. There are very few houses that my nose appreciates, and by golly, mine was certainly the standard by which all others were sniffed.
A thought just occurred to me, I am leaving behind the bodies of 5 pets. How odd to not have thought of that before. Conrad (my beautiful, like-minded English Spaniel) we buried where a pecan tree grew - torn down by Hurricane Hugo. Willie (some sort of sheep dog of my parents), Albert (a black tabby of my mother), Harry (my cat whose death inspired the only two sermons I've heard my father give), and Hal (my "would sleep upside down in your hands if only you kept still long enough" cat) were all buried along the fence, just a few paces down from our garden. As they left us in this life (and inspired many frank and whimsical conversations about the presence of pets in Heaven), so we shall now leave what were their bodies. I do not feel like I am abandoning them, nor desecrating their resting places. However, over time, the earth where they are buried will be overturned and their bones discovered. Who shall find them? ...in the digging will there be any pause? Will their discovery launch some frenetic police and FBI hunt in the hopes of catching the murderer of the unidentified 5 youths? *sighs*...I hope for the latter.
My yard was also where I spent a decade of my life dedicating myself to the art of pitching. It always amazed me how quickly the earth healed itself of the the many deep, wide scars my taloned feet etched into it. (My cleats were the most impressive things ever.) Thousands of balls rolled in the grass, marking both inaccuracy and accuracy. And now no more shall. Now the land will have even more time to heal itself after witnessing what I hoped would be a brief respite after college became too much to juggle with intensive physical training. How strange it is to consider such an end.
And how strange, I am sure, to read intimate words concerning many things that many will have no context for. I hope I gave something to make a picture.
I miss my house. But I'm having fun with the new one. It smells a bit too much like something not ours, but we'll work on it. Unfortunately we have only one cat to assault disparaging smells. Goodness, that reminds me: I was convinced our two remaining cats would die before we moved. One did, my beautiful little Blackie. And yet, to my surprise, Chipsie still lives! (Can you guess that an 8 year old me named both of them?) I am glad she did, a blessing it always is to keep as much family around you. Especially during these times.
This is the fascinating part of having no close friends in close proximity - no one knows where it is I lived for the better part of my life, except for Elisabeth of course. (I have had the rather happy opportunity to show the girl my home and the town I grew up in before I had to so quickly leave it. I never actually thought I would get the chance. So, bully on me.) Most of my friends live in excess of 40 miles away from me (really 100+ if we count Marshall living permanently in Chapel Hill). So it is a strange and perhaps complicated thing to impart the utter wonder and disbelief that can well up at the thought of moving. Of course, now that I have moved, the disbelief is as minimal as can be, I think. Yet it still remains - the house was as much a part of my childhood as my parents, pets, and childhood friends were. So to leave it, the walls of my youth and rather misstepping manhood, is rather like leaving that cherished loved one. It truly is time to go, not because the relationship has soured. But because the time is right and ripe to be taken. Yet timing does not take away the sting of leaving my childhood.
I believe I can say without mispeaking, my house is a manifestation of my life (or, at least, parts of it) because of how it lived with me. As I child, my house defined who I was. I - the very energetic, eccentric child - was not only the redhead but also the kid whose house was a towering pink/white/grey Victorian, 3 story with an acre of lawn, and a lovely white picket fence. Kids in school identified the house with me and me with the house. So much so that, in highschool, friends of mine would honk their car horns as they passed the house or even shout my name. I was never the most social creature outside of school (see protective parents), so the shouting and the honking was a very demonstrative way of keeping in touch. I also remember as a very young one that my similarly young peers used to rib me for living in a house that was actually paint, in part, pink. I never really understood why kids made fun of it, though I can imagine why now.
My house, or rather my perception of it, grew as I grew. When I was young, it was often scary and too very big. My mom, as the time struck for me to jump into bed, had to turn on the hall lamp which lit the stairs and a part of the upstairs so I wouldn't have to trundle to my room in the dark. Lots of very high ceilings inspire lots of very deep shadows which can inspire, even now, my imagination to think more upon the supernatural than usual. So you can just imagine how my mind raced as a wee thing. I remember, encouraged by various creaks and bumps in the night, that I would convince myself a monster was not only in my room but laying on the right side of the bed (had I chosen the left to curl up in) next to me. Of course I promptly fell asleep, but those were a terrifying few moments before sleep actually carried me away.
My house was just....big. And as I grew up, its largeness became comfortable, comfort which manfisted itself into a relaxed, "large" understanding of life. I realize now that I like space. But not wasted space, as, sadly, the space in my house was at times. I enjoy depth, heighth and width in tandem with the delicacies of decoration. There is something undoubtedly expansive and impressive to my mind when one can take a 30 foot by 15 foot room (my dinning room) and make it smaller and more intimate, all the while not hiding the fact of a huge ass room. I love my house - not for any silly sense of perfect design, though. No, I love my house because of it's character. There's a feeling of family, warmth, comfort, excitement, intelligence (dude, we had three book rooms, two with floor to ceiling shelves), and above all, again, family. Perhaps every house with the right people feels like that. I simply have no idea if that's true. All I know is that my old house was wonderful because it was another part to our family - as mushy as that sounds. I look forward to experiencing the creation of the kind of house I grew up in - with children, a wife, family, and friends. If any house can ever feel like the house I just moved out of, I will be so happy.
I also liked the way my house smelled. There are very few houses that my nose appreciates, and by golly, mine was certainly the standard by which all others were sniffed.
A thought just occurred to me, I am leaving behind the bodies of 5 pets. How odd to not have thought of that before. Conrad (my beautiful, like-minded English Spaniel) we buried where a pecan tree grew - torn down by Hurricane Hugo. Willie (some sort of sheep dog of my parents), Albert (a black tabby of my mother), Harry (my cat whose death inspired the only two sermons I've heard my father give), and Hal (my "would sleep upside down in your hands if only you kept still long enough" cat) were all buried along the fence, just a few paces down from our garden. As they left us in this life (and inspired many frank and whimsical conversations about the presence of pets in Heaven), so we shall now leave what were their bodies. I do not feel like I am abandoning them, nor desecrating their resting places. However, over time, the earth where they are buried will be overturned and their bones discovered. Who shall find them? ...in the digging will there be any pause? Will their discovery launch some frenetic police and FBI hunt in the hopes of catching the murderer of the unidentified 5 youths? *sighs*...I hope for the latter.
My yard was also where I spent a decade of my life dedicating myself to the art of pitching. It always amazed me how quickly the earth healed itself of the the many deep, wide scars my taloned feet etched into it. (My cleats were the most impressive things ever.) Thousands of balls rolled in the grass, marking both inaccuracy and accuracy. And now no more shall. Now the land will have even more time to heal itself after witnessing what I hoped would be a brief respite after college became too much to juggle with intensive physical training. How strange it is to consider such an end.
And how strange, I am sure, to read intimate words concerning many things that many will have no context for. I hope I gave something to make a picture.
I miss my house. But I'm having fun with the new one. It smells a bit too much like something not ours, but we'll work on it. Unfortunately we have only one cat to assault disparaging smells. Goodness, that reminds me: I was convinced our two remaining cats would die before we moved. One did, my beautiful little Blackie. And yet, to my surprise, Chipsie still lives! (Can you guess that an 8 year old me named both of them?) I am glad she did, a blessing it always is to keep as much family around you. Especially during these times.
Saturday, November 12, 2005
On Pat Robertson
The issue of intelligent design versus evolution is the dominant, explosive springboard into the broader argument over the separation of Church and State. We cannot question that our Fathers founded a State in which Religion must not be governed. And for Religion to escape governmental control it simply cannot emerge in the government's many spheres of influence. "What is Caesar's, give to Caesar. What is God's, give to God." A horrific paraphrase, yet spoken by Jesus Christ and, I think, a fundamental guideline to how Christians should approach their relationships with Government and God. Identity is as fluid as relationships - fluid meaning inherently dynamic. Therefore, relationships with God and Government do change and have always changed. However, we have guidelines and should strive to meet them in ways that promote the words of our Fathers.
Sadly, those guidelines are being blurred, if not erased, by the oncoming tide of so-called Evangelical Christians. The greatest manifestation of this tide are the various battles in many states that strive to inject the theory of Intelligent Design alongside the theory of Evolution in the classroom. I have often justified the struggle because of my own struggles with Evolution. However, as I see these fights and the continued polarization, if not hatred, they inspire, I realize I simply cannot justify the desire to teach Intelligent Design in addendum to Evolution. I believe Evolution is still not enough to explain the complexities of the natural world. Yet to go as far as I would like to explaining the world, would be to announce and explore the Creator side by side with the Creation. But I will not and cannot condone the teaching of such in public education. If the thought of Intelligent Design is only a hop, skip, and a jump to God for most people, then so be it - reason enough not to consider it a part of the curriculum. The bridge to God is obviously why most people believe in Design. And strikingly, to imply Design is to imply a Designer. Our educational system does not exist as a trumpeter of faith - faith the act of belief in facets of this world that exist outside of man. We can't allow the government to be in the business of promoting faith, even if it is ambiguous (especially if it's not ambiguous at all). So that leaves one option to teachers and parents who choose to become involved in public education - the study of only the natural world and Evolution.
To be honest, I don't know what I believe when it comes to Evolution. The adaptation of the species is a fact of history and the fossil record. I have studied adaptation in way that make the history and fact of it unquestionable. And yet I struggle to accept the proposed logic of the argument that since we can see adaptation, therefore it must be part of a larger process that encompassed eons instead of thousands of years - that process being Evolution. I recently read an article positing the fact and theory of Evolution and am reading a book regarding the unification of Christian belief and the fact of Evolution - both efforts of mine to increase my knowledge about a subject which often stupefies me. I've no doubt that many who could read this would simply chalk my difficulties of belief to my the blindness of my Belief. I express no doubt about that because I know such holds a great deal of truth. Foremost is the issue of time: Evolution is defined by time and the ability through those trillions of days to allow growth, change, and selection. I don't know, man, but that's pretty freakin' hard to believe in. And while I do realise I believe in an entity whose existance is proved through the words of a book, the feelings of heart, and other fuzzy experiences, I find it fundamentally hard to accept that all things can be reduced to chaos. ...Charles Darwin charges that his theory allows for the complete reducibility of complexity. And yet, within Evolutionary science there is a phenomenon called the Irreducibility Complex which establishes that (for the sake of simplicity) the motor that moves bacterium cannot be reduced by the theories of science even though it is constructed of smaller units, proteins. And I don't know what to do with that knowledge (knowledge gained by researched scientific claims of Intelligent Designs, so who knows, it might just be the creation of some desperate Christian). **If I am wrong on any of this, enlighten me. I do not present any of it besides my belief in God with 100% certainy. I never wish to speak falsely, so correct me if I have.**
Regardless. While I may not be able to reconcile my belief in an almighty God with a much established scientific fact and do not possess enough knowledge to satisfy my unsated desire, I do know one simple thing: humanity does not speak for God. And even more, Christians neither possess the complete voice or mind of God.
Thus, I say without hesistance or regret: Fuck you, Pat Robertson.
I am a Christian, unapologetically and joyously. As a rational human being, I would gladly turn my back on God to escape the entanglements of devotion, sacrifice, and unadulterated love. Yet I cannot and will not because of the joy, revelation, and communion I experience on levels that define and equate spirituality and physicality. However, I have come to learn one simple thing in my life: I hate most Christians.
That may seem ridiculously harsh and perhaps even hypocritical - these people, these Christians are supposed to be my brothers and sisters in a union that is should define our experience in life. But I deny that supposed harshness. I hate them because they are either no more my brothers or sisters than my cat or because they hide, obscure that relationship so well they may very well be just another whore on the street. I often express my hatred in humour - such as after seeing the "Women's Bible," a Bible constructed as a woman's magazine, or the "Hunter's Bible," dressed in fatigues. I think to myself, "the stupid things these people come up with to justify themselves in this world." But this hatred for Pat Robertson drives forth out of disgust and sadness.
In response to the upsurption of 8 of the 9 Dover, PA school board members (all of whom favoured and voted for the inclusion of Intelligent Design), Robertson said, "I'd like to say to the good citizens of Dover: If there is a disaster in your area, don't turn to God. You just rejected him from your city." He then attempted to clarify himself with this: "our spiritual actions have consequences." Yes, and all that we do and say also have consequences...whatever those consequences might be.
Pat Robertson typifies exactly what I hate about most Christians - this self-important, self-aggrandaized, self-righteous demeanor that pervades all that they are, especially their relationship with God (at least the relationship that I can see). They go so far, I think, to define even God through themselves. So, I suppose, then, they have no problem with encouraging murder (Chavez) and calling down the judgment of God. It disgusts me that Robertson even mentioned God's name in his fury over some stupid council election. And it saddens me that a man looked up to by millions calls down judgment over political beliefs without any reaction from the Christian faith who should be as horrified as I by this self-important stripe of a man. I have learned by my faith and my walks in this world not to judge those who surround me. There is already a Judge, I believe, who is Christ. He judged (and will) those who deserved to be judged (the hypocrites) and spent his time with the perceived dregs of society. And yet Robertson uses His name to chastise those who would dare defy some ridiculous ideology - the people, no doubt, Robertson perceives to be the dregs of our society.
Who are you to call down a reign of fire? Who are you to speak for God? Who are you to judge in His name?
You are no one, not a thing, and not God.
So fuck off, Pat Robertson.
Sadly, those guidelines are being blurred, if not erased, by the oncoming tide of so-called Evangelical Christians. The greatest manifestation of this tide are the various battles in many states that strive to inject the theory of Intelligent Design alongside the theory of Evolution in the classroom. I have often justified the struggle because of my own struggles with Evolution. However, as I see these fights and the continued polarization, if not hatred, they inspire, I realize I simply cannot justify the desire to teach Intelligent Design in addendum to Evolution. I believe Evolution is still not enough to explain the complexities of the natural world. Yet to go as far as I would like to explaining the world, would be to announce and explore the Creator side by side with the Creation. But I will not and cannot condone the teaching of such in public education. If the thought of Intelligent Design is only a hop, skip, and a jump to God for most people, then so be it - reason enough not to consider it a part of the curriculum. The bridge to God is obviously why most people believe in Design. And strikingly, to imply Design is to imply a Designer. Our educational system does not exist as a trumpeter of faith - faith the act of belief in facets of this world that exist outside of man. We can't allow the government to be in the business of promoting faith, even if it is ambiguous (especially if it's not ambiguous at all). So that leaves one option to teachers and parents who choose to become involved in public education - the study of only the natural world and Evolution.
To be honest, I don't know what I believe when it comes to Evolution. The adaptation of the species is a fact of history and the fossil record. I have studied adaptation in way that make the history and fact of it unquestionable. And yet I struggle to accept the proposed logic of the argument that since we can see adaptation, therefore it must be part of a larger process that encompassed eons instead of thousands of years - that process being Evolution. I recently read an article positing the fact and theory of Evolution and am reading a book regarding the unification of Christian belief and the fact of Evolution - both efforts of mine to increase my knowledge about a subject which often stupefies me. I've no doubt that many who could read this would simply chalk my difficulties of belief to my the blindness of my Belief. I express no doubt about that because I know such holds a great deal of truth. Foremost is the issue of time: Evolution is defined by time and the ability through those trillions of days to allow growth, change, and selection. I don't know, man, but that's pretty freakin' hard to believe in. And while I do realise I believe in an entity whose existance is proved through the words of a book, the feelings of heart, and other fuzzy experiences, I find it fundamentally hard to accept that all things can be reduced to chaos. ...Charles Darwin charges that his theory allows for the complete reducibility of complexity. And yet, within Evolutionary science there is a phenomenon called the Irreducibility Complex which establishes that (for the sake of simplicity) the motor that moves bacterium cannot be reduced by the theories of science even though it is constructed of smaller units, proteins. And I don't know what to do with that knowledge (knowledge gained by researched scientific claims of Intelligent Designs, so who knows, it might just be the creation of some desperate Christian). **If I am wrong on any of this, enlighten me. I do not present any of it besides my belief in God with 100% certainy. I never wish to speak falsely, so correct me if I have.**
Regardless. While I may not be able to reconcile my belief in an almighty God with a much established scientific fact and do not possess enough knowledge to satisfy my unsated desire, I do know one simple thing: humanity does not speak for God. And even more, Christians neither possess the complete voice or mind of God.
Thus, I say without hesistance or regret: Fuck you, Pat Robertson.
I am a Christian, unapologetically and joyously. As a rational human being, I would gladly turn my back on God to escape the entanglements of devotion, sacrifice, and unadulterated love. Yet I cannot and will not because of the joy, revelation, and communion I experience on levels that define and equate spirituality and physicality. However, I have come to learn one simple thing in my life: I hate most Christians.
That may seem ridiculously harsh and perhaps even hypocritical - these people, these Christians are supposed to be my brothers and sisters in a union that is should define our experience in life. But I deny that supposed harshness. I hate them because they are either no more my brothers or sisters than my cat or because they hide, obscure that relationship so well they may very well be just another whore on the street. I often express my hatred in humour - such as after seeing the "Women's Bible," a Bible constructed as a woman's magazine, or the "Hunter's Bible," dressed in fatigues. I think to myself, "the stupid things these people come up with to justify themselves in this world." But this hatred for Pat Robertson drives forth out of disgust and sadness.
In response to the upsurption of 8 of the 9 Dover, PA school board members (all of whom favoured and voted for the inclusion of Intelligent Design), Robertson said, "I'd like to say to the good citizens of Dover: If there is a disaster in your area, don't turn to God. You just rejected him from your city." He then attempted to clarify himself with this: "our spiritual actions have consequences." Yes, and all that we do and say also have consequences...whatever those consequences might be.
Pat Robertson typifies exactly what I hate about most Christians - this self-important, self-aggrandaized, self-righteous demeanor that pervades all that they are, especially their relationship with God (at least the relationship that I can see). They go so far, I think, to define even God through themselves. So, I suppose, then, they have no problem with encouraging murder (Chavez) and calling down the judgment of God. It disgusts me that Robertson even mentioned God's name in his fury over some stupid council election. And it saddens me that a man looked up to by millions calls down judgment over political beliefs without any reaction from the Christian faith who should be as horrified as I by this self-important stripe of a man. I have learned by my faith and my walks in this world not to judge those who surround me. There is already a Judge, I believe, who is Christ. He judged (and will) those who deserved to be judged (the hypocrites) and spent his time with the perceived dregs of society. And yet Robertson uses His name to chastise those who would dare defy some ridiculous ideology - the people, no doubt, Robertson perceives to be the dregs of our society.
Who are you to call down a reign of fire? Who are you to speak for God? Who are you to judge in His name?
You are no one, not a thing, and not God.
So fuck off, Pat Robertson.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Contemplative Moodiness
So many things are going on right now in the world. It's a veritable mind trip to attempt to sort them all out. Every event seems so massive and yet, at the same time, so small in signficance. Meaning, one might guess, that all things are both the most important and the least important. God knows, that's the truth. However, some things in the past week or so have struck me as incredibly significant.
I meant to comment on the Democratic Party when they staged a secret meeting of Congress 2 weeks ago. I was going to wax on about the late-in-coming attempts by the Democrats to grab some real power in D.C. However, given yesterday's election results - the Democrats aren't attempting anymore, they're grabbing the power. All I can say is, FINALLY! I have no great profusion of love for either the Democrats or Republicans. Perhaps specifically because of personal ambiguity in political affinity, I am particularly disgusted with the political situation in Washington right now. Everyone can shout to high heaven about scandal, idiocy, and political ineptitude that borders on devil worship. However, the distressing facet to D.C.'s facade is it's lack of any political competition. I am fundamentally disturbed by the accepted standard of a two party political system. Yet, two parties would, at the very least, be more representitive and efficient than one towering, juggling juggernaut. In economics we learn that competition fosters not only efficiency but a sounder, less expensive product. There is no competition in Washington and clearly no desire for a rational meeting of the minds. It's a sad thing that we must wait 3 years before a substantial change occurs again in the House and Congress. My only hope is that, if Democrats continue this resurgence, President Bush will not fight the turning tide. I have not much confidence that he won't given everything I've seen lately, but I do hope. And I am thankful that the nation is recognizing a second voice. (Now if only we can get those 3rd, 4th, and 5th voices an adequate podium.)
The peasant revolt in France. What in the hell is going on? When France banned students from wearing Muslim headcoverings and Christian crosses in schools, I was upset at the double standard in the world media and even within France that allowed such a significant and disgusting lack of respect for religion without any kind of reaction. Now that France is embroiled in a peasant revolt (yes, I realize they are immigrants, however, I think the comparison is completely adequate and even approriate), the world media is doing one thing, and one thing only - reporting the events of the youth riots. Why, oh why, dear soldier, are they not reporting on why these riots are taking place? Why are we hearing so little nothing about the recent hotel fires in France that have killed many of the immigrants packing themselves into hotel rooms like clowns piling into a funny car? I realize America is the superpower and all its many faults will be put under the microscope - much like Bush's many faults are scrutinized to the point of obsession. So they should: Bush leads the US and the US leads the world. However, something very, very dangerous is going on in France and we, at least I, am hearing nothing significant about it. Humanism and socialism are havocing a storm in France. Yet it almost seems as if there is no chance for any kind of dialogue to form. Why?
Speaking of no chance for a dialogue, a recent race scandal erupted on campus last week. I hope to write on it more, but the essential jist was that an opinion piece stated a belief that "reverse racism" is as pervasive and wrong as the well accepted racism that has so defined and continues to define America. The responses that occured only serve to underline this sad fact: race is not an accepted discourse. No, let me clarify. Race is a perfectly accepted and encouraged discourse for minorities. Yet it is as taboo as incest and bestiality for the majority to discuss. Such is intensely interesting.
The world frightens me in many ways. Yet when it frightens me, I read about sex. And today I discovered something lovely through perusing such sex. (Isn't it amazing? Through that ambiguity I could be talking about pornography, sex blogs, articles about sex - such as the recent one about an increase of sex on TV - books reviews, opinion pieces, or any of the other rampant things that have to do with sex and yet you cannot tell. There really is no way to tell. That's so intrinsically fascinating.) Regardless: whenever I am frightened now, all I shall have to do is remember I am:
AND
I meant to comment on the Democratic Party when they staged a secret meeting of Congress 2 weeks ago. I was going to wax on about the late-in-coming attempts by the Democrats to grab some real power in D.C. However, given yesterday's election results - the Democrats aren't attempting anymore, they're grabbing the power. All I can say is, FINALLY! I have no great profusion of love for either the Democrats or Republicans. Perhaps specifically because of personal ambiguity in political affinity, I am particularly disgusted with the political situation in Washington right now. Everyone can shout to high heaven about scandal, idiocy, and political ineptitude that borders on devil worship. However, the distressing facet to D.C.'s facade is it's lack of any political competition. I am fundamentally disturbed by the accepted standard of a two party political system. Yet, two parties would, at the very least, be more representitive and efficient than one towering, juggling juggernaut. In economics we learn that competition fosters not only efficiency but a sounder, less expensive product. There is no competition in Washington and clearly no desire for a rational meeting of the minds. It's a sad thing that we must wait 3 years before a substantial change occurs again in the House and Congress. My only hope is that, if Democrats continue this resurgence, President Bush will not fight the turning tide. I have not much confidence that he won't given everything I've seen lately, but I do hope. And I am thankful that the nation is recognizing a second voice. (Now if only we can get those 3rd, 4th, and 5th voices an adequate podium.)
The peasant revolt in France. What in the hell is going on? When France banned students from wearing Muslim headcoverings and Christian crosses in schools, I was upset at the double standard in the world media and even within France that allowed such a significant and disgusting lack of respect for religion without any kind of reaction. Now that France is embroiled in a peasant revolt (yes, I realize they are immigrants, however, I think the comparison is completely adequate and even approriate), the world media is doing one thing, and one thing only - reporting the events of the youth riots. Why, oh why, dear soldier, are they not reporting on why these riots are taking place? Why are we hearing so little nothing about the recent hotel fires in France that have killed many of the immigrants packing themselves into hotel rooms like clowns piling into a funny car? I realize America is the superpower and all its many faults will be put under the microscope - much like Bush's many faults are scrutinized to the point of obsession. So they should: Bush leads the US and the US leads the world. However, something very, very dangerous is going on in France and we, at least I, am hearing nothing significant about it. Humanism and socialism are havocing a storm in France. Yet it almost seems as if there is no chance for any kind of dialogue to form. Why?
Speaking of no chance for a dialogue, a recent race scandal erupted on campus last week. I hope to write on it more, but the essential jist was that an opinion piece stated a belief that "reverse racism" is as pervasive and wrong as the well accepted racism that has so defined and continues to define America. The responses that occured only serve to underline this sad fact: race is not an accepted discourse. No, let me clarify. Race is a perfectly accepted and encouraged discourse for minorities. Yet it is as taboo as incest and bestiality for the majority to discuss. Such is intensely interesting.
The world frightens me in many ways. Yet when it frightens me, I read about sex. And today I discovered something lovely through perusing such sex. (Isn't it amazing? Through that ambiguity I could be talking about pornography, sex blogs, articles about sex - such as the recent one about an increase of sex on TV - books reviews, opinion pieces, or any of the other rampant things that have to do with sex and yet you cannot tell. There really is no way to tell. That's so intrinsically fascinating.) Regardless: whenever I am frightened now, all I shall have to do is remember I am:
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Yay COLTS!
I am ecstatic this morning. For whilst I did not catch the game due to moving lots and lots of modern/classic paintings and sketches, the freakin' Colts beat the freakin' Patriots! Yahoooooooo!
Peyton Manning and the Indianapolis Colts have been my favorite team in the NFL ever since 1) Steve Young retired from the San Francisco 49'ers and 2) I began playing Madden 2001, kicking ass with the Colts. The Colts define what is wonderful about sports - class and character. So many times in today's modern age of sports, it's all too clear that players really couldn't care less about anything but themselves - Terrel Owens comes right to mind. A few others do as well: Barry Bonds, the hundreds of other guys taking steroids, the Vikings, only to name a few. In spite of all that - the Colts are it. When they lose, they don't whine. When they win, they don't gloat. And hardly anyone on the team celebrates in gratuitous fashion when they get a touchdown. Now that's unheard of in today's NFL. (Don't get me wrong, I loved Chad Johnson's river dance as much as anyone - probably more so - but it is so nice to see a guy score and just hand the ball to the ref.)
While the Colts have been my favorites for a while, they just did not have the wholistic image of a team they needed to get to the Superbowl. This lack of a hardened defense and finishing offense manifested itself over the past 5 years in Indy's inability to defeat the Patriots. No knock against the Patriots, a true dynasty who has won 3 Superbowls out of the past 4. (Though I still say Gruden's Raiders should have played the Rams, it was a forward pass!!) However, the Colts just didn't have it together. But, boy howdy, do they ever now!
Defense: Check. Finally Tony Dungy has brought to Inday what defined Tampa Bay during his tenure there and Gruden's as well. Kick ass defense that'll stop the run, punish receivers, and take on the quarterback without any pussy-footing around. Finally!
Offense: Check. The Colts always had the offense man. With Manning, James, and Harrison the Indy offense has always been electric. Heck Manning set the passing TD record last year. And yet, something is different this there, there's more of a ground instead of a limitless ceiling. Admittedly they are starting to get electric again, but it's heartening to see the defense starting to match the offensive prowess.
Hot damn man, I'm hoping with fingers crossed and a hopeful heart that some of the most decent and truly best players in the league will finally overcome the second hurdle to Manning's decade long search for a Superbowl ring.
So as I said, yay COLTS!
Peyton Manning and the Indianapolis Colts have been my favorite team in the NFL ever since 1) Steve Young retired from the San Francisco 49'ers and 2) I began playing Madden 2001, kicking ass with the Colts. The Colts define what is wonderful about sports - class and character. So many times in today's modern age of sports, it's all too clear that players really couldn't care less about anything but themselves - Terrel Owens comes right to mind. A few others do as well: Barry Bonds, the hundreds of other guys taking steroids, the Vikings, only to name a few. In spite of all that - the Colts are it. When they lose, they don't whine. When they win, they don't gloat. And hardly anyone on the team celebrates in gratuitous fashion when they get a touchdown. Now that's unheard of in today's NFL. (Don't get me wrong, I loved Chad Johnson's river dance as much as anyone - probably more so - but it is so nice to see a guy score and just hand the ball to the ref.)
While the Colts have been my favorites for a while, they just did not have the wholistic image of a team they needed to get to the Superbowl. This lack of a hardened defense and finishing offense manifested itself over the past 5 years in Indy's inability to defeat the Patriots. No knock against the Patriots, a true dynasty who has won 3 Superbowls out of the past 4. (Though I still say Gruden's Raiders should have played the Rams, it was a forward pass!!) However, the Colts just didn't have it together. But, boy howdy, do they ever now!
Defense: Check. Finally Tony Dungy has brought to Inday what defined Tampa Bay during his tenure there and Gruden's as well. Kick ass defense that'll stop the run, punish receivers, and take on the quarterback without any pussy-footing around. Finally!
Offense: Check. The Colts always had the offense man. With Manning, James, and Harrison the Indy offense has always been electric. Heck Manning set the passing TD record last year. And yet, something is different this there, there's more of a ground instead of a limitless ceiling. Admittedly they are starting to get electric again, but it's heartening to see the defense starting to match the offensive prowess.
Hot damn man, I'm hoping with fingers crossed and a hopeful heart that some of the most decent and truly best players in the league will finally overcome the second hurdle to Manning's decade long search for a Superbowl ring.
So as I said, yay COLTS!
Friday, November 04, 2005
The Glory of God
...or the glory of nature, however one wants to describe it.
As I drive to school I pass over the Catawba River, a meandering scope of water that is a comforting presence. Just before the bridge over the river is a small valley of sorts with those incredibly large electric skeleton towers. Typically as we pass into the colder days of fall my morning drive to school is shrouded in mist, the shock of cold air against the relative warmth of the water always inspires me to close my eyes and imagine for just a second that this ordinary mist was that of Avalon. There is something so ethereal about fog and mist, the known now hidden becoming all too secret. Fantastically stirring to my very wanting mind - wanting of magic and the possible.
Today, however, there was something different in the midst. As I drove past the valley I was startled to see the sun hovering in the middle of the valley, penetrating the mist. I don't know if it was because of the sun and some shift in the wind, but I saw a separation of the mist. Half clung to the ground, like a comforter draped over a bed - slightly mishapen but completely wrapped and radiantly warm. Then, I don't know how to describe it, there was a break which allowed only the rays of the sun through. The sun couldn't penetrate the ground layer of mist but it shone magnificently in the clear sky it conquered for itself, highlighting the middle of the electric towers. And then, where the sun was, the the top layer of mist remained, too powerful at it's origin to allow the light to completely shine through. The mist not only recreated the sun as a hazy, orange orb, it hid the tops of the towers so much that only the dimmest of outlines remained.
I will often stare at a particularly glorious sunset, sunrise, or any other event that causes to make the sky even more beautiful than it is at present. But this...this was shocking in it's beauty. I couldn't imagine putting such an image on a postcard and selling too many copies, yet I fundamentally wished I had a camera and the time to veer my car off the road and take as many pictures as I could of this setting of sun, mist, hills, and the structures of man.
I hope I in some way captured what I saw this morning. That would be likewise beautiful.
(Forgive me for absence. I have been thinking of many things to write yet am hampered by the trials of school and moving. Yep, moving out of the house that defined so much of my life. ....more on that later.)
As I drive to school I pass over the Catawba River, a meandering scope of water that is a comforting presence. Just before the bridge over the river is a small valley of sorts with those incredibly large electric skeleton towers. Typically as we pass into the colder days of fall my morning drive to school is shrouded in mist, the shock of cold air against the relative warmth of the water always inspires me to close my eyes and imagine for just a second that this ordinary mist was that of Avalon. There is something so ethereal about fog and mist, the known now hidden becoming all too secret. Fantastically stirring to my very wanting mind - wanting of magic and the possible.
Today, however, there was something different in the midst. As I drove past the valley I was startled to see the sun hovering in the middle of the valley, penetrating the mist. I don't know if it was because of the sun and some shift in the wind, but I saw a separation of the mist. Half clung to the ground, like a comforter draped over a bed - slightly mishapen but completely wrapped and radiantly warm. Then, I don't know how to describe it, there was a break which allowed only the rays of the sun through. The sun couldn't penetrate the ground layer of mist but it shone magnificently in the clear sky it conquered for itself, highlighting the middle of the electric towers. And then, where the sun was, the the top layer of mist remained, too powerful at it's origin to allow the light to completely shine through. The mist not only recreated the sun as a hazy, orange orb, it hid the tops of the towers so much that only the dimmest of outlines remained.
I will often stare at a particularly glorious sunset, sunrise, or any other event that causes to make the sky even more beautiful than it is at present. But this...this was shocking in it's beauty. I couldn't imagine putting such an image on a postcard and selling too many copies, yet I fundamentally wished I had a camera and the time to veer my car off the road and take as many pictures as I could of this setting of sun, mist, hills, and the structures of man.
I hope I in some way captured what I saw this morning. That would be likewise beautiful.
(Forgive me for absence. I have been thinking of many things to write yet am hampered by the trials of school and moving. Yep, moving out of the house that defined so much of my life. ....more on that later.)
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Yippee Skippee!
In what can only be called an event long overdue, Harriet Miers has withdrawn her nomination to the Supreme Court. Yes! Thank goodness! Why, oh why, am I so excited to see her rescind her ridiculous nomination? Is it because she doesn't vigorously oppose abortion? Not quite. Is it because she appears dazed and confused when asked about consitutional law? We should certainly avoid placing stupid people on the bench, but no, stupidity is not my major qualm with the woman. The reason for my exuberance as Miers walks out of the major headlines is purely selfish - I will never again have to see Miers' ugly mug on my tv screen, on my monitor, or in my newspaper in such a gross fashion as has occurred in the past few weeks.
That's right, Miers is just too damn ugly for her own good...and certainly for my own good.
Isn't there some type of litmus test that serves as a barometer for not only who gets in the news but also for people who are put into newsworthy positions? Should we be made to suffer the dregs of our gene pool just because they're quote, unquote: qualified or right for the job? I argue that, no!, we as a people have a right to have not only qualified people but also pretty ones nominated to public positions.
It is not only our right to demand some eye candy along with substantive action, it should be our duty and priviledge. There was a time and a place for uncouth, misshapen people who, simply because they happened to be "qualified," reached the highest points of political opportunity in our nation. That time is past! Now we must suffer not only the policy but also the visage of those policy makers! The sanctity of relying on the pretty or passable face of someone who is currently running the nation into the ground cannot be ignored!
So how dare they? How dare these public officials who have passed the public's eye candy test, if only by the hairs of their barely there chinny-chin-chins, offer unto us a woman whose very face reminds one a fun house mirror!
I'm not saying Harriet Miers is a bad person.
I am saying Harriet Miers gives me the willies every time I see her.
I'm not saying that the lady is somehow a less complete person because we can only hope her face is the droopiest part of her body.
But holy trident of Neptune, she ugly!
So, let me say thank you both to Harriet Miers and George W. Bush. Ms. Miers, thank you for realizing you're not only too inept to even make it through the questionarre prelims but that you're also too representative of exactly the type of people we can't have reproducing. We just can't take that chance of more ugly people crowding this already ugly planet. And President Bush, thank you for understanding that cocaine-induced hallucinations of divine intervention and beautiful women are not always true. It's a hard pill to swallow, so we're glad you bit the bullet.
You gotta wonder. Did President Bush ever poke Ms. Miers' cheek to see if it would get stuck?
Dude, I so would. And I really wonder, would it have stuck?
That's right, Miers is just too damn ugly for her own good...and certainly for my own good.
Isn't there some type of litmus test that serves as a barometer for not only who gets in the news but also for people who are put into newsworthy positions? Should we be made to suffer the dregs of our gene pool just because they're quote, unquote: qualified or right for the job? I argue that, no!, we as a people have a right to have not only qualified people but also pretty ones nominated to public positions.
It is not only our right to demand some eye candy along with substantive action, it should be our duty and priviledge. There was a time and a place for uncouth, misshapen people who, simply because they happened to be "qualified," reached the highest points of political opportunity in our nation. That time is past! Now we must suffer not only the policy but also the visage of those policy makers! The sanctity of relying on the pretty or passable face of someone who is currently running the nation into the ground cannot be ignored!
So how dare they? How dare these public officials who have passed the public's eye candy test, if only by the hairs of their barely there chinny-chin-chins, offer unto us a woman whose very face reminds one a fun house mirror!
I'm not saying Harriet Miers is a bad person.
I am saying Harriet Miers gives me the willies every time I see her.
I'm not saying that the lady is somehow a less complete person because we can only hope her face is the droopiest part of her body.
But holy trident of Neptune, she ugly!
So, let me say thank you both to Harriet Miers and George W. Bush. Ms. Miers, thank you for realizing you're not only too inept to even make it through the questionarre prelims but that you're also too representative of exactly the type of people we can't have reproducing. We just can't take that chance of more ugly people crowding this already ugly planet. And President Bush, thank you for understanding that cocaine-induced hallucinations of divine intervention and beautiful women are not always true. It's a hard pill to swallow, so we're glad you bit the bullet.
You gotta wonder. Did President Bush ever poke Ms. Miers' cheek to see if it would get stuck?
Dude, I so would. And I really wonder, would it have stuck?
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
So, Rosa Parks is Dead
I'm sure OutKast now wishes they had just waited a few more months instead of settling Parks' lawsuit against them back in April. They say hindsight is 20/20, but come on people! She was old, surely the logic of her imminent death should have inspired some reigns to be applied to the desire to settle on a grotesque attempt to violate the First Amendment. Patience, people, we must learn patience.
Such poor attempts at humour (that's right, English spelling, what?) aside, it's an amazing thing that today marks the passing of the second most visible icon of America's Civil Rights struggle. The only conception I have of Martin Luther King, Jr. comes from speeches, photographs, and news reels from the sixties. A powerful, yet very static figure who emerges and comes to life from a past that is truly history to me, unlike many others who lived through those decades. Rosa Parks is one of the few people from that time period and celebrated by the media who survived well into my life. In a decade of cognizance where there are very few Mandelas and Theresas, the presence of Rosa Parks was a startling and all important one.
In a way, the significance of Rosa Parks exists simply because she became that media darling for the Civil Rights movement. So? The reason of her significance is the same reason for anyone's or anything's rise to popularity and importance. If the media didn't take up a story, it never gets heard by the masses and never means anything to the people. Because Ms. Parks was embraced by the NAACP and the national media meant that everyone who came before her now had a voice and the people who usually wouldn't hear that voice had no choice but to listen. Thus Rosa Parks became the symbol for not only the movement but also for the other men and women who refused to give up their seats on public transportation, and that is a great thing to celebrate. That she is the symbol does not and can never take away from the acts of other individuals. It is a sad note on our society and our prediliction to be so damnably fickle when it comes to history that we remember no one else who refused to bow to inhuman demands. I did a few minutes of research on Ms. Parks this morning (hail to Wikipedia!) and I was very surprised to see that Jackie Robinson likewise refused to give up his seat -- suprising because it's Jackie Robinson, man, freakin' Jackie Robinson!
Rosa Parks demands equal attention and heralding for her brave statement and actions as all those who preceded her. Yet since the movement and America defined her as a symbol of resistance and dignity, we give her due praise. I will gladly do as most Americans shall this day (or, if we're honest, as too few shall) and give thought and wonder to such courage. I, however, will also apologize for not knowing the names of the people Ms. Parks represented and will, if but for a day, remember and study their actions: Irene Morgan, an unnamed 15 year old girl, Jackie Robinson, Claudette Colvin, Mary Louise Smith.
Such poor attempts at humour (that's right, English spelling, what?) aside, it's an amazing thing that today marks the passing of the second most visible icon of America's Civil Rights struggle. The only conception I have of Martin Luther King, Jr. comes from speeches, photographs, and news reels from the sixties. A powerful, yet very static figure who emerges and comes to life from a past that is truly history to me, unlike many others who lived through those decades. Rosa Parks is one of the few people from that time period and celebrated by the media who survived well into my life. In a decade of cognizance where there are very few Mandelas and Theresas, the presence of Rosa Parks was a startling and all important one.
In a way, the significance of Rosa Parks exists simply because she became that media darling for the Civil Rights movement. So? The reason of her significance is the same reason for anyone's or anything's rise to popularity and importance. If the media didn't take up a story, it never gets heard by the masses and never means anything to the people. Because Ms. Parks was embraced by the NAACP and the national media meant that everyone who came before her now had a voice and the people who usually wouldn't hear that voice had no choice but to listen. Thus Rosa Parks became the symbol for not only the movement but also for the other men and women who refused to give up their seats on public transportation, and that is a great thing to celebrate. That she is the symbol does not and can never take away from the acts of other individuals. It is a sad note on our society and our prediliction to be so damnably fickle when it comes to history that we remember no one else who refused to bow to inhuman demands. I did a few minutes of research on Ms. Parks this morning (hail to Wikipedia!) and I was very surprised to see that Jackie Robinson likewise refused to give up his seat -- suprising because it's Jackie Robinson, man, freakin' Jackie Robinson!
Rosa Parks demands equal attention and heralding for her brave statement and actions as all those who preceded her. Yet since the movement and America defined her as a symbol of resistance and dignity, we give her due praise. I will gladly do as most Americans shall this day (or, if we're honest, as too few shall) and give thought and wonder to such courage. I, however, will also apologize for not knowing the names of the people Ms. Parks represented and will, if but for a day, remember and study their actions: Irene Morgan, an unnamed 15 year old girl, Jackie Robinson, Claudette Colvin, Mary Louise Smith.
Friday, October 21, 2005
A Script
For my third Acting project I have to create a performance based on the inspiration of a rather lackluster painting. (I am struggling with the blatant choice of posting a picture of this painting. I think I want to focus on words for the moment and allow visuals to remain undefined by me. That and I'm way too lazy to post pictures, for now at least. I do have spits and spats of activity though they be far and few between.) Though I was, as I always am, incredibly reticent to partner up with anyone, forced as I was into the decision of partners I could not have landed in a better group. The two women and I decided to come up with a 7 minute play about domestic abuse. Cheery stuff, eh?
Though we shared the burdens of various duties equally (at least more than I've ever experienced in a group), I asked to write the script. After dealing with shocked stares and questions of the incredulous kind, I had a pen in my hand and was writing our script! Such an exciting opportunity - I wrote fiction for a class! Equally delightful and scary stuff. I say scary because it is a bit scary when creating in this way for anyone other than yourself (or myself since, hell, I am speaking about myself). To step back, I admit that I have a very odd approach to writing academically (which includes essays, exams, and the like). Academic writing, for me, is almost like writing fiction - or how I imagine most people approach writing fiction. I have a beginning, middle, and finale throughout which I create a plot and use the characters provided for me. It can be an incredible experience, especially when writing for a likeminded professor. When not, I can almost imagine how most everyone else views writing...an exercise in boredom. Almost, that is. And so, writing creatively differs, for me, from academically in that the characters used are of your own invention. While I can justify almost any declaration made about a character as long as evidence and logical (HAH!) assumptions are held, it is on me to create such evidence when originality is demanded. Not only that but I must create a world in which the evidence breathes without crutch devices. Scary, thought in the best possible way, I assure you. Only if one didn't write would it be a bad thing - the scariest thing, to me...not writing.
At a completion of about a week and a half of rewrites and discussions about the script and the characters, my group has finally decided on a last cut of my script. In fact, I am just back from the hour long meeting in which we made our decisions. I cannot say more about the experience. I truly loved exploring ideas, making and listening to suggestions about movement, and hearing what the others brought to the table. I have a lot of faith in my ability to create. However, I have even greater faith in the ability of the collaborative process to tease and promote the best of the ideas from everyone involved. (With the desperate hope that everyone is as willing and open and eager for the search, journey and the goal.)
All that is left are rehearsals and our performance next Friday. While I thoroughly enjoyed trying to find Marlowe's Old Man, I am eager even now for my performance to be over. I knew full well when I was writing an abuse story that it would fall to me to play the abuser which would be a hard sell (actually, I would have trouble playing either the abuser or the abused). However, the idea seemed, and certainly is, interesting enough that I could suck it up and bite off a piece of violent misery. But....wow, much harder than I thought. There is a depth or superficiality to this character that I can't even imagine possessing. I can believe and embrace passion; even that which overwhelms. However. Violent passion is hard for me to even fathom. Yet I can create it. Now, whether or not I can create such realistically is an entirely different matter. I have received 'passing' to 'good' remarks on how I handled everything...but who knows, for in the age of relativity, reality is as variable as anything else.
The striking thing for me is that I can write about a thing so anathemaic to me. Of course I can find little truths in the words this character says. Now, surely I can qualify that rather bold statement. I see truth because of his character...who he is as a man, an abuser, a husband...defines the words that he speaks. I find myself comfortable (or perhaps able is a more approriate word) in the search for his words and his actions, because I know his character. In my mind, I can play the clip or scene from my imagination without any hesitation. Yet I struggle to make my body and my tongue act in the ways this character would. Why?
I have always thought I could act. Never a doubt in my mind, I could take the stage and dominate. In my mind, the words flowed without falter and movement twined like the body of a ballerina. And yet such a break or disconnect exists between what I can imagine and what I can physically do. I cannot deny myself as I should be able to if I were to fully become this other character. I can create characters who exist, in part, despite of me. But I cannot be those characters who are despite me.
Oh no, I'm a Method Actor!
I kid, I kid. (Method Acting has always partially weirded me out. Another story for anther time.) Forgive me if this was rather boring but the above thoughts simply rushed me. And they are important thoughts, to me at least. Such things I have considered since I was small. To reach a sense of understanding and balance about them is a true wonder. Perhaps an allowance as well, for I can see better what I do and understand more fuly what I can do, am capable of. Well, what I am capable of is too ambiguous to be seen. Whether I remain a son quickly to be forgotten or a son with a thing waiting to be embraced, I cannot even begin to fathom. But it's a cool thing, regardless, to know more about myself. Because when you know yourself, ladies and gentlemen, the following quotation holds a hell of a lot more meaning.
"When I think about you, I touch myself." *snarky*
Though we shared the burdens of various duties equally (at least more than I've ever experienced in a group), I asked to write the script. After dealing with shocked stares and questions of the incredulous kind, I had a pen in my hand and was writing our script! Such an exciting opportunity - I wrote fiction for a class! Equally delightful and scary stuff. I say scary because it is a bit scary when creating in this way for anyone other than yourself (or myself since, hell, I am speaking about myself). To step back, I admit that I have a very odd approach to writing academically (which includes essays, exams, and the like). Academic writing, for me, is almost like writing fiction - or how I imagine most people approach writing fiction. I have a beginning, middle, and finale throughout which I create a plot and use the characters provided for me. It can be an incredible experience, especially when writing for a likeminded professor. When not, I can almost imagine how most everyone else views writing...an exercise in boredom. Almost, that is. And so, writing creatively differs, for me, from academically in that the characters used are of your own invention. While I can justify almost any declaration made about a character as long as evidence and logical (HAH!) assumptions are held, it is on me to create such evidence when originality is demanded. Not only that but I must create a world in which the evidence breathes without crutch devices. Scary, thought in the best possible way, I assure you. Only if one didn't write would it be a bad thing - the scariest thing, to me...not writing.
At a completion of about a week and a half of rewrites and discussions about the script and the characters, my group has finally decided on a last cut of my script. In fact, I am just back from the hour long meeting in which we made our decisions. I cannot say more about the experience. I truly loved exploring ideas, making and listening to suggestions about movement, and hearing what the others brought to the table. I have a lot of faith in my ability to create. However, I have even greater faith in the ability of the collaborative process to tease and promote the best of the ideas from everyone involved. (With the desperate hope that everyone is as willing and open and eager for the search, journey and the goal.)
All that is left are rehearsals and our performance next Friday. While I thoroughly enjoyed trying to find Marlowe's Old Man, I am eager even now for my performance to be over. I knew full well when I was writing an abuse story that it would fall to me to play the abuser which would be a hard sell (actually, I would have trouble playing either the abuser or the abused). However, the idea seemed, and certainly is, interesting enough that I could suck it up and bite off a piece of violent misery. But....wow, much harder than I thought. There is a depth or superficiality to this character that I can't even imagine possessing. I can believe and embrace passion; even that which overwhelms. However. Violent passion is hard for me to even fathom. Yet I can create it. Now, whether or not I can create such realistically is an entirely different matter. I have received 'passing' to 'good' remarks on how I handled everything...but who knows, for in the age of relativity, reality is as variable as anything else.
The striking thing for me is that I can write about a thing so anathemaic to me. Of course I can find little truths in the words this character says. Now, surely I can qualify that rather bold statement. I see truth because of his character...who he is as a man, an abuser, a husband...defines the words that he speaks. I find myself comfortable (or perhaps able is a more approriate word) in the search for his words and his actions, because I know his character. In my mind, I can play the clip or scene from my imagination without any hesitation. Yet I struggle to make my body and my tongue act in the ways this character would. Why?
I have always thought I could act. Never a doubt in my mind, I could take the stage and dominate. In my mind, the words flowed without falter and movement twined like the body of a ballerina. And yet such a break or disconnect exists between what I can imagine and what I can physically do. I cannot deny myself as I should be able to if I were to fully become this other character. I can create characters who exist, in part, despite of me. But I cannot be those characters who are despite me.
Oh no, I'm a Method Actor!
I kid, I kid. (Method Acting has always partially weirded me out. Another story for anther time.) Forgive me if this was rather boring but the above thoughts simply rushed me. And they are important thoughts, to me at least. Such things I have considered since I was small. To reach a sense of understanding and balance about them is a true wonder. Perhaps an allowance as well, for I can see better what I do and understand more fuly what I can do, am capable of. Well, what I am capable of is too ambiguous to be seen. Whether I remain a son quickly to be forgotten or a son with a thing waiting to be embraced, I cannot even begin to fathom. But it's a cool thing, regardless, to know more about myself. Because when you know yourself, ladies and gentlemen, the following quotation holds a hell of a lot more meaning.
"When I think about you, I touch myself." *snarky*
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)