boys and guns

the media has rolled out the carpet and begun the fetishization of today's horrific murder today at the elementary school in connecticut.  they are giving the american psyche some feeling of control as they give minute by minute updates as to the names of the victims.  they are interviewing bus drivers who knew the students.  children are being shoved in front of cameras to talk about how frightened they were.  you can hear it in the scripts of the stations- in the voices of the anchors and correspondents- they are desperate to make something new out of this.  something that will make this a worst or a most or an extreme.  sensational.  sick.

and everyone online is horrified and giving their children extra hugs tonight.  and i do not blame them.
and everyone online is asking for god's healing for the families and victims.  and i judge them.
and everyone keeps stuttering, in chorus like stupor, "i just don't understand why."

my usual response would be:  there is no why.  there is no comfort.  we live in an absurd world.

but a few days ago, i turned in a paper about the social constructions of masculine identity, and the devastating effects these constructions have not only on women, but on the men themselves.  i was writing on gods go begging, concerned with soldiers in the Vietnam War.  i dove into some writings by wollstonecraft and woolf who undermine the stability of a patriarchal hierarchy, particularly in regards to gender, war, and heroism defined by violence.  all that to say...  it's got me feeling differently about what happened today.

i would like to point out that all of the recent mass shootings- schools or theaters- have been committed by young men.

and i would like to suggest that there is something terribly wrong with the way that we are raising boys.  we breed soldiers.  we put toy guns in the hands of kids who aren't even able to talk through problems.  we glorify and justify acts of violence in the name of patriotism, and expect that only actual soldiers will be influenced by that image of courage and power and bravery.  men are aggressive. men protect.  men shoot guns.  there is something wrong.

current definitions of masculinity do a terrible disservice to boys and men.

there is a difference between physical exertion and violence.
there is a difference between competition and domination.
as a culture, we can barely articulate a difference.

rings

If you've ever had a confrontation that made clear the people's enormous capacity to justify incredibly unjustifiable things and believe incredibly incredible things... if you've ever had the terrifying experience of realizing your very own power to delude yourself- to believe with a whole heart and a suppressed mind in the outrageous and illogical things...

you know, then, that you can never quite look at the world with quite the same amount of belief or trust again.  you can't quite greet humanity with the same sense of applause for our elevated ability to reason.  once you have had to recognize the giddy willingness with which humanity throws itself toward the fantastical, the comforting, the mystical, the self-assuring without regard at all for plausibility, the hollowness of all dogma seems to echo off even the most sound-seeming doctrines.

i feel that way about all things christian. among many other things

show me a truth and i will show you a price tag.

i've been thinking about that in regards to our culture's dependence and immersion in/abhorrence and distrust of media.  the internet has given us greater access to the world- more readily available technology has given us access to changing that world.

photoshop lays bare the strings that pull at miracles

i think that the acknowledged capability to manipulate and alter images has made everyone a bit more leery of taking visual proof as proof at all.

we crave it- we seek it- we still compare ourselves to the people on magazine covers- we still crave the satisfaction of the visual represented world- a world we can hold in our hands or call forth at a whim-

but deep down, we don't believe it.

hence a predominant sense of isolation.  little whispers of despair, if you listen.  a desperate, quiet confusion.  we know we are immersed in the unreal.  we know that we are informed by it, that we cannot untangle the strings enough to live apart from it.  but the unrealness of the unreal... the hollow... mars every clear ring of truth or beauty or stable promises in the world.

there is no euphony in the postmodern world without some reminder of the hollow it sprang from.

ho

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YnvzsZCJjZ0

Culture is so weird.
So weird.

grin and bear it: emo female takes on Brave

SO, a few days ago I was almost lost to a sea of depression after watching a man wait for his dog to poop.

Yesterday brought another installment in the ever exciting series of Girl* Meets Emo as I found myself crying big old tears watching Brave.

At one point I said out loud, "if that bear doesn't turn back, I'm going to lose my shit."

SPOILER ALERT shit was not lost.

Although I expected to latch right on to the character of that little fiesty redhead who wants nothing to do with marriage and defies cultural traditions and expectations (gathered all from the trailer!), it was the big ol queen turned bear that I found myself emotionally bound to.

this person who is changed utterly through no fault of their own now finds themselves unable to function in their world- unable to communicate- even the easiest tasks become unbearable obstacles (pun kind of intended but it doesn't really make sense)- and is now dependent on the ability of another person to grow if they have any hope of returning to their previous state.   

hm.

And it's that kind of connection that had me crying about a big cartoon bear.

The good news is:
1. Disney didn't totally screw it up by demonizing nature...
2. that even IF Merida hadn't learned her lesson and hadn't reversed the spell just-in-the-nick-of-dramatic-disney-time, I'm pretty sure Elinor would have been alright.  There were already signs that she was learning to function well in her new state, and that communication and understanding between the bears and humans was actually improving... that a terrible traumatic experience can be used to transform not only the understanding and perception of the individual, but to impact the understanding and empathy of their entire community and culture.  psychobabbleonandon
4.  A lot of the artwork I've seen has linked Merida and hermominbearform as a sort of shared identity... that their struggle is shared... that Merida recognizes her responsibility... that the restoration of her mother is necessary for her own restoration.  i like that.
4.  Despite these little emo episodes, I can usually quickly turn around and laugh at it.  So, that's good.

Going to see Silver Linings Playbook today.  Emo episode entirely possible.

*Should it be Woman Meets Emo?  I am 30 now, afterall.  At what age is girl not so appropriate?

friday night options

Got out for awhile.
Dragged myself out to a house full of drunk women repeating themselves and being generally awful.  Although I am not weeping alone about hypothetical children and a million other bodies, i'm not entirely sure which is the worse option.

in this

in an instant
in an hour
a chasm of infinite depth
opens between us
and our voices grow quiet, silent,
drowned by the enormity of the gulf
and hundreds of undead voices
(they do not stop)
echoing up from the dark
a dark with no bottom
and all i hear are muffled voices
and everything goes black
and all i see is red
and the dark of the depth
consumes and surrounds
and destroys

who am i
in this


?

almost broke

watching a man wait for his dog to poop in a yard today almost broke me.  it was an overwhelmingly depressing experience.  there he was-- standing in drizzle, slumped shoulders, with a plastic bag already posed and ready on his hand.  palpable ennui.  and it really did just about push me over the edge.
the futility of every single thing.

maybe i'm just sad today,
maybe it's the rain,

but seriously--
it was almost too much for me to handle.

break

i'm either more motivated by an anonymous public audience (that is no longer reading)
or
i've been very busy

someday i'll get back to the words
i'll let you (who?  no one.  absolutely no one.)
know when

know when
no one
know one
know no
one when

bunk

history is written by photoshop

hope and change

everyone high on their horses
-experts everywhere-
when the truth is

control is an illusion
on all levels,
i think

some people would probably crucify me for not voting today.
i am not a responsible citizen.  not a true american.  i have no right to complain.

ya ya ya
one of man
y man y many

more like
idol voting
(call in for whoever you want
it will cost the same)
fanatic
tomorrow we will wake up and drive to work
hope for no accident on the freeway
change the date on the calendar
a new day
"let's get this nation back on the right track"
what track?  where are we going?  who are we, anyway?
we doesn't feel related to me much at all
bound and bent toward futility
balloons will go up in some room or another
confetti will fall down on some floor and some shoes
and four years,
like seasons,
will follow.

i am walking slow to the car
filling up every single minute
with hope of my own
a we and a me
and a small universe,
drawn on my wrist.

time after time

necessary.  slow.

sometimes near impossible.

i live in a house full of clocks

that do not work,

but i still look up at them from time to time

as though they might be ready to talk.

pillars of salt

and it's been happening where i get unstuck in time... where all of the sudden i start feeling intensely.  all the voices around blur into very distant sounds like something whispered over a hill.  I read

"But she did look back, and I love her for that because it is so human"

and that just gets me every time- what is it, 4 times now?  5?- and all of the sudden the feeling of it is all i can do.  want to dwell in it and burst out of it and share it and keep it for myself.  vonnegut's nearly got me in tears.  who cries reading vonnegut?

i do. i could.  i nearly did.
in the fall after a few million dollar weeks when i'm feeling so strong and vulnerable.

cursing in the margins

So I guess my brother earned a spot in some sort of sharp shooter competition.   He'll be competing against 3 other guys for some sort of Top Gun recognition.

top gun

and i am supposed to feel proud of his accomplishment, but i keep thinking that that sharp shooting may one day be used to potentially end another living, breathing, feeling, thinking person's life and that he will be praised for it and that he is being trained right now with that knowledge in mind and how far away from your own beating heart do you have to step in order to look at spilled guts and feel pride and i am supposed to feel proud and thankful and patriotic but
 i do not.  i do not.  

something in me rebels.  

during night class before a discussion on gods go begging, i noted that you know a novel's really got you when you start cursing in the margins.  the more i think about that phrase, the more truth i find in the idea.

i find myself cursing in the margins of the generally accepted discourse that says war is necessary and a means to justice and that participation in such is something to be rewarded and praised.
but what can i do?  what can i do?
curse in the margins
and pass on
my copy?

the familiar is not the only.
our side is not the only.

somewhere in some other country, some other family member is feeling proud of their sibling for achieving well in some shooting competition.  and someday that person could use that skill to kill my brother.  to win.

but what do i know about war?  about necessity?  about justice?  about the big picture?
besides, don't i basically subscribe to a sort of existential detachment?
nothing really means anything, afterall, right?
we are surrounded by the absurd.
death is an absurd fear.  it will come when it will and will lead to nothing.

but brutality?

something in me rebels.  although i don't really know what the value of a human life really is or where it resides or that it even exists at all, something in me rebels about the idea of war.  people killing people they do not even know because of some ideal.

killing.
ending.
deciding.


and how would i propose to change things?  what grand plan do i have to rid the world of war?  isn't that sort of an abstract dream?  isn't war a part of the human condition?

if war is our natural state, then what is it in me that rebels?

when i saw The Pianist yeeeaarrss ago, i remember suddenly thinking that the idea of GI Joe toys and letting little kids play at killing each other was the most absurd thing i could imagine.  the general acceptance of it seemed suddenly astounding- seemed like a gross oversight-  a preposterous lack of thought.  how can we let little kids play at war?  don't we have any idea what war is?  how can we color it in shades of valor and honor?  Over the years, I suppose I became desensitized again.  But now... after some reading and a reason to reconsider war... i'm back to the shock.  back to the horror of the way we justify and back to confusion about what seems to me to be some sort of mass delusion.

back to cursing in the margins.

A Short-Lived Career

A Short Cautionary Tale of Broken English and Agitation

Once upon a time, a broke teacher answered an email from her college requesting editing help on a nursing student's thesis.  The teacher quickly googled going rates for editors, pitched a rate and landed the position.  The nursing student was to send her 60 page documents for revision on such a such a day, and it was to be completed by such and such a day.  

The day came and the nursing student sent a document as well as a request that the teacher construct a few complex diagrams to accompany the report.  The teacher upped her rate, was approved, and spent five hours on a beautiful Sunday editing the work of a grown-ass supposedly educated college student whose writing would have earned a C (maybe) in her high school class.  The experience was painful, (containing gems such as "not only in the U.S, but nation wide), but the teacher consoled herself with the promise of a paycheck and the fact that she was probably helping this woman from failing at life entirely.

Later that evening, the teacher returned a phone call from the nursing student.  During this conversation, she was told that, oh no, she didn't have to worry about checking the document part, that the document part is fine as is, and could she please just make the diagrams and check that the document was in proper APA format.

And so began and ended the teacher's editing career.

Never again.

The End

A Brief Conversation

I had a brief conversation with a three year old boy who didn't speak English.  He sat beside me and swung his legs on the bench.  We just looked at each other and told our own stories and derived our own meaning.

Every experience of my life has led up to this exact moment.

That is the thought that came to me on a Friday afternoon, while I was watching Judge Judy at the laundromat.

another end

These weeks have been going just so quickly.  I just reached another end to another moleskine last night.  Before I retire it to the collection, I'm going to send some of the randomness from the last few weeks of thought out into the cyberspacial world.  So, bullets:

• the super duper weird way that all couples are:  the weird language & way of speaking to/at each other full of codes and signals and little things that mean big things and big things avoided.  patronizing or coddling or loving or joking-but-not-really-joking or joking-with-a-full-heart.  being on a pair is the oddest thing.
• "It's always everything at once"
• Sprinkling like a quiet cloud passing:  25 pencils and pens beginning to take a quiz
• Things that bug
• meeting people you think are interesting only to realize they're crazy
• mismanaged time
• everyone in the world's goddamned needs
• elitists
• that guy at open mic nights.  STOP COMMUNICATING WITH ME.  THERE IS NO REASON FOR YOU TO COMMUNICATE WITH ME.
• people's general internet presences
• every single singer in the world trying to be Regina Spektor
• Does education have anything to do with this?
• The protagonist in this novel goes through a series of disillusions.  He wants to hold on to moral idealism, but the situation he confronts makes that impossible.
• second chances every day
• "Freeing yourself is one thing;  claiming ownership of that freed self is another."
• relationships are weird.  others are strange.  the self is strange.  i feel like a watcher, next to myself.  observing myself.  watching it all complacently.  going through motions, my heart places somewhere out of the way.  safe, but hidden so well i'm not sure i can find it again.
• fat legs won't stop.
• well wait. am i who i think i am?  who they think i am?  who is anyone?
• you think you're doing fine until you find yourself in the bathroom crying again.
• CLARITY
• there is no before.  we are always already.  
• for give
• john wayne had male lovers
• somewhere! i saw the cloud coming and i turned it around!
• unwavering & stable
• myth:  we live in a classless society where everyone can move up the social ladder
• recent google searches:
• the effect of gamma rays on man-in-the-moon marigolds
• mary mary quite contrary
• lifespan of a fly
• chuck d
• wendy's new logo
• where does that leave me?

what is it good for?

"You have to know that your life is empty before you can begin to fill it."

i know nothing about war.  i was in a movie about a war once (Wicked Spring), but that taught me next to nothing.  i was the fiance who stayed behind while my man went and got himself killed in war. i learned about corsets and craft services.  nothing about real (or even movie) war.

and then came gods go begging.

this novel offered no solution.  the novel looks at the results of living in a patriarchal hierarchy that forces desire and domination into an inseparable definition.  a hierarchy that excludes the possibility of desire existing in a way that does not in some way take.  what i loved most was that it focuses on the  devastating effects this culture has on men.  sometimes it's easy to forget that women aren't the only ones who suffer consequences from the societal expectations we swim in.  this novel moved me to see that men, in some ways, are just as victimized by our culture.  

the novel referred to war as "lewd acts with boys," a figurative (and sometimes literal) rape of young men who are too inexperienced and young to understand what is happening to them.  

a bold statement- 

particularly with a brother who just signed- 

but i think i agree.

for the sake of some patriotic ideal, or some sense of honor, or open doors in the future, or something, people sign up to defend their country.  for many, it costs their lives.  for so many more, it costs them a sort of emotional death that they may never recover from.  we send these people off to war in which they go through repeated traumatic experiences that forever reshapes their emotional health and their ability to look at the world.  then we send them home and pat them on the back and fly flags for them on certain days and build statues in their honor.  in their honor.  but these people return to a world that they don't belong in anymore.  war is a world apart, and i'm not sure we do a very good job providing a bridge back to this world once they return.  

i've never been to war.  but Alfredo Vea, the author of this novel, and PLENTY of disillusioned authors that i've read and respect have been.  while this novel may not have offered much in the way of a concrete solutions, it does point to the hollow and makes it echo with very human voices.  

voices that echo for days.  

i'm not sure i'd ever thought of war in anything but abstract terms.  this novel changed that.  this novel made me look and the empty and doubt that it would ever start to fill if we just continue to feed it the same old order.  

me

"What, baby?"
"She left me."
"Aw, girl.  Don't cry."
"She was my best thing."
Paul D sits down in the rocking chair and examines the quilt patched in carnival colors.  His hands are limp between his knees.  There are too many things to feel about this woman.  His head hurts.  Suddenly he remembers Sixo trying to describe the Thirty-Mile Woman.  "She is a friend of my mind.  She gather me, man.  The pieces I am, she gather them and give them back to me in all the right order.  It's good, you know, when you got a woman who is a friend of your mind."

He is staring at the quilt but he is thinking about her wrought-iron back...  Only this woman Sethe could have left him his manhood like that.  He wants to put his story next to hers.

"Sethe," he says, "me and you, we got more yesterday than anybody.  We need some kind of tomorrow."

He leans over and takes her hand.  With the other he touches her face.  "You your best thing, Sethe.  You are."  His holding fingers are holding hers.

"Me?  Me?"
-Beloved

When I finished reading this passage out loud in class today, our last discussion day of the novel, I threw myself down on the desk in front of me in some dramatic demonstration of extreme emotion.  "This part kills me, girls.  It just kills me," I said, head buried in my arms.  

And it does.  

It tears me down and builds me up.

"This is not a story to pass on."
This is not a story to continue?
This is not a story to let die?
This is not a story to neglect?

i guess i

these are some fragments of a little moleskin that started one of the most important friendships in my life.  before we even knew much about each other, we started passing this notebook back and forth throughout the school day like little school girls passing notes (m's idea).  this notebook and the subsequent friendship has become more important to my experience and sense of self than i can even express.

this was back at the beginning of so much change and ache and joy and shift.
in so many ways, everything has changed.
 in so many ways, everything is the same.

define happy

what's so great about the giving tree?
i wish that trees had legs
so it could run away
if it wanted to.

rage/still

outside myself
watching from somewhere
until a trigger
sends the register of some hurt
flashing across my face
flashed
seen
and impossible to reclaim

somewhere, a door closes.

some light lifts
and sends shadows on words
where there were none

wait

rage rage rage

like dancing
alone
with a watcher
unmoving

rage rage rage

space

"Into that empty space of not knowing- a space sometimes colored with righteous resentment at what could have been cowardice, stupidity, or bad luck- that empty space of no definitive news was filled now with a brand-new sorrow, and who could tell how many more on the way."

-Toni Morrison Beloved

a silence and a sob

wrestle to fill the space 

where a promise used to be.

instead

i woke myself laughing at the puppet head.  the mistake was just hilarious.

(you see, in the dream there was some sort of documentary program on the screen.  the voice was talking about a woman's life and how she'd changed over the years (i do not remember for better or worse) and i was extremely interested.  but what really got me was when, instead of showing pictures and footage of the woman, the cameraman made the mistake of letting the camera land and remain on the head of a puppet.  a hollow head of a puppet, smiling and unmoving.  and in the dream the cameraman's error was so funny to me!  it was the story of a woman and how she'd changed but the shot was stuck on some image of a puppet, unmoving!  how come no one noticed the cameraman's error!  how absurd!) 

i woke myself up laughing, and apologizing for laughing but it was just too, too funny.  i've told the story two times now, since waking up, and i'm staring to wonder if it's even funny.  i'm starting to suspect that the focus on the stilled puppet was hardly an accident at all.

the puppet, stilled and smiling
an utter lack of agency
instead of the woman who had changed

they say, in dreams,
you are every person
you play every part

if you can't carry it, bury it
come back later with stronger arms
you are too heavy
to keep, heart

every box is like a tiny funeral for my dreams
some unconsidered option
some box too heavy
some arms too weak

i do not know which one i would open
but i would like the strength to try

i do not know what i want
except the option to consider
what i want

some active voice
some cause for celebration
instead of little deaths
every day

something about stickin

this generation don't know nuthin about stickin to something
don't know nuthin about a promise.
nuthin about stickin with a job for a whole of your career
about loy- al- tee
about marryin and stickin to it
always jumpin from one boat to another
all of em leakin
go to the doctor and get pills so you can live on borrowed time
don't know nuthin about plantin gardens and watchin em grow

the only attempt you manage to muster
is a halfass promise to the credit card company
and even then,
it's a gamble and a prayer that that promise means squat

but you HUNGRY for it
god, you starvin
you don't know nothin BOUT a promise, but you love hearin about and believin about it
somebody on tv promise you life gonna look different if you buy something new
and you sell your soul to chase that promise
you feel some kind of itch to try on every promise to see if it fits
you jump through apartments and lovers and religious and political a- feel- ee- Ations
but you lookin for the same thing every time

you lookin for a word that means somethin

and someone tol you if you ain't find it yet, you ain't lookin hard enough

but i'm here to tell you, if it ain't there, it ain't there
and no amount of scrunchin up your face and starin is gonna put it there
there ain't gonna be no promise resurrected from some hollow tomb

you want somethin and you ain't find it yet-
you start makin it for yourself

you start makin a promise of your own
something you know about
and know how to keep

and you start learnin how to stick to it

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

Finished a second reading on September 11.  Not as many tears, but a deeper connection to Oskar due to a greater understanding of PTSD.  On my first reading, the Something/Nothing dichotomy stood out  much more clearly.  Perhaps it spoke to the moment.

The only tears shed this time  were caused by the build that resulted in the last line:

"We would have been safe."

and the frozen image of the falling body,

 reversed to ascension, 

but still and inevitably a remnant of something that cannot be reversed. 

 a stilled reminder that there is no safety. 

 there is no way to take that body out of the air.

that spoke extremely loudly to me this time,

it is incredibly close to my biggest fears

of helplessness.

happened upon

i happened upon a song she was singing

i had in depth knowledge of her metaphor                                              (of course she was singing,

and how her heart strings were not the expression of some universal,            they're always singing

but of one pull in particular                                                           or doing incredibly alluring things

  and i know the puller                                                                                         that draw you in the codes that lock up the metaphor                                                                                     and keep you 

 i know the one                                                                            on the side of an everyone audience

the arrows point to                                                                                                  simultaneously.                                                                                                                   in unforgiving ways                                                                     nose up against the fourth wall glass

                                                                                                      but that's as close as you will get.

once you know the code,
the chords are easy to learn.

i knew the codes
but                                                                                              you had her glowing like a highlight reel
the glow was gone and it                                              (but the rest of us are real time real time real time)
left a lacking but not a longing                                                 and i squinted my eyes at a thing so bright
and she didn't glow and  
the room went hollow for me.                                                      sometimes i find myself squinting, still.

looking for a cue.

on this day

everyone is intent on the need to say

REMEMBER 9/11

today.

What, exactly,

and to what end?

No amount of remembering will prevent 

something like it from happening again.

Everyone gone remains gone.

And those still alive remain changed

and don't need a reminder to remember.

In fact,

sometimes wouldn't forgetting

be a welcome relief

to those that don't need a reminder to remember?

sometimes isn't letting yourself forget

a necessary thing

to do?

scared

"Passing"

I read the novella "Passing" for my American Ethnic Literature class.  It is so rich.  On one level, it is a discourse on a mulatto woman who has spent her adult life "passing" as white attempting to return to her African American roots.  But SO MANY other voices join the discourse, including a chilling exploration of gender roles.  The interior backflips of the narrator often rang all too true, highlighting the complexity of navigating female identity in a world that would pin women against men, and so often against other women as well.  Next to one seemingly insignificant part of her narration, I wrote, "HOW DO ANY OF US LIVE AT ALL?"  Because, while the passage now reads as quite trivial, the momentum of the novella culminated in the acute and overwhelming awareness of how HEAVY and inescapable the navigation of social relationships can be.

I will reread this.  I may even write a paper on it.

"Yes, life went on precisely as before.  It was only she that had changed.  Knowing, stumbling on this thing, had changed her.  It was as if in a house long dim, a match had been struck, showing ghastly shapes where had been only blurred shadows.  ...

So like many other tea-parties she had had.  So unlike any of those others.  But she mustn't think yet.  Time enough for that after.  All the time in the world.  She had a second's flashing knowledge of what those words might portend.  Time with Brian.  Time without him.  It was gone, leaving in its place an almost uncontrollable impulse to laugh, to scream, to hurl things about.  She wanted, suddenly, to shock people, to hurt them, to make them notice her, to be aware of her suffering.  ...

It hurt.  Dear God!  How the thing hurt!  ... In that second she saw that she could bear anything, but only if no one knew that she had anything to bear.  It hurt.  It frightened her, but she could bear it. ...

It hurt.  It hurt like hell.  But it didn't matter, if no one knew.  If everything could go on as before.  If the boys were safe.  
It did hurt. 
But it didn't matter."

But it does matter.  It does matter.
Nella Larsen gave a voice to so many things that do matter, and that people, often women, spend a whole lifetime trying not to look at.

reservoir

there is not time enough
i am german and most certainly will not age well
the freedom of being known
the absolute instability of every single thing
except quantum physics
and other things i know very little about
but interact with on some level every single millisecond of every single day
(like people)
which will never be repeated
today is the only today that will ever be
and sometimes people have a knack for remembering dates and exact times
and sometimes knacks work like knocks that haunt and tease long after there's anyone left at all on the other end of the heart
attract attack
sometimes we forget entire years.  someday today will not even
"What the?"
what ever happened with the hurricane? ivan?
how many people died in 9/11?
but how many people survived?  how many people are still alive?

move one grain in the sahara once and you've changed the course of human history
but who cares?

pretty pretty pretty is a problem for everyone everyone everyone
pretty much
muck
a boat load of confidence and no means
an ocean of heavy water
but still afloat

"In bed that night I invented a special drain that would be underneath every pillow in New York, and would connect to the reservoir.  Whenever people cried themselves to sleep, the tears would all go to the same place, and in the morning the weatherman could report if the water level of the Reservoir of Tears had gone up or down, and you could know if New York was in heavy boots."
Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

Fables

I read this on a busy Wednesday night at the coffeehouse.  I had just finished Grid City Overload and didn't want to start anything too heavy.  I've also resisted reading anything school-related with every bit of my might.

Fables was great.  I'm not well read in the graphic novel department- this was a great introduction.

Pro-tip:  DO NOT read a graphic novel in public if you are female, unless you are looking for male attention.  Seeing a woman read a graphic novel seems to supply every nerdy and otherwise shy man in the general three mile radius with the nerve and a reason to approach you.  

Grid City Overload

Grid City Overload (Steven T. Bramble)

i finished reading while my students were writing an essay, which is unfortunate because i really needed to scream and pace around and talk really quickly and not make any sense.  i resorted to writing.  i wrote:

so many thoughts.  the kind of thoughts that matter to me.  the kind to get lost in.   the big pictures and the whys and the crux of human everything.

brilliant.

i think the book reaches me on a subconscious level i'm not even fully aware of.
it speaks to my biggest unanswered questions-
voices real abstract fears-
holds up a shattered mirror.

no hope-
and a severe comfort as a result of that hopelessness
the refusal to redeem or deliver a purpose-
but the articulation of the absence-
the inevitable loneliness of existing at all-
the out-of-controlness embedded at the foundation of everything we do.
the in-control parts playing out like desperate attempts at pacification-
applying identifying titles and labels and ideologies like sun screen to protect us from some absence
we can't cope with or identify or ignore
the general paranoia-
the mystery we are even to ourselves-
we cannot even begin to answer the whys behind our own actions-
much less some larger network of purpose
the cyclical patterns of generations falling and rising-
embracing and rebelling-
changing everything-
changing nothing

that's not even the half of it-

my mind is swimming.

(i hope you read it.)

i hope he never stops writing.

http://gridcityoverload.blogspot.com

grown

two grown men, artist types,
or at least of the kind who are sitting at the coffeehouse drawing cartoons
in the middle of a Monday work day
giggling like middle schoolers at the absurdity of
"Song of Songs"

I am a horse!  My neck is an ivory tower!  I have all my teeth, and they're lined up like sheep! I am your daughter!  Your sister!  I'm sexy and I know it!  I am a prized treasure!  I am food!  My boobs are grape clusters! Let us go fornicate under the apple tree where I was conceived!

The whole world is ripe for a laugh if you can control the anxious fits long enough to get there.
And if the timing is right-
It is not always the right time to laugh.

the day before a gradual relinquishing of freedom
trading real hours
for dollar bills and insurance coverage i will not use,
gripping onto the freedom offered in the endless expanse of an unbounded (however burderned) mind
like a ten dollar raft
in white water

You Bright and Risen Angels 
with margins like wingspans
i have yet to write in
mark up
connect
misconstrue
overdo
read right through

i really hope i get to you
sometime between the foam
so we can see how much we've grown
or at least survived the time

when they ask you if you are a writer
you say yes
you say yes

winter

Oh, also,
I finished this book before I left for the trip.  It was outstanding.  I had a hundred pages dog eared to blog about when I was finished, but it's too late for that now.

The back cover referred to it as something like "the documentation of the moral decline of a man."

To me, though, it was just the documentation of a man.  Any man.  Every man.



(winter is coming)

gaps

Have you seen that new movie?  The one where the woman is sad and kind of lost?  The one about love?  The one where your eyes tear up or you nod your head while watching because it captures so many of those difficult and joyful and life things.  The one with the dialogue that you could swear comes straight out of conversations or thoughts from your life?  The one with the ambiguous ending?  The one that that is so good but also so sad because it is so true?  The one that reminds you of the infinite loneliness and need for connection we all experience?  The one about disappointment?  The one where you feel sad and mad and infinite sympathy and understanding for every character?

No, not Lost In Translation.  The one with Michelle Williams.

No, not Blue Valentine.

Take this Waltz.

Take this Waltz mattered so much to me.  I will buy it and watch it again and again.  The cinematography was stunning.  The symbolism rich but not overdone.  The dialogue effective.  The pacing, perfect.  Enough to surprise while remaining believable.

Of all the difficult relationships in the film, Sarah Silverman's character's marriage is the most stable.  Even as an struggling recovering alcoholic, her dialogue with Margot in the gym shower and her drunken rant in her last conversation with Margot marked her as the unlikely sage of the film.

As sad as I expected to be based on what I'd heard from the film, I felt lifted.  I felt comforted.  Silverman's character reminded me (and tried to remind Margot) of an important truth that will make you crazy or delusional or forever let down if you forget:

"In the bigger picture, life has a gap in it.  

It just does.  

You don't go crazy trying to fill it."

The movie reminded me that it's ok to be sad sometimes and to not know why.  It's ok to not be able to figure out the 1/10 situation talked about in the movie.  It's ok and necessary to be content with that element of living.  And it's so important not to try to snuff it out or to minimize that restlessness or sadness with something that will never quite fit the gap.  Relationships cannot and will not fill it.  Religion can pacify it, but leaves a huge logic/reason gap.  Hobbies can distract, but they do not fill.  Addiction poses as escape but creates more problems than it solves.

Life has a gap in it.  It just does.  

The movie reminded that even with the gap hanging around the borders of living, life can still be enjoyed. 

It's ok to be sad.  And it's also ok to enjoy the ride.

tried

i tried to climb a mountain on monday

it was awful

wherever you go, there you are

i am still so fragile

i still need to be just so careful and good to myself

apparently last night i giggled and laughed in my sleep

slept with a big smile on my face

and when i woke up i had been dreaming about taking pictures

i had captured a really funny moment at the last second

and it made me so happy

photography makes me that happy.  unbelievably happy.

school meetings start next week

that looming date feels like a shadow over everything

makes my heart want to curl up, scared

i am not ready to give yet

i am not ready to be present and far away

for so long everyday

such extremes  

moments of incredible lightness and  hope and possibility

swing to despair and nervousness and terrified of everything

down the hallway of distorted thinking

looking for the safe places in my head

and in the world

and blinders

to the rest

need

to rest

from the rest

of it all

displaced

4:53 a.m. on a saturday, no sunday, no, saturday in an airport in connecticut catching a flight that doesn't leave for another hour.  i didn't sleep at all, except for about 12 minutes of the cab ride here in which i considered the fact that the driver might run up the tab or cut me up into little pieces, but was too lulled to care.  i've been away from home for a solid week, no- a week and one day- no, just under a week- and i feel so disoriented.  anxiety building to a heartpounding degree over the last few days.  i could list the reasons why.  there are no reasons why.

i feel displaced.

i just had some really great times and connections with family and friends from michigan and college.

but that is all past and in the meantime (in seven short days) i feel like i need to be reintroduced to my current life all over again.

i was just starting to feel so good.

a few steps back.

heartpoundingijustwanttobehomealready home home home home home home home home home home.

Snarky Social Commentary

Snarky Social Commentary on an Actually Very Enjoyable Event

Located in Los Angeles (the city of angels) California

Called Design for Humanity

Sponsored by Billabong

Including Photos!

When you grow up in the midwest, you learn from the television and magazines that red carpets are very very big deals and that only very important, glamorous people walk on them while complete strangers shout out their names and try to attract their attention.

 Here is what really happens for much of the time on red carpets:

girls eat sandwiches.

The event is sponsored by Billabong.  It includes an art auction.  I was really excited to see what kind of art would be going for such ridiculous amounts of money.  Here is a picture of my favorite shot of the art gallery:

So, it wasn't really the BEST art in the world.  but hey, it was going to a good cause.  

'

and what, you might wonder, was that cause?  judging by the 2 minute emotionally stirring video they aired before the fashion show, here was the cause:

Children are obese.  And this is terrible.  As remedy or some sort of comfort, a series of nearly naked and most certainly eating disordered women paraded in front of us for the next ten minutes.  maybe it was supposed to be some sort of proof that although children are obese, there will always be unnaturally thin people to balance the scale.  although children are obese now, at least some percentage of them will grow up and be able to fit into billabong bathing suits.   we all took pictures as evidence.  see:

i mean, to be fair, not all of the girls looked completely unhealthy.  some even had muscle tone.  the whole thing was just a little funny to me... like most things involving sexuality.  if you really think about it, a huge group of people were just standing around cheering and taking pictures of some people walking around in underwear.  funny humans. 

as a new photographer, i was really excited for this part, though.  i kind of wish we could have kept cheering for those girls in underwear for another half hour so that i could have had more time to practice around with focus and lighting and whatnot.  

a lot of my favorite pictures from the fashion show ended up being:  out of focus (which is why i ended up liking them) or  muddled by the ENORMOUS FACE of a man that looked like ray's brother from Everybody Loves Raymond (who can ever remember his name?)  or marshall from How I Met Your Mother.  Here is evidence:

In nearly half of my shots that were in focus, his enormous head was floating right next or overlapping the model's legs.  And most of the time, he was turned around, smiling that enormous face smile or staring off into space.  Even when he was actually WATCHING the show, he usually found a way for his enormous head to block what would otherwise be clear shots of the model.

I can edit the CHIPOTLE signs off the sides of buildings (you didn't even notice, huh?)... but my amateur photographer self does not have the program or the skills to edit out that kind of nonsense.  moving on.

there were many great bands at the event (not an ounce of snark there.  that was just serious).  here's one that i plan to check out.  The Lumineers:

and when you get to be really good and played on the radio and you are a man and if you happen to be mildly attractive or at least have some amount of swagger/stage presence, here is the reaction you can expect from women:

there were a lot of really beautiful women there.  a lot of men pretty enough to be women.  so many beautiful people, in fact, that you kind of forgot what beautiful was after awhile and started noticing things like the fact that 70% were wearing ridiculous heels or that those bright red carpet lights make people beautiful from a distance, but are absolutely unforgiving up close.  that's what you start noticing when everyone is beautiful and everywhere.

so, all in all, it was a great time.  we inspected people in the art gallery.  we reminded ourselves that even though children are obese, there are women with eating disorders to strike the circle of life balance.  we swooned to some great music.  

and, as must end EVERY SINGLE TRIP YOU WILL EVER TAKE TO LA FOR AN EVENT,

we got caught in highway detour and heinous traffic on the way home.  

consider humanity designed.

the end.

OH!  i also saw this guy from glee:

trending

here are some trends i am noticing in the world of photography:

artsy things artsy people take pictures of:
1. sunsets/rises
2.  the eyes of animals- close up
3.  food
4.  flowers (dandelions, the unfolding of roses, extreme close-ups)
5.  coffee cups/ latte designs
6.  birds in flight (or just... birds)
7.  skylines
8.  "the details"  "the little things"
9.  guitar necks
10.  mirror self-portraits with camera
11.  people holding hands
12.  babies
13.  big sweeping nature bits
14.  i can't think of a 14 but i wanted to end it on an even number

i, no doubt, do the same thing
 (evidence:
sunset/birds in flight:  two for one!  http://www.flickr.com/photos/lindseying/7595229008/in/photostream
the little things:  or, the "litter" things http://www.flickr.com/photos/lindseying/7588642822/in/photostream)
and will continue.

on one hand- clearly these things are recaptured over and over again ad infintum because they have some inherent beauty or meaning or value to humanity.  no matter how many of these pictures i see, i still get the same fresh rush when i capture one of my own.  it's not so much that i don't enjoy the pictures, i'm just afraid other people will judge them as trite  or... well, that's the other hand...

on the other hand- i have an increasing paranoia developing that every picture i take is extremely cliche.  worn out.  expected.  predictable.  this is an especially sensitive idea to me because my technical skills are not up to par with a gazillion other photographers taking pictures of the same damn thing every day.

but because these pictures still move me and still matter to me, i will continue to snap them and enjoy them when they happen.  at the same time, i hope to move beyond the expected in some way.  i hope to develop a unique voice, somehow.  that leads me to another list:

what makes a photograph effective to a person:
1.  A. the photograph captures something true about a person or
    place that matters to the viewer.  (a situation or an essence)
    B. the photograph captures something innate about the human
    condition (evokes empathy, even if the subject is not
    personal)
2.  the photography is aesthetically pleasing or appealing
3.  both of the above

that seems really simple, right?  i think my goal in photography is something in the third realm.   while i love capturing generally aesthetically pleasing things (angles/color schemes), the pictures i get REALLY excited about are when i feel like i've captured the truth about someONE or someWHERE or someWHEN.  i love the details and sweeping landscapes of life just like anyone else, but for me that only goes so far.  i prefer people as subjects.  or, more accurately, i prefer situations as subjects.

on that note, thinking about moving into any realm of taking pictures for profit makes me a little nervous.  i am afraid my pictures would lose authenticity... that the scenery would be forced or that i wouldn't know the people well enough to capture their truth.  there are ways around it, i suppose.  but i think there's a danger that even pictures of people can be reduced to aesthetical appeal.  yes, you want to make them look good.  you want the colors and lighting to work.

but if that's the whole goal, you've really left them out of it.

anyway, i'm still kneedeep.  today, on the last day of summer school, i rushed home from work and immediately started editing.  i was only somewhat pleased with the results, but that is totally trumped by the euphoria that accompanies everything about the whole process.

i literally stopped after uploading one picture and said out loud to the cats and the empty room,
"i LOVE life."

and it felt good to say it
and really truly mean it.

truth.