It's my final post of 2007 and it should be a momentous one. After all, end of the year thoughts should be all encompassing should they not? Thankfully I have something that will spurn much discussion I think.
Yestereve I watched Borat.
I had put it off for a very long time, not because I didn't want to see it, but because I knew it would be a, shall we say harrowing, experience. I knew the movie would demand a lot of me mentally; it would doubtless offend while simultaneously requiring that I look past my offense to see what was intended and actually being said. It offended less than I thought it would, but required much more of my thought process than anticipated.
The movie did several brilliant things. First of all, it juxtaposed widespread popular culture with academic notions of right and wrong in a way that demonstrated with pinpoint clarity that significant disconnect between what we sell in American society, and what we all "know" to be right and wrong. The best example of this is Baywatch and the Feminist Association of America. When Borat discovers Baywatch we all giggle and don't think too much about it. But when we visits the feminists immediately after that and spouts horrifically offensive things to the women (who do an admirable job of keeping their cool) it becomes incredibly apparent that America is not nearly so equal in gender roles as we like to believe. At least not in what we promote to the culture at large. That wasn't a surprise to me--I think I've ranted on behalf of women everywhere multiple times--but it was a humorous, painful, and enlightening way of depicting the problem to audiences in the movie theatres. This technique was used in other ways as well, racism, classism, most of the -isms. It was well done and I enjoyed it immensely.
Also, this movies shows how dangerous the habit of generalizing is. When you watch people onscreen, oblivious to how they sound or what they are actually saying, promote destructive, hateful, and sometimes just asinine views, you become aware of just how insidious the culture of stereotyping is in our culture. It becomes painfully apparent that every time you say "all women are bad drivers" or "all men are misogynistic" or "all poor people are stupid" or "everyone in the ghetto wants to kill you" that, intentional or not, you are promoting the very bigoted ideas that you might rail against when spouted by someone else. We none of us ever intend to be hurtful or hateful (at least not when we're just being "funny") but we are. We create the problem and encourage its continued existence. And so as I watched the movie I was simultaneously so happy that I had previously realized the danger in not only stereotyping, but in policing my own thoughts and speech to avoid any hint of it, and also emboldened to continue such censorship of myself. I can't shy away from uncomfortable topics or situations, but I can do my best to make sure any conclusions I draw from what I see or hear around me don't generalize a group of people in a such a way that it denies them their individuality; their very humanity.
In these ways the movie was brilliant. And, seeing it in action and having heard people talk about it before and after, I know that others felt the very same things I am saying right now. I know even that some who were unaware of the danger of their generalizing were made more aware of it by the movie. That is encouraging and useful I think. But parts of the movie weren't quite so brilliant.
I think specifically of the places where he asks, not just foreign, but quite literally retarded, and prompts a smile or a "leave me alone" from the people around him. Sometimes those parts were funny in a Dumb and Dumber sort of way, but sometimes the ends most certainly didn't justify the means. I think specifically of one person losing their job after his antics. There didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason for his behavior other than ridiculousness which is funny and harmless, but if someone ends up fired because of it I can only hope some form of compensation was delivered. A joke intended to be harmless should never result in someone's welfare being adversely affected.
Some parts I wasn't sure were necessary seem more pointed now that I have thought on them some more. The scene with Borat and his friend wrestling around naked does wonders for showing us our own fear of the body and discomfort with its forms. It was funny, and disturbing. Some of the horrible things he says show how often we ignore what someone says when we don't agree or think it distasteful. Our need for manners often outweighs our moral indignation. But even that is not clear cut.
When dealing with people who may or may not attack you, it is a matter of safety that you don't react because you may be accosted. In these instances as ridiculous as his speech was I don't see how the people could have reacted much differently. The world is too scary of a place. Also, while we shouldn't necessarily be disgusted by "unattractive" naked bodies, I don't know that I need to see one man's genitals on another's forehead. That could just be personal preference, though.
So the movie left me with much to think about, but feeling better after a good night's sleep then I did immediately after watching it. I'm not sorry I saw it, actually. I'm not even sorry it was made. Whether I see it again remains to be seen. In this case once might definitely be enough.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Monday, December 24, 2007
I'm taking a break from my maudlin holiday self to discuss the incredibly silliness of melodrama. Perhaps that sentence strikes you as odd, but allow me to explain.
As I continue my watching of the great epic known as Beauty and the Beast I find that much of their trouble stems from their complete lack of imagination. Obviously in soap operas or melodramatic Friday night television shows a person must suspend disbelief and agree to accept a certain amount of emotional overload to enjoy it, but sometimes the way the show explains things is just silly.
This is not a new phenomena and, in actuality, this particular problem has haunted me through most of my life in books, movies, and television. I think, perhaps, that part of the reason I love the trashy romance novel so much is because they have to resolve all of the imposed silliness by the end of the book. Some examples of what I'm talking about are Vincent and Catherine's inability to go anywhere or do anything together in B & B, Rogue and Gambit's inability to do anything together in X-Men, Superman and Lois Lane's inability to be together while he is still "super". Basically it comes down to the lovers being unable to love due to some extreme situation that prevents them from being together.
Now in some situations this is more justified than others. For example, Rogue and Gambit can not touch skin to skin--that's a hassle. Vincent can not be caught by anyone who doesn't know him already, also a hassle. But my problem with these plot devices is that they are so obviously contrived. Anyone who has ever even dreamed of loving Superman knows that his superpowers have nothing to do with his ability to love or have sex with Lois Lane. The original cut of Superman II with the footage Richard Donner wanted in it does a much better job of setting of the situation, but the movie released in theatres is paltry in its explanation. He can't be with her and be super because...he can't? Fantastic argument, obviously you're correct. And anyone who has ever had sex with a bodybuilder knows that no matter how strong the man, it doesn't affect how he ejaculates--I throw that in there for the whole "super-sperm" argument.
Rogue and Gambit have a harder time as they must be careful never to touch skin to skin. To that I say walk into an adult porn shop, go online, do what you have to do, but get yourself a body suit and a box of condoms. He can wear gloves and so can she--it won't be skin to skin, but it's better than moping about how sorry they are they can't consummate their love. Is that solution really that difficult to imagine? And does it seem like such a bad solution to the particular problem presented? A little imagination, that's all I ask.
Vincent and Catherine don't even compare to the problems faced by the first two. Granted it is incredibly important that Vincent's anonymity be protected, but that can be done. People in the caverns argue against him "going above" because he might get caught. They're afraid he will never come back and he is a "beacon" to the community; they need him. He brings so much. Can you seriously tell me that if you had a friend who had to be kept secret you would deny him the chance to go outside--to see mountains and lakes and trees? Yes, he would need to be careful, no he couldn't be seen, but there are entire campgrounds that are empty at certain times of the year. Catherine is rich and can rent a house on a lake. Anyone who has ever visited one knows how private they can be, especially in the off season. He can be hidden in a van for travel. In the winter he can wear a ski-mask or scarf. She can come down to the tunnels all weekend and he can stay in her apartment over night sometimes. There is nothing keeping these two apart but bad writing and the social conservatism of 1987.
What is so frustrating is that many times the writing is so good in B & B, X-Men, and Superman. There are fantastic explanations for why things are the way they are. But when they want to provide a little drama, a reason for keeping the hero and heroine apart the explanations are reduced to idiocy and our characters are suddenly unable to conceive of any possible way to find happiness. It is at this point that I scream at the stars because I hate people who can't conceive of any possible way to find happiness. Those people drive me insane. And so when my favorite characters become those people I find myself trapped in a world of melodramatic inanity that ceases to be entertaining and becomes purely annoying.
This is my rant brought on by too much television, too much family, and holiday blues. But I feel it is important that I get this message out to the world. Some day one of you might find yourself in a position to talk to a script writer and you'll need to make sure and halt any silliness before it reaches production. One thing I've always loved about Joss Whedon is that he is always so believable. That makes his shows dramatically more difficult to watch sometimes--the pain is almost too real--but at least I never feel betrayed by my characters. They are what they are and that doesn't change because of need unrelated to the story.
I am going to talk about I Am Legend soon. I promise. I just needed to get this off my chest. I bid you good night.
As I continue my watching of the great epic known as Beauty and the Beast I find that much of their trouble stems from their complete lack of imagination. Obviously in soap operas or melodramatic Friday night television shows a person must suspend disbelief and agree to accept a certain amount of emotional overload to enjoy it, but sometimes the way the show explains things is just silly.
This is not a new phenomena and, in actuality, this particular problem has haunted me through most of my life in books, movies, and television. I think, perhaps, that part of the reason I love the trashy romance novel so much is because they have to resolve all of the imposed silliness by the end of the book. Some examples of what I'm talking about are Vincent and Catherine's inability to go anywhere or do anything together in B & B, Rogue and Gambit's inability to do anything together in X-Men, Superman and Lois Lane's inability to be together while he is still "super". Basically it comes down to the lovers being unable to love due to some extreme situation that prevents them from being together.
Now in some situations this is more justified than others. For example, Rogue and Gambit can not touch skin to skin--that's a hassle. Vincent can not be caught by anyone who doesn't know him already, also a hassle. But my problem with these plot devices is that they are so obviously contrived. Anyone who has ever even dreamed of loving Superman knows that his superpowers have nothing to do with his ability to love or have sex with Lois Lane. The original cut of Superman II with the footage Richard Donner wanted in it does a much better job of setting of the situation, but the movie released in theatres is paltry in its explanation. He can't be with her and be super because...he can't? Fantastic argument, obviously you're correct. And anyone who has ever had sex with a bodybuilder knows that no matter how strong the man, it doesn't affect how he ejaculates--I throw that in there for the whole "super-sperm" argument.
Rogue and Gambit have a harder time as they must be careful never to touch skin to skin. To that I say walk into an adult porn shop, go online, do what you have to do, but get yourself a body suit and a box of condoms. He can wear gloves and so can she--it won't be skin to skin, but it's better than moping about how sorry they are they can't consummate their love. Is that solution really that difficult to imagine? And does it seem like such a bad solution to the particular problem presented? A little imagination, that's all I ask.
Vincent and Catherine don't even compare to the problems faced by the first two. Granted it is incredibly important that Vincent's anonymity be protected, but that can be done. People in the caverns argue against him "going above" because he might get caught. They're afraid he will never come back and he is a "beacon" to the community; they need him. He brings so much. Can you seriously tell me that if you had a friend who had to be kept secret you would deny him the chance to go outside--to see mountains and lakes and trees? Yes, he would need to be careful, no he couldn't be seen, but there are entire campgrounds that are empty at certain times of the year. Catherine is rich and can rent a house on a lake. Anyone who has ever visited one knows how private they can be, especially in the off season. He can be hidden in a van for travel. In the winter he can wear a ski-mask or scarf. She can come down to the tunnels all weekend and he can stay in her apartment over night sometimes. There is nothing keeping these two apart but bad writing and the social conservatism of 1987.
What is so frustrating is that many times the writing is so good in B & B, X-Men, and Superman. There are fantastic explanations for why things are the way they are. But when they want to provide a little drama, a reason for keeping the hero and heroine apart the explanations are reduced to idiocy and our characters are suddenly unable to conceive of any possible way to find happiness. It is at this point that I scream at the stars because I hate people who can't conceive of any possible way to find happiness. Those people drive me insane. And so when my favorite characters become those people I find myself trapped in a world of melodramatic inanity that ceases to be entertaining and becomes purely annoying.
This is my rant brought on by too much television, too much family, and holiday blues. But I feel it is important that I get this message out to the world. Some day one of you might find yourself in a position to talk to a script writer and you'll need to make sure and halt any silliness before it reaches production. One thing I've always loved about Joss Whedon is that he is always so believable. That makes his shows dramatically more difficult to watch sometimes--the pain is almost too real--but at least I never feel betrayed by my characters. They are what they are and that doesn't change because of need unrelated to the story.
I am going to talk about I Am Legend soon. I promise. I just needed to get this off my chest. I bid you good night.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Alright! I am ready to share some holiday stories with you all just in time for Christmas. I think I should start with the statement that electric blankets are awesome. There is no heat in my parents' upstairs (never has been) and so when a storm rolled in Saturday night and the temperature dropped to eight degrees my room hit about twenty degrees by the time I woke up this morning. But now I have an electric blanket cranked up to high and as I sit here typing this, it warms my cold little heart.
So let me share with you Christmas in the McCall house:
Thursday night around midnight, a tired, cranky father goes to shut the light off in the kitchen. Unbeknownst to him a candle on a candle-warmer crouches, waiting for its moment to strike. As Father switches the light switch down the candle leaps under his hand thrusting its rim under his pinky finger getting caught by Father's large hand and swept off the counter onto the carpeted floor. Pine scented green candle wax splatters everywhere, woodwork, carpet, cabinets, t.v. remote and quickly hardens into a waxy veneer atop the carpet. Father spends an hour or two scrapping the wax off the carpet getting no where, looks up on the internet that one should place a paper towel over the wax-on-carpet and iron it to clean it up. The iron melts the wax, the towel soaks it up and voila. Little do I know as I lay on my friends' couch on Thursday night that this mess of wax-on-carpet and newfound ironing knowledge will be used to determine my Friday.
Friday morning I crawl into my parents' van where my mother relates the entire Candle Assaults Father story then tells me that I will have the pleasure of ironing the carpet when we get home as Father still needs to get the sink in the upstairs bathroom. So I get home; I pull out the iron. I sit down on the carpet and I go to work. There I am, ironing away getting all the wrinkles out along with the wax and my father runs downstairs to turn the water off, whistling a merry tune. I am then called up stairs to help put the cabinet the sink will sit on in place. We do so, I return to my ironing. A little while later my father comes back downstairs and turns the water back on. Shortly thereafter I hear the dulcet tones of my mother screaming. Dad forgot to turn the water valves off upstairs so when he turned the water on, it poured out of the now open pipes and flooded the bathroom soaking the carpet.
Mom runs downstairs and relays the news. I shrug (these things happen in this house fairly often) but then she screams again. The water is now leaking through the living room ceiling. Mom puts pots under the drips then calls out to me that we have to move the couch because it's too close to the leak. I rush in, move the loveseat then go for the couch. I crouch down and move it a little bit, getting my bearings and my mom moves behind it ready to push as I pull. I look at her and warn her to be careful, seeing my doom in her panicked eyes. I wasn't wrong. She shoves mightily, saving the couch from death by water and hits me in the chest, vaulting me backwards onto my ass. I remind her again, forcefully, that I wanted her to be careful.
The water was mopped up, the sink was installed, and I got all the wax out of the carpet. We figure the wax, the water, and the leak count for our "three" (we're slightly superstitious believing things come in threes) and so I'm hoping the rest of Christmas goes uneventfully. But I have one heck of a Christmas story. It is made only better if you know the history of my family and this house. We moved in during the summer of 1984. We've been "remodeling" ever since. Mostly because when we try to fix the sink up stairs, we destroy the ceiling downstairs. Those sorts of mistakes make sure the fun never stops.
And so I bid you adieu. I am warm under my electric blanket (the heat being one more thing that has yet to be fixed) and so tired of Christmas music I could scream. But I'm well fed, have my purse, and there's a sink in the upstairs bathroom. I can get to my bedroom without climbing over the ladder in the hall or stepping on a drill bit. These are all good things.
Merry Christmas to all and to all don't remodel over the holidays.
So let me share with you Christmas in the McCall house:
Thursday night around midnight, a tired, cranky father goes to shut the light off in the kitchen. Unbeknownst to him a candle on a candle-warmer crouches, waiting for its moment to strike. As Father switches the light switch down the candle leaps under his hand thrusting its rim under his pinky finger getting caught by Father's large hand and swept off the counter onto the carpeted floor. Pine scented green candle wax splatters everywhere, woodwork, carpet, cabinets, t.v. remote and quickly hardens into a waxy veneer atop the carpet. Father spends an hour or two scrapping the wax off the carpet getting no where, looks up on the internet that one should place a paper towel over the wax-on-carpet and iron it to clean it up. The iron melts the wax, the towel soaks it up and voila. Little do I know as I lay on my friends' couch on Thursday night that this mess of wax-on-carpet and newfound ironing knowledge will be used to determine my Friday.
Friday morning I crawl into my parents' van where my mother relates the entire Candle Assaults Father story then tells me that I will have the pleasure of ironing the carpet when we get home as Father still needs to get the sink in the upstairs bathroom. So I get home; I pull out the iron. I sit down on the carpet and I go to work. There I am, ironing away getting all the wrinkles out along with the wax and my father runs downstairs to turn the water off, whistling a merry tune. I am then called up stairs to help put the cabinet the sink will sit on in place. We do so, I return to my ironing. A little while later my father comes back downstairs and turns the water back on. Shortly thereafter I hear the dulcet tones of my mother screaming. Dad forgot to turn the water valves off upstairs so when he turned the water on, it poured out of the now open pipes and flooded the bathroom soaking the carpet.
Mom runs downstairs and relays the news. I shrug (these things happen in this house fairly often) but then she screams again. The water is now leaking through the living room ceiling. Mom puts pots under the drips then calls out to me that we have to move the couch because it's too close to the leak. I rush in, move the loveseat then go for the couch. I crouch down and move it a little bit, getting my bearings and my mom moves behind it ready to push as I pull. I look at her and warn her to be careful, seeing my doom in her panicked eyes. I wasn't wrong. She shoves mightily, saving the couch from death by water and hits me in the chest, vaulting me backwards onto my ass. I remind her again, forcefully, that I wanted her to be careful.
The water was mopped up, the sink was installed, and I got all the wax out of the carpet. We figure the wax, the water, and the leak count for our "three" (we're slightly superstitious believing things come in threes) and so I'm hoping the rest of Christmas goes uneventfully. But I have one heck of a Christmas story. It is made only better if you know the history of my family and this house. We moved in during the summer of 1984. We've been "remodeling" ever since. Mostly because when we try to fix the sink up stairs, we destroy the ceiling downstairs. Those sorts of mistakes make sure the fun never stops.
And so I bid you adieu. I am warm under my electric blanket (the heat being one more thing that has yet to be fixed) and so tired of Christmas music I could scream. But I'm well fed, have my purse, and there's a sink in the upstairs bathroom. I can get to my bedroom without climbing over the ladder in the hall or stepping on a drill bit. These are all good things.
Merry Christmas to all and to all don't remodel over the holidays.
Friday, December 21, 2007
I'm not sure what's got me worked up tonight. I found myself pacing my bedroom, the downstairs, and even contemplating a walk in the cold, foggy night. In the end the walk lost because I shivered inside the house even as I paced, but I'm still unable to settle. This happens when I'm in Macomb. After sleeping for a few days I catch up on rest and begin to pace the confines of my parent's house, the street, the town. It doesn't help that I left my purse at the restaurant tonight and now have to wait until morning to discover if I still have a purse or not. I'm not good at waiting, though I am better than I used to be.
So what is it about the holidays that makes me more ansy each year? This is a question I've been pondering lately. I look forward to the winter break from school; I look forward to seeing my family. But I get here, the holidays come and I am...dissatisfied. I understand part of it is seasonal depression, and I understand part of it is the increasing loneliness I feel each passing year I'm single, but I just can't, or don't want to, admit that is the totality of the reasons for the way I feel. It could be, I am honest enough to admit that. At this particular moment in time I will admit that were I madly in love I think most of my edginess would disappear. Of course, were I madly in love I would be having exorbitant amounts of mad sex and that might play into things a bit. So perhaps the answer is that simple. That possibility is depressing in and of itself.
It might also be that while home for the holidays my copious amounts of free time leaves me naught to do but read and think, and as reading spurs my thinking, I find I think a lot. This isn't a bad thing, but free from the bounds of school and the world (while home it feels as if most of the world's problems are miles away and of little consequence) my mind turns to my own existence as a human being and the people I know. That is rarely a good thing as we are all well aware.
But neither can you back away from it, I think. When you ask yourself "What kind of person am I? Am I the person I want to be? Is the person I want to be really a person I could admire? What can I do to better myself?" you end up with a lot of headaches, but I wouldn't say it's not worth it. Even as I find myself challenged by my family--they don't accept my status as an educated scholar as worth anything, only my words and actions serve as proof--I find myself simultaneously irritated and sharpened by it. Challenge is a good thing, it helps you discover the answer to all those questions and, if evaluated honestly, it can help you become what you want to be. But challenge of who you are, the knowledge you believe to be true, is so much more tricky. It is not easy to admit that what you know may be incorrect. And even if you can admit it, it is almost impossible (at least for me) to engage in a conscious effort to change it.
Wrapped up in all of that is the ongoing battle of sorting out which challenges are worth taking on, and which challenges aren't. With anything in life when someone challenges what you believe--a coworker, a family member, a friend, a crazy on the street--not every conversation is worth ruminating on. But, if I discount something just because I don't like where it comes from I am not the person I wish I were. Do you see my dilemma here?
I think what makes this all so darned frustrating is that the only way to really evaluate yourself is to be honest with yourself. If you look at yourself and realize you swim in negativity every day by choice then you have to accept what that means. If you look at yourself and realize you chose to see the flaws in others because you don't think yours matter you're left feeling very bereft and sorry. True self-evaluation is a horrific thing to engage in because it means you have to really acknowledge what you don't like about yourself. And more than acknowledge it you have to be willing to work through it. Change it. Or at least, stop it from coloring your world view. Otherwise it isn't actually true self-evaluation. And we are all wired, as much as we may hate ourselves sometimes, or even al the time, to survive. That means we look at the world how we have to to make it through. Talk about fighting biology.
And so what I'm talking about here isn't a self-help book or a new year's resolution. What I'm talking about is incredibly painful (at least for me) and that is attempting to look at myself as I really am and how my actions affect others. Acknowledge how incredibly transient I am in the world and how little my actions affect others. All of this simultaneously and also attempting to not become egotistical every time I succeed in one or the other because that defeats the purpose of the whole thing. I suppose you could say it's very Buddhist of me, or dialogic, or just one woman's attempt to not be a crappy human being. But whatever it is while I have progressed to a place where I can recognize it happening, it is still damned painful to go through. At least before it was just a series of bad days, a moment of enlightenment, and moving on. Now it's like a cracked out Karate Kid movie, except I know what I'm supposed to learn at the end. All of Ralph Macchio's whininess with none of the excuses of youth or naiveté. What a winning combination.
In any case, this is probably all happening mostly because I lost my silly purse and now I can't sleep. I've waxed on so now I'll wax off. I bid you good night.
So what is it about the holidays that makes me more ansy each year? This is a question I've been pondering lately. I look forward to the winter break from school; I look forward to seeing my family. But I get here, the holidays come and I am...dissatisfied. I understand part of it is seasonal depression, and I understand part of it is the increasing loneliness I feel each passing year I'm single, but I just can't, or don't want to, admit that is the totality of the reasons for the way I feel. It could be, I am honest enough to admit that. At this particular moment in time I will admit that were I madly in love I think most of my edginess would disappear. Of course, were I madly in love I would be having exorbitant amounts of mad sex and that might play into things a bit. So perhaps the answer is that simple. That possibility is depressing in and of itself.
It might also be that while home for the holidays my copious amounts of free time leaves me naught to do but read and think, and as reading spurs my thinking, I find I think a lot. This isn't a bad thing, but free from the bounds of school and the world (while home it feels as if most of the world's problems are miles away and of little consequence) my mind turns to my own existence as a human being and the people I know. That is rarely a good thing as we are all well aware.
But neither can you back away from it, I think. When you ask yourself "What kind of person am I? Am I the person I want to be? Is the person I want to be really a person I could admire? What can I do to better myself?" you end up with a lot of headaches, but I wouldn't say it's not worth it. Even as I find myself challenged by my family--they don't accept my status as an educated scholar as worth anything, only my words and actions serve as proof--I find myself simultaneously irritated and sharpened by it. Challenge is a good thing, it helps you discover the answer to all those questions and, if evaluated honestly, it can help you become what you want to be. But challenge of who you are, the knowledge you believe to be true, is so much more tricky. It is not easy to admit that what you know may be incorrect. And even if you can admit it, it is almost impossible (at least for me) to engage in a conscious effort to change it.
Wrapped up in all of that is the ongoing battle of sorting out which challenges are worth taking on, and which challenges aren't. With anything in life when someone challenges what you believe--a coworker, a family member, a friend, a crazy on the street--not every conversation is worth ruminating on. But, if I discount something just because I don't like where it comes from I am not the person I wish I were. Do you see my dilemma here?
I think what makes this all so darned frustrating is that the only way to really evaluate yourself is to be honest with yourself. If you look at yourself and realize you swim in negativity every day by choice then you have to accept what that means. If you look at yourself and realize you chose to see the flaws in others because you don't think yours matter you're left feeling very bereft and sorry. True self-evaluation is a horrific thing to engage in because it means you have to really acknowledge what you don't like about yourself. And more than acknowledge it you have to be willing to work through it. Change it. Or at least, stop it from coloring your world view. Otherwise it isn't actually true self-evaluation. And we are all wired, as much as we may hate ourselves sometimes, or even al the time, to survive. That means we look at the world how we have to to make it through. Talk about fighting biology.
And so what I'm talking about here isn't a self-help book or a new year's resolution. What I'm talking about is incredibly painful (at least for me) and that is attempting to look at myself as I really am and how my actions affect others. Acknowledge how incredibly transient I am in the world and how little my actions affect others. All of this simultaneously and also attempting to not become egotistical every time I succeed in one or the other because that defeats the purpose of the whole thing. I suppose you could say it's very Buddhist of me, or dialogic, or just one woman's attempt to not be a crappy human being. But whatever it is while I have progressed to a place where I can recognize it happening, it is still damned painful to go through. At least before it was just a series of bad days, a moment of enlightenment, and moving on. Now it's like a cracked out Karate Kid movie, except I know what I'm supposed to learn at the end. All of Ralph Macchio's whininess with none of the excuses of youth or naiveté. What a winning combination.
In any case, this is probably all happening mostly because I lost my silly purse and now I can't sleep. I've waxed on so now I'll wax off. I bid you good night.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Installment three in my "Home for the Holidays" journals. I figure that's what I ought to call these posts since it looks like there's going to be a lot of them.
I felt I should start off with some excellent news: the King of Saudi Arabia pardoned a woman who was gang-raped; she will not be charged for being alone with a man who was not a relative or husband. How magnanimous of him. Women of Saudi Arabia and all over the world feel this is a giant step forward for women's rights, but some are still skeptical. I feel this is an excellent example that the world is not all peaches and cream as my students would like to believe. I wish I could say I was surprised.
On another note apparently women over 40 are becoming the newest clientele for plastic surgery. Many women are interested in their pre-pregnancy bodies, specifically, breasts. You can read about it here: http://www.newsweek.com/id/78042?GT1=10645 Isn't that just wonderful? Where does one start with that anyway? I have many problems with breast implants--I think the technology is fantastic for survivors of breast cancer or victims of anything that results in the maiming of their body, but just because you don't look "as good" as you once did? To spend money, an exorbitant amount of money, on a procedure that doesn't actually do anything for you--it baffles me. I understand teeth. We need teeth and there is a certain amount of self-confidence that is harder to hide with teeth than breasts. With breasts a good bra can cover most all of the sagging issues under cover of clothes. And out of clothes...why is the older body so disgusting? Why can't a woman, or man, be allowed to age gracefully and appreciated for how their body is?
I suppose it all goes back to loving one's body completely. And I suppose it isn't a surprise that so many of us don't. But yes, it does still disturb me the lengths to which people will go to change their body in search of a more physically appealing form. It isn't about "health" at that point; it's about looks.
But what's my point anyway? It isn't like this is anything new, and frankly, I'm not full of much anger right now. The Saudi Arabia thing--to go into any detail on that will do nothing but make me feel powerless and hopeless, and the breast thing too. I don't think I need to expound on either issue for their horror to be recognized. I have, unfortunately, discovered once I started this that I have nothing of any particular substance to bring to you. How sad is that? Instead I return to my tv for a little more Beauty and the Beast and admit shamelessly that I have worked through my bestiality issues and have come down firmly on the side of Vincent being hot. I'm glad you could see me through this trying time--it hasn't been easy for any of us.
But we can totally work around the hairy hands and claws. Cause he would totally love me enough to find a way. And that is so hot.
I felt I should start off with some excellent news: the King of Saudi Arabia pardoned a woman who was gang-raped; she will not be charged for being alone with a man who was not a relative or husband. How magnanimous of him. Women of Saudi Arabia and all over the world feel this is a giant step forward for women's rights, but some are still skeptical. I feel this is an excellent example that the world is not all peaches and cream as my students would like to believe. I wish I could say I was surprised.
On another note apparently women over 40 are becoming the newest clientele for plastic surgery. Many women are interested in their pre-pregnancy bodies, specifically, breasts. You can read about it here: http://www.newsweek.com/id/78042?GT1=10645 Isn't that just wonderful? Where does one start with that anyway? I have many problems with breast implants--I think the technology is fantastic for survivors of breast cancer or victims of anything that results in the maiming of their body, but just because you don't look "as good" as you once did? To spend money, an exorbitant amount of money, on a procedure that doesn't actually do anything for you--it baffles me. I understand teeth. We need teeth and there is a certain amount of self-confidence that is harder to hide with teeth than breasts. With breasts a good bra can cover most all of the sagging issues under cover of clothes. And out of clothes...why is the older body so disgusting? Why can't a woman, or man, be allowed to age gracefully and appreciated for how their body is?
I suppose it all goes back to loving one's body completely. And I suppose it isn't a surprise that so many of us don't. But yes, it does still disturb me the lengths to which people will go to change their body in search of a more physically appealing form. It isn't about "health" at that point; it's about looks.
But what's my point anyway? It isn't like this is anything new, and frankly, I'm not full of much anger right now. The Saudi Arabia thing--to go into any detail on that will do nothing but make me feel powerless and hopeless, and the breast thing too. I don't think I need to expound on either issue for their horror to be recognized. I have, unfortunately, discovered once I started this that I have nothing of any particular substance to bring to you. How sad is that? Instead I return to my tv for a little more Beauty and the Beast and admit shamelessly that I have worked through my bestiality issues and have come down firmly on the side of Vincent being hot. I'm glad you could see me through this trying time--it hasn't been easy for any of us.
But we can totally work around the hairy hands and claws. Cause he would totally love me enough to find a way. And that is so hot.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
I'm home. I have a feeling that is going to mean a lot of blogs for all of you. I hope you're prepared for what such an eventuality might entail. I can't promise they will be interesting or humorous. And, judging by previous posts, that could mean for very sorry reading indeed. But I never claimed to be a writer of any repute; after all, my degree is in critiquing writing and as they say (whomever "they" are) those who can't, critique. I'm not sure I agree with that, actually, but I digress.
I thought I would open up with the fun that has found me here at home. First off it's snowy and cold. While cold comes early to Illinois, it never snows here until January. I would complain less, as we all love a white Christmas, but it is supposed to get up into the 40's this coming week which means most of it will melt away leaving a sludgy, slushy, grossness behind. That means I went through an annoying plane ride, a slippery drive home, wet feet and coldness for nothing. I find that irritating.
Once I arrived home I discovered that the bathroom was in the process of being remodeled. It has been in the process of being remodeled for going on a year now. But then, the house has been in the process of being remodeled going on twenty-three years now, so really one shouldn't complain overmuch about the bathroom. Regardless, there is no sink in the upstairs bathroom. That means that while one can use the toilet, one will have to either go downstairs to wash her hands or use the shower. Also, all the stuff that would normally be in the bathroom is now outside my bedroom door making the walk from the stairs to my door, especially with my luggage behind me, an adventure the likes of which Indiana Jones might embark upon. All of this adds to the feeling of being home I have to admit. After all, most of my childhood was spent in the comfortable smell of wood, drywall, paint, and caulk so really this just brings me back. I should also mention that we still don't have heat upstairs and it looks like there might be a sink in the bathroom before I leave so really, things are progressing extremely quickly by this house's standards.
So that is how things stand for me. I am enjoying the cold and the snow, I will admit, but, strangely, I find myself pacing the floor after only a day. Normally I don't start pacing until two or three days have passed. I think it's because in Vegas there is always something open, even if you don't want to be there, and you could always go for a drive. Driving right now would be silly because of the ice, so I'm pretty much stuck where I am. I don't feel claustrophobic, though.
I bring that up because I mentioned previously that the mountains on all four sides had promoted a sort of claustrophobia in me. I didn't realize it until the drive home from Peoria, but claustrophobia is definitely the feeling. I have examined it further, however, and it isn't just because of the mountains. It is instead because there is no where to go. You can drive out/through the mountains, but it will be five or six hours before you get anywhere. And when you drive, you have to have a full tank of gas, some water in the car, and a charged cell phone, just in case. It's these things that make me feel hemmed in. When living in the desert you aren't supposed to be there. Nature doesn't want you there. Instead you are living in a man made environment and you can't just walk out of that unprepared. Simultaneously this environment is quite hostile, I've never worried for my safety as much as I do in Vegas. And so you can't leave, but it doesn't feel good to stay. The result, unsurprisingly, is claustrophobia. All that space and I still feel enclosed. I believe that counts for irony.
So I'm poor but I'm happy. I'm cold but I like it. I'm bored but it's restful. That sounds like an Alanis Morrisette song. In fact, I think at least part of it is. Perhaps I will watch some more Beauty and the Beast. Not the Disney version, but the t.v. show from 1987-1990. And I have to say, as Vincent is a man, genetically at least, it can't be considered bestiality. I mean, he's got hairy, clawed hands, but one could shave, or put gloves on them. Or just not use his hands in places where extreme hair and sharp claws would be unpleasant.
Last night while watching an episode with my parents Vincent gave a speech about how they could never be together or some such nonsense, not because he's bestial and she's hot, but because his world is underground and hers is above. I responded quickly that that was crap and my mother accused me of being unromantic. I don't think so. After all, Catherine could totally go underground on the weekends and Vincent can come above ground at night--the only reason they're apart is because they don't want it badly enough. Is it unromantic to recognize that? Perhaps, but if a beast loved me and was as sexy as Vincent (oh that voice, those eyes) I would totally be living my happily ever after not bemoaning our difficulties. Why is logic so unsexy? And what does it say about one's love life when they can't even get a beast to fall in love with them? Don't answer that. I'm going to go watch another episode, drink some hot cocoa, and pretend I'm so much cooler than admitting to watching that show reveals me to be.
But you wait, someday netflix will talk dirty to you and you will watch it. And then you'll understand...
I thought I would open up with the fun that has found me here at home. First off it's snowy and cold. While cold comes early to Illinois, it never snows here until January. I would complain less, as we all love a white Christmas, but it is supposed to get up into the 40's this coming week which means most of it will melt away leaving a sludgy, slushy, grossness behind. That means I went through an annoying plane ride, a slippery drive home, wet feet and coldness for nothing. I find that irritating.
Once I arrived home I discovered that the bathroom was in the process of being remodeled. It has been in the process of being remodeled for going on a year now. But then, the house has been in the process of being remodeled going on twenty-three years now, so really one shouldn't complain overmuch about the bathroom. Regardless, there is no sink in the upstairs bathroom. That means that while one can use the toilet, one will have to either go downstairs to wash her hands or use the shower. Also, all the stuff that would normally be in the bathroom is now outside my bedroom door making the walk from the stairs to my door, especially with my luggage behind me, an adventure the likes of which Indiana Jones might embark upon. All of this adds to the feeling of being home I have to admit. After all, most of my childhood was spent in the comfortable smell of wood, drywall, paint, and caulk so really this just brings me back. I should also mention that we still don't have heat upstairs and it looks like there might be a sink in the bathroom before I leave so really, things are progressing extremely quickly by this house's standards.
So that is how things stand for me. I am enjoying the cold and the snow, I will admit, but, strangely, I find myself pacing the floor after only a day. Normally I don't start pacing until two or three days have passed. I think it's because in Vegas there is always something open, even if you don't want to be there, and you could always go for a drive. Driving right now would be silly because of the ice, so I'm pretty much stuck where I am. I don't feel claustrophobic, though.
I bring that up because I mentioned previously that the mountains on all four sides had promoted a sort of claustrophobia in me. I didn't realize it until the drive home from Peoria, but claustrophobia is definitely the feeling. I have examined it further, however, and it isn't just because of the mountains. It is instead because there is no where to go. You can drive out/through the mountains, but it will be five or six hours before you get anywhere. And when you drive, you have to have a full tank of gas, some water in the car, and a charged cell phone, just in case. It's these things that make me feel hemmed in. When living in the desert you aren't supposed to be there. Nature doesn't want you there. Instead you are living in a man made environment and you can't just walk out of that unprepared. Simultaneously this environment is quite hostile, I've never worried for my safety as much as I do in Vegas. And so you can't leave, but it doesn't feel good to stay. The result, unsurprisingly, is claustrophobia. All that space and I still feel enclosed. I believe that counts for irony.
So I'm poor but I'm happy. I'm cold but I like it. I'm bored but it's restful. That sounds like an Alanis Morrisette song. In fact, I think at least part of it is. Perhaps I will watch some more Beauty and the Beast. Not the Disney version, but the t.v. show from 1987-1990. And I have to say, as Vincent is a man, genetically at least, it can't be considered bestiality. I mean, he's got hairy, clawed hands, but one could shave, or put gloves on them. Or just not use his hands in places where extreme hair and sharp claws would be unpleasant.
Last night while watching an episode with my parents Vincent gave a speech about how they could never be together or some such nonsense, not because he's bestial and she's hot, but because his world is underground and hers is above. I responded quickly that that was crap and my mother accused me of being unromantic. I don't think so. After all, Catherine could totally go underground on the weekends and Vincent can come above ground at night--the only reason they're apart is because they don't want it badly enough. Is it unromantic to recognize that? Perhaps, but if a beast loved me and was as sexy as Vincent (oh that voice, those eyes) I would totally be living my happily ever after not bemoaning our difficulties. Why is logic so unsexy? And what does it say about one's love life when they can't even get a beast to fall in love with them? Don't answer that. I'm going to go watch another episode, drink some hot cocoa, and pretend I'm so much cooler than admitting to watching that show reveals me to be.
But you wait, someday netflix will talk dirty to you and you will watch it. And then you'll understand...
So I'm home for the holidays and after a day of traveling, snow, ice and cold weather I'm wondering why I was in such a hurry to get back here. Except I do love the quiet...and the snow and the ice and the cold weather. Something is seriously wrong with me. I've also discovered that Las Vegas makes me feel claustrophobic--something about the mountains there and how even though it's wide open it doesn't do you any good because it's a little bit like living in Limbo. But I'll talk more on that later.
Right now, what I want to discuss is Wonder Woman.
I just read the latest Wonder Woman graphic novel by Jodi Picoult (hopefully I spelled that right) and I have to say I'm in a bit of a quandary. I had heard mixed reviews, but after reading her introduction I was hopeful about the story. I myself was worried walking into it as, even though I haven't read any of her books, I wasn't sure I was a fan of her writing. While I've heard good things about her writing she seems to really go after the melodramatic, ethical tales of woe. What happens when you have a baby to save a baby like in My Sister's Keeper, and so on and so forth. But despite all of that I kept an open mind. However, I was not all that impressed with the results.
Wonder Woman is a hard character to write. I'm quite sure I couldn't write her without a lot of practice and a lot of thought. And I do mean a lot. My list about women who were strong while maintaining their femininity wasn't a joke (well it was, but not entirely). It is difficult to write a character, especially a female one, who can be strong and still completely a woman. When done incorrectly they are either bland, emotionless, bitches, or inhuman/sociopathic. In the latest installment of Wonder Woman the goal was to show her trying to discover what it is to be human--I like that as an idea. I like Wonder Woman questioning her morals, what she's been fighting for all these years, her existence. That's all very good. Especially in the wake of Max Lord, the man Wonder Woman killed, these are all important character developments to address.
I really felt like, however, that dear old Jodi dropped the ball. For instance, in questioning her morality she used the old "how do you know what's right is right" argument, citing slavery and religious intolerance. Yes laws do not define morality, an idiot with an ounce of self awareness can tell you this (thought not always my students) but Wonder Woman is smarter than that. She doesn't pull her morality from the law and only a juvenile writer/reader would think that she did. Furthermore, because Wonder Woman kills Max Lord there is this belief that she is as bad as the bad guys and, this is explicitly stated, that she should have found another way. I felt like this was completely wrong.
Sometimes the bad guy takes control of the most powerful man on Earth, Superman, and the only way to stop him from making said powerful man destroy humankind, is to kill him. When that happens you snap his neck, dust off your hands, and whistle a merry tune. I'm not belittling the moral ambiguity of murder here, but I am saying that sometimes you've got to do what you've got to do. If the only way to stop you from destroying the world is to kill you (and because she had the lasso of truth she did know this was the only way) then there isn't much choice there, is there? I felt like this was something Wonder Woman should struggle with, a hero murdering a bad guy should always weight heavily on the conscious of said hero, but that Picoult would say it was wrong? Complete cop out.
I think it bothers me because Batman draws a line in the sand and says he'll never kill. It's how he keeps himself from becoming that he fights. Superman has enough power to stop almost anything and anyone without killing them. Wonder Woman does too, but when it's Superman she has to stop, things get tricky. You can't let Superman be controlled by a sociopath. That's worse than giving an atomic bomb to your enemy. Superman can level the world, literally. And so what I wanted to see from all of this, was not a Wonder Woman that backed down from Batman and Superman and said, hey boys, you're right I was wrong, but a Wonder Woman that stood up and said I did what I had to do. You were going to kill us all, including Batman, and I stopped you the only way I knew how. She shouldn't like it, and she shouldn't be happy about it, but I would like to see her work her way through it without backing off of it. Perhaps most especially because this is Wonder Woman's greatest strength and weakness. She does what she thinks is right, sometimes at any cost. That can be extremely dangerous.
But none of this was addressed and that saddened me. Instead it read more like a handbook for feminists. What Wonder Woman really needed was a banner that flew behind her reading "Look at me! I'm a role model for young girls! And I'm hot, isn't that great?!" Not quite the soul searching epic I was hoping for.
So this post isn't nearly as insightful and probing as I hoped it would be. I blame it all on the cold medicine my mother forced on me the moment we walked through the door. I've been fighting falling asleep ever since.
And I keep watching Beauty and the Beast and the Beast is so amazingly hot. But such a beast. I'm going to have to write on that another time too. I'm so not right.
Right now, what I want to discuss is Wonder Woman.
I just read the latest Wonder Woman graphic novel by Jodi Picoult (hopefully I spelled that right) and I have to say I'm in a bit of a quandary. I had heard mixed reviews, but after reading her introduction I was hopeful about the story. I myself was worried walking into it as, even though I haven't read any of her books, I wasn't sure I was a fan of her writing. While I've heard good things about her writing she seems to really go after the melodramatic, ethical tales of woe. What happens when you have a baby to save a baby like in My Sister's Keeper, and so on and so forth. But despite all of that I kept an open mind. However, I was not all that impressed with the results.
Wonder Woman is a hard character to write. I'm quite sure I couldn't write her without a lot of practice and a lot of thought. And I do mean a lot. My list about women who were strong while maintaining their femininity wasn't a joke (well it was, but not entirely). It is difficult to write a character, especially a female one, who can be strong and still completely a woman. When done incorrectly they are either bland, emotionless, bitches, or inhuman/sociopathic. In the latest installment of Wonder Woman the goal was to show her trying to discover what it is to be human--I like that as an idea. I like Wonder Woman questioning her morals, what she's been fighting for all these years, her existence. That's all very good. Especially in the wake of Max Lord, the man Wonder Woman killed, these are all important character developments to address.
I really felt like, however, that dear old Jodi dropped the ball. For instance, in questioning her morality she used the old "how do you know what's right is right" argument, citing slavery and religious intolerance. Yes laws do not define morality, an idiot with an ounce of self awareness can tell you this (thought not always my students) but Wonder Woman is smarter than that. She doesn't pull her morality from the law and only a juvenile writer/reader would think that she did. Furthermore, because Wonder Woman kills Max Lord there is this belief that she is as bad as the bad guys and, this is explicitly stated, that she should have found another way. I felt like this was completely wrong.
Sometimes the bad guy takes control of the most powerful man on Earth, Superman, and the only way to stop him from making said powerful man destroy humankind, is to kill him. When that happens you snap his neck, dust off your hands, and whistle a merry tune. I'm not belittling the moral ambiguity of murder here, but I am saying that sometimes you've got to do what you've got to do. If the only way to stop you from destroying the world is to kill you (and because she had the lasso of truth she did know this was the only way) then there isn't much choice there, is there? I felt like this was something Wonder Woman should struggle with, a hero murdering a bad guy should always weight heavily on the conscious of said hero, but that Picoult would say it was wrong? Complete cop out.
I think it bothers me because Batman draws a line in the sand and says he'll never kill. It's how he keeps himself from becoming that he fights. Superman has enough power to stop almost anything and anyone without killing them. Wonder Woman does too, but when it's Superman she has to stop, things get tricky. You can't let Superman be controlled by a sociopath. That's worse than giving an atomic bomb to your enemy. Superman can level the world, literally. And so what I wanted to see from all of this, was not a Wonder Woman that backed down from Batman and Superman and said, hey boys, you're right I was wrong, but a Wonder Woman that stood up and said I did what I had to do. You were going to kill us all, including Batman, and I stopped you the only way I knew how. She shouldn't like it, and she shouldn't be happy about it, but I would like to see her work her way through it without backing off of it. Perhaps most especially because this is Wonder Woman's greatest strength and weakness. She does what she thinks is right, sometimes at any cost. That can be extremely dangerous.
But none of this was addressed and that saddened me. Instead it read more like a handbook for feminists. What Wonder Woman really needed was a banner that flew behind her reading "Look at me! I'm a role model for young girls! And I'm hot, isn't that great?!" Not quite the soul searching epic I was hoping for.
So this post isn't nearly as insightful and probing as I hoped it would be. I blame it all on the cold medicine my mother forced on me the moment we walked through the door. I've been fighting falling asleep ever since.
And I keep watching Beauty and the Beast and the Beast is so amazingly hot. But such a beast. I'm going to have to write on that another time too. I'm so not right.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Apparently a 24 year-old shot up his former youth ministry. You can check out the story here http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/22221432/ and I would be interested in any reactions it prompts from you. For example, why wasn't this broadcast as publicly as other shootings? I would like to believe it was because the media has learned the dangers of sensationalizing violence, and maybe, because this also happened in Denver, that is the case. But it got me thinking about all the shootings that occur every day. Not just murders or gang violence, but kids shooting kids. Just two days ago someone opened fire on a school bus in North Las Vegas as the kids were getting off. Thankfully no one was killed that I know of, but several were injured. When I lived in Boston many kids were gunned down in drive-bys or vengeance attacks (gang-related and otherwise) but none received the sort of attention that Columbine, or Virginia Tech, or the Amish School did.
Why is the slaughter of some so much more traumatic and "news-worthy"? Is it because this guy, the one who attacked his former church, was a former Christian lashing out against Christians? Was there worry that too much coverage would lead to speculation of conservative Christianity? I myself, as I read the article, was surprised at the description of the home schooling--curriculum designed around the Bible as a main text and supporter. And then I thought, this isn't new. I've worked with people that carry these beliefs, that were, in fact, home schooling their children with this sort of conservative Christian curriculum.
And then I thought about how we are always so aghast at Islam. The way our country looks at the treatment of women in the Middle East and shake our heads in disbelief. But are we really so much better? You could say as a society yes; it is individuals who chose to raise their families in a particularly conservative environment and not the government. And I would agree up to a point. But as the 2008 elections draw near and Huckabee comes from behind and the republicans bring up religion again I can't help but wonder--are we really so different any more?
We pass laws based on Christian morality. We vote for president's based on "family values" and whether or not they are "Christian" enough for us. We have a Christian Coalition of America that defines Catholicism and Mormonism as not Christian. (Catholics came before the Protestants by the way and LDS members do believe in Jesus Christ as the son of God, which, in my rudimentary system, is how all the Protestants define Christianity because they don't share any other beliefs.) Our separation of church and state is more a lip service at this point then a reality. I am not anti-Christian, though I am not, in fact, Christian, and I know this throws a lot of people, possibly you, for a loop.
What I am saying does not have anything to do with the article mentioned earlier, per say, but rather the thought process brought on by the article. It is the acknowledgment that America is not so great as we would like to think that it is. I believe a lot of that comes from our youth as a nation, we haven't fought our way through these problems yet, but it also comes from our arrogance as a nation. Because we recognized the problems of history we thought we could circumnavigate our way around them.
England colonized the world and committed genocide of many native peoples. The original settlers colonized America and committed genocide of our own Native Americans. Germany threw Jews in concentration camps and we threw Japanese in internment camps. England rallied from WWII by instituting national health care and unparalleled strides towards democracy. We rallied from September 11th by working on a monument and declaring war on a country that had nothing to do with it.
And so yes, I am a little sad with where this train of thought has taken me, but not broken. I'm not giving up on America, but I am fervently hoping that sometime in the near future, be it the 2008 elections or not, that we can return to our former state of ideals, imperfect as they are and work towards improving ourselves. I'm hopeful that we can learn from not only history, but the world around us by seeing what we can do to improve ourselves, instead of finding the most horrible examples of humanity and rejoicing that we're not like that. I'm hopeful because that's what America is--a country about hope. And maybe that's what's become so unAmerican about us all lately--we've given up hope that anything will ever get better, or that we could help it become that way.
So that's my patriotic pledge. Not to wear a shirt decorated like the flag or to stick a magnet on my car or to spew hate at everyone protesting the war. My act of patriotism is to not give up on what America was supposed to be and to do everything I can to make the most of what it is. And maybe my first act will be to acknowledge that the loss of any life is tragic--even if it's poor, fat, or ugly.
Why is the slaughter of some so much more traumatic and "news-worthy"? Is it because this guy, the one who attacked his former church, was a former Christian lashing out against Christians? Was there worry that too much coverage would lead to speculation of conservative Christianity? I myself, as I read the article, was surprised at the description of the home schooling--curriculum designed around the Bible as a main text and supporter. And then I thought, this isn't new. I've worked with people that carry these beliefs, that were, in fact, home schooling their children with this sort of conservative Christian curriculum.
And then I thought about how we are always so aghast at Islam. The way our country looks at the treatment of women in the Middle East and shake our heads in disbelief. But are we really so much better? You could say as a society yes; it is individuals who chose to raise their families in a particularly conservative environment and not the government. And I would agree up to a point. But as the 2008 elections draw near and Huckabee comes from behind and the republicans bring up religion again I can't help but wonder--are we really so different any more?
We pass laws based on Christian morality. We vote for president's based on "family values" and whether or not they are "Christian" enough for us. We have a Christian Coalition of America that defines Catholicism and Mormonism as not Christian. (Catholics came before the Protestants by the way and LDS members do believe in Jesus Christ as the son of God, which, in my rudimentary system, is how all the Protestants define Christianity because they don't share any other beliefs.) Our separation of church and state is more a lip service at this point then a reality. I am not anti-Christian, though I am not, in fact, Christian, and I know this throws a lot of people, possibly you, for a loop.
What I am saying does not have anything to do with the article mentioned earlier, per say, but rather the thought process brought on by the article. It is the acknowledgment that America is not so great as we would like to think that it is. I believe a lot of that comes from our youth as a nation, we haven't fought our way through these problems yet, but it also comes from our arrogance as a nation. Because we recognized the problems of history we thought we could circumnavigate our way around them.
England colonized the world and committed genocide of many native peoples. The original settlers colonized America and committed genocide of our own Native Americans. Germany threw Jews in concentration camps and we threw Japanese in internment camps. England rallied from WWII by instituting national health care and unparalleled strides towards democracy. We rallied from September 11th by working on a monument and declaring war on a country that had nothing to do with it.
And so yes, I am a little sad with where this train of thought has taken me, but not broken. I'm not giving up on America, but I am fervently hoping that sometime in the near future, be it the 2008 elections or not, that we can return to our former state of ideals, imperfect as they are and work towards improving ourselves. I'm hopeful that we can learn from not only history, but the world around us by seeing what we can do to improve ourselves, instead of finding the most horrible examples of humanity and rejoicing that we're not like that. I'm hopeful because that's what America is--a country about hope. And maybe that's what's become so unAmerican about us all lately--we've given up hope that anything will ever get better, or that we could help it become that way.
So that's my patriotic pledge. Not to wear a shirt decorated like the flag or to stick a magnet on my car or to spew hate at everyone protesting the war. My act of patriotism is to not give up on what America was supposed to be and to do everything I can to make the most of what it is. And maybe my first act will be to acknowledge that the loss of any life is tragic--even if it's poor, fat, or ugly.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
It's in the a.m. I am awake and I have to write a paper. The only thing surprising about that statement is that it is in the a.m. and I am awake. I did feel the urge to bring joy and good tidings to you all, however. I saw August Rush yestereve and it was a sweet truffle of love wrapped in a bundle of joy and happiness. And yet, I did not care a bit about the sweetness or overabundance thereof. Why? Partly because John Rhys Meyers is so hot, and also because it was just a really sweet fairy-tale. Exactly what I wanted after staying up late writing a paper on Ben Jonson's whores.
The movie did provoke a thought, however, that has grown into its own top ten list. Keri Russell, at a party, becomes claustrophobic and walks out to the roof. There just happens to be John Rhys Meyers singing to the moon and with no more than a look, a smile, and a "we're here together" they're in love! And so I thought that I should write on the incredible unlikelihood of this ever happening and why it irritates me that Hollywood continues to put this standard forth.
The Top Ten Situations Leading To Romance In Extremely Unlikely Ways That Don't Work:
10. An Affair to Remember
I love this movie. Like most people who have yet to sell their soul I can't help but react to the fantastic story told by Deborah Kerr and Carey Grant. Grant even has maybe the best moment-with-eyes ever when he throws open the door at the end and realizes she has been in a wheelchair the whole time. But this movie can't help but make this list for two very good reason: 1) If I ever do manage to take a cruise anywhere I'll be lucky if it doesn't sink like the Titanic, and even if it doesn't sink there is the very good possibility it will end up being a Lesbian cruise anyway (that's just my luck). 2) If I failed to show up for our meeting six months later and was hurt, ending up in a wheelchair, there would be no second act for me. Probably I would have tried to contact him, he would have spurned me (since I didn't show up anyway) I would become bitter and turn into a civil rights activist for the handicapped. You might think I'm joking. Those of you that know me well probably know I'm not.
9. Persuasion/The Lake House
Again, movies I love. I put them together because (for those of you that have seen The Lake House) the one is obviously referring, and taking a page from, the other. The reasons I despise what these movies have done to me are simple. I have yet to find a man that would wait two hours for me, let alone eight years. And I have yet (trust me I've looked) to find a mailbox that allows me to correspond with Keanu Reeves leading to his falling in love with me. If I could find the mailbox and I could correspond we would fall in love (this actually did happen via computer once) but once we met it would be discovered it wasn't true love after all and we would each part, never to speak again. That's how the story actually goes.
8. The Wedding Date
Paying for companionship is never hot. And yet, somehow The Wedding Date makes it seem like maybe it's not such a bad idea. I take issue because when you pay for a man to pose as your date he is SO never Dermot Mulroney and if he appears that way on the outside he is, inevitably, gay or so far beyond redemption as to be without any marked human characteristics. But this movie makes me question that. I think, gee, I could pay someone to come home with me and maybe we would fall in love. But the thing to remember folks is that even in the movie he's posed for thousands of women before he meets Kat, and odds are much better that we would all be one of those instead of the one. Stupid movie.
7. She's All That
Moral of this movie: If you're beautiful you are always beautiful and hot boys fall in love with you. If you're not beautiful you aren't worth noticing. I think that's a pretty good explanation.
6. Elizabethtown
I've flown across the country. A lot. Granted I'm not a man, but even when male stewardesses (or male passengers) were on said nearly empty plane with me there was no let's talk and fall in love business. Oh no. Instead it's hey, could you stop snoring? Or, why don't you scoot over a little bit? Or I really love my wife. I think that last one's my favorite.
5. How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days
When was the last time any of us acted that crazy and a guy still fell in love with us? When?! I suppose if you look like Kate Hudson not even crazy can turn them off.
4. August Rush
I have been to many parties in my life. I have snuck off to find a quiet corner many times. At no point was John Rhys Meyers hanging out on said roof waiting to fall in love with me.
3. Bed of Roses
I borrow from my dear former roommate here. She is quite right when she points out that many of us have cried in a window, or a car, or on the street. Has Christian Slater ever walked by and been so moved by your tears that he bought you flowers? That's what I thought.
2. Runaway Bride
Again with the crazy. Insane character that can't get her stuff together but men continuously fall in love with her. In what universe does this ever actually happen? Usually Crazy gets a hold of one man, ruins his life then, sometimes, moves on to another. Nobody forgives her. Nobody falls in love with her. Not really. Why? Cause she's crazy.
1. Sleepless in Seattle
If it were anyone other than Meg Ryan it would be a movie about stalking. I've tried it. Oddly enough it didn't work.
The movie did provoke a thought, however, that has grown into its own top ten list. Keri Russell, at a party, becomes claustrophobic and walks out to the roof. There just happens to be John Rhys Meyers singing to the moon and with no more than a look, a smile, and a "we're here together" they're in love! And so I thought that I should write on the incredible unlikelihood of this ever happening and why it irritates me that Hollywood continues to put this standard forth.
The Top Ten Situations Leading To Romance In Extremely Unlikely Ways That Don't Work:
10. An Affair to Remember
I love this movie. Like most people who have yet to sell their soul I can't help but react to the fantastic story told by Deborah Kerr and Carey Grant. Grant even has maybe the best moment-with-eyes ever when he throws open the door at the end and realizes she has been in a wheelchair the whole time. But this movie can't help but make this list for two very good reason: 1) If I ever do manage to take a cruise anywhere I'll be lucky if it doesn't sink like the Titanic, and even if it doesn't sink there is the very good possibility it will end up being a Lesbian cruise anyway (that's just my luck). 2) If I failed to show up for our meeting six months later and was hurt, ending up in a wheelchair, there would be no second act for me. Probably I would have tried to contact him, he would have spurned me (since I didn't show up anyway) I would become bitter and turn into a civil rights activist for the handicapped. You might think I'm joking. Those of you that know me well probably know I'm not.
9. Persuasion/The Lake House
Again, movies I love. I put them together because (for those of you that have seen The Lake House) the one is obviously referring, and taking a page from, the other. The reasons I despise what these movies have done to me are simple. I have yet to find a man that would wait two hours for me, let alone eight years. And I have yet (trust me I've looked) to find a mailbox that allows me to correspond with Keanu Reeves leading to his falling in love with me. If I could find the mailbox and I could correspond we would fall in love (this actually did happen via computer once) but once we met it would be discovered it wasn't true love after all and we would each part, never to speak again. That's how the story actually goes.
8. The Wedding Date
Paying for companionship is never hot. And yet, somehow The Wedding Date makes it seem like maybe it's not such a bad idea. I take issue because when you pay for a man to pose as your date he is SO never Dermot Mulroney and if he appears that way on the outside he is, inevitably, gay or so far beyond redemption as to be without any marked human characteristics. But this movie makes me question that. I think, gee, I could pay someone to come home with me and maybe we would fall in love. But the thing to remember folks is that even in the movie he's posed for thousands of women before he meets Kat, and odds are much better that we would all be one of those instead of the one. Stupid movie.
7. She's All That
Moral of this movie: If you're beautiful you are always beautiful and hot boys fall in love with you. If you're not beautiful you aren't worth noticing. I think that's a pretty good explanation.
6. Elizabethtown
I've flown across the country. A lot. Granted I'm not a man, but even when male stewardesses (or male passengers) were on said nearly empty plane with me there was no let's talk and fall in love business. Oh no. Instead it's hey, could you stop snoring? Or, why don't you scoot over a little bit? Or I really love my wife. I think that last one's my favorite.
5. How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days
When was the last time any of us acted that crazy and a guy still fell in love with us? When?! I suppose if you look like Kate Hudson not even crazy can turn them off.
4. August Rush
I have been to many parties in my life. I have snuck off to find a quiet corner many times. At no point was John Rhys Meyers hanging out on said roof waiting to fall in love with me.
3. Bed of Roses
I borrow from my dear former roommate here. She is quite right when she points out that many of us have cried in a window, or a car, or on the street. Has Christian Slater ever walked by and been so moved by your tears that he bought you flowers? That's what I thought.
2. Runaway Bride
Again with the crazy. Insane character that can't get her stuff together but men continuously fall in love with her. In what universe does this ever actually happen? Usually Crazy gets a hold of one man, ruins his life then, sometimes, moves on to another. Nobody forgives her. Nobody falls in love with her. Not really. Why? Cause she's crazy.
1. Sleepless in Seattle
If it were anyone other than Meg Ryan it would be a movie about stalking. I've tried it. Oddly enough it didn't work.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
So you can go here http://www.newsweek.com/id/73765?GT1=10645 to see how women's weight, and weight loss goals, are affected by body image.
Really? You think? I had no idea. I wonder, when calculating how much money fat people cost the economy every year if they roll charges for studies like this up in them too. I also love it when researches "discover" how and why women are they way they are. I had no idea that I, an overweight woman with a good body image, viewed weight differently than an average weight person or underweight person. I'm so glad you conducted a study and spent research money to discover this. In fact, I am so glad that it is such a priority in our country to research, understand, and yes, fix, all the fat people. Were it not for science we would all turn into a race of Jabba the Huts, keeping the skinny people on a leash in front of us. It's a good thing we can stop this before it happens.
This isn't a post about fat people and how we are perceived in society. That's a horse I've ridden till it's just about dead. Rather, this is a post about the way scientists conduct idiotic, foolish research, and then complain about the money the subjects of said research cost the economy. I know, we conduct research so that we can better understand why people are the way they are, why they do what they do and then insurance companies can better streamline the populace to make more money. If there were a pill that made you thin or a procedure then pharmaceuticals could market, insurance companies could raise premiums to pay for it and everybody's happy! Except the fat kid that doesn't want to take a pill or go through surgery.
AIDS is still out there people. Things like Alzheimer's, Parkinson's, Multiple Sclerosis--these are all things that destroy the body slowly and painfully, never mind cancer. And yet we argue over stem cell research, quibble over sex education, and throw most of our money and attention into things like erectile dysfunction (e.d.) teenage smoking practices, and fat people. I'm not saying that all of us being fat is a good thing or that we shouldn't be aware of our increasingly sedentary lifestyles, but I am saying that there are bigger things to worry about right now. Like the fact that Bush is making noise about Iran again. Or the fact that teenage pregnancy's are on the rise for the first time since 1991--something that just happens to coincide with a more conservative government and the reinstatement of abstinence only education. Are these things not worth worrying about?
Oh, and then there's the loss of civil rights. The way America is no longer striving towards the ideal it once put forth. The way that we are no longer the freest or most equal country in the world. Our healthcare is screwy, we're still arguing about abortion, and homosexuals can't marry. Why can't homosexuals marry again? Because it destroys the sanctity of the union? I live in Las Vegas and you can take my word for it that there ain't no sanctity left anywhere. And what the hell is a government doing preserving the "sanctity" of anything? There should be no moral judgment in a government, there should be ethical judgment and it is unethical to prevent to two people from marrying in the eyes of the state. At least, it would be if we actually had separation of church and state.
But I see no headlines on the front page of msn today talking about any of these things. I see no headlines expressing outrage that there is still gender inequality in the workplace, or the irony that the very same people who bemoan the loss of the "family structure" are the same that want to do away with maternity leave and deny it to men. I see nothing about how we are going to recover our civil rights or deal with the very real issues of stem cell research or sex education.
Our moral highground has been eroded out from under us. We now stand at the top of a very unstable mountain, which may topple us at the slightest breeze. We argue for the sanctity of life and cut social programs; we tell teens they shouldn't get pregnant but never tell them how to avoid it and deal with the very real pressures they face. We tell other countries we know what democracy is even as we take steps towards something that is so not democracy. And we focus on things like fat people and smokers and drug addicts because these are concrete issues with real quantifiable people we can see, judge, and research. We have a war on drugs but no war on illegal prostitution, or slave-trade. We have a war on terror but no war on the Taliban. We have an obesity epidemic, but AIDS is just a part of life. We fight each other over issues of religion instead of working to create an environment that truly does offer freedom of religion and even, freedom from religion. Our priorities are so skewed that I worry no one can even see the ridiculousness of it anymore. I worry that we have spent so much time examining the flaws of others that we have lost the ability to examine the flaws in ourselves.
If you think I'm wrong know this: when presented with Margaret Atwood's "Letter to America" many of my students replied that she was being "unAmerican" by criticizing the country. They even went to so far as to say that because we are still better than other countries (which we're not) that we don't have to worry about what we are giving up (which we do). If the youth of America thinks it is more American to stand by the government than criticize it than what sort of democracy do we really have? Certainly not the one intended following the Revolution, and certainly not one I'm proud of.
But it's all okay. Because soon we'll know why fat people are fat and we'll be able to make everyone healthier. And that will fix everything.
Really? You think? I had no idea. I wonder, when calculating how much money fat people cost the economy every year if they roll charges for studies like this up in them too. I also love it when researches "discover" how and why women are they way they are. I had no idea that I, an overweight woman with a good body image, viewed weight differently than an average weight person or underweight person. I'm so glad you conducted a study and spent research money to discover this. In fact, I am so glad that it is such a priority in our country to research, understand, and yes, fix, all the fat people. Were it not for science we would all turn into a race of Jabba the Huts, keeping the skinny people on a leash in front of us. It's a good thing we can stop this before it happens.
This isn't a post about fat people and how we are perceived in society. That's a horse I've ridden till it's just about dead. Rather, this is a post about the way scientists conduct idiotic, foolish research, and then complain about the money the subjects of said research cost the economy. I know, we conduct research so that we can better understand why people are the way they are, why they do what they do and then insurance companies can better streamline the populace to make more money. If there were a pill that made you thin or a procedure then pharmaceuticals could market, insurance companies could raise premiums to pay for it and everybody's happy! Except the fat kid that doesn't want to take a pill or go through surgery.
AIDS is still out there people. Things like Alzheimer's, Parkinson's, Multiple Sclerosis--these are all things that destroy the body slowly and painfully, never mind cancer. And yet we argue over stem cell research, quibble over sex education, and throw most of our money and attention into things like erectile dysfunction (e.d.) teenage smoking practices, and fat people. I'm not saying that all of us being fat is a good thing or that we shouldn't be aware of our increasingly sedentary lifestyles, but I am saying that there are bigger things to worry about right now. Like the fact that Bush is making noise about Iran again. Or the fact that teenage pregnancy's are on the rise for the first time since 1991--something that just happens to coincide with a more conservative government and the reinstatement of abstinence only education. Are these things not worth worrying about?
Oh, and then there's the loss of civil rights. The way America is no longer striving towards the ideal it once put forth. The way that we are no longer the freest or most equal country in the world. Our healthcare is screwy, we're still arguing about abortion, and homosexuals can't marry. Why can't homosexuals marry again? Because it destroys the sanctity of the union? I live in Las Vegas and you can take my word for it that there ain't no sanctity left anywhere. And what the hell is a government doing preserving the "sanctity" of anything? There should be no moral judgment in a government, there should be ethical judgment and it is unethical to prevent to two people from marrying in the eyes of the state. At least, it would be if we actually had separation of church and state.
But I see no headlines on the front page of msn today talking about any of these things. I see no headlines expressing outrage that there is still gender inequality in the workplace, or the irony that the very same people who bemoan the loss of the "family structure" are the same that want to do away with maternity leave and deny it to men. I see nothing about how we are going to recover our civil rights or deal with the very real issues of stem cell research or sex education.
Our moral highground has been eroded out from under us. We now stand at the top of a very unstable mountain, which may topple us at the slightest breeze. We argue for the sanctity of life and cut social programs; we tell teens they shouldn't get pregnant but never tell them how to avoid it and deal with the very real pressures they face. We tell other countries we know what democracy is even as we take steps towards something that is so not democracy. And we focus on things like fat people and smokers and drug addicts because these are concrete issues with real quantifiable people we can see, judge, and research. We have a war on drugs but no war on illegal prostitution, or slave-trade. We have a war on terror but no war on the Taliban. We have an obesity epidemic, but AIDS is just a part of life. We fight each other over issues of religion instead of working to create an environment that truly does offer freedom of religion and even, freedom from religion. Our priorities are so skewed that I worry no one can even see the ridiculousness of it anymore. I worry that we have spent so much time examining the flaws of others that we have lost the ability to examine the flaws in ourselves.
If you think I'm wrong know this: when presented with Margaret Atwood's "Letter to America" many of my students replied that she was being "unAmerican" by criticizing the country. They even went to so far as to say that because we are still better than other countries (which we're not) that we don't have to worry about what we are giving up (which we do). If the youth of America thinks it is more American to stand by the government than criticize it than what sort of democracy do we really have? Certainly not the one intended following the Revolution, and certainly not one I'm proud of.
But it's all okay. Because soon we'll know why fat people are fat and we'll be able to make everyone healthier. And that will fix everything.
Monday, December 03, 2007
I have begun watching Beauty and the Beast the old television series with Linda Hamilton and Ron Perlman. Let me tell you, that is quite the experience. First there's the hair and the fantastic late 80's clothing styles--Linda Hamilton has shoulder pads so big she looks like a linebacker. Then there is the over the top "fairy tale-esque" writing. And yet, despite all of that I think I'll probably watch them all. I do have to say though, the drama, and by drama I mean extreme melodrama, is so over the top that I can't even stand it sometimes. And I've only gotten through two episodes. I'm hoping it is like Smallville where it gets better with time instead of Charmed where is just pretty much sucks the whole time.
But that's not actually the point of this. My point, rather, is that I'm in a quandary over whether sleeping with Vincent would be bestiality or not. You see, he is supposed to be a romantic figure and I know that in later seasons they totally have a kid together, so if it is bestiality then Linda Hamilton's Catherine just got a whole lot sketchier. I myself have an inappropriate attraction to all things Ron Perlman, but I find that I am discomfited at certain moments by the sheer animalism of him. Not animalism hot I rip your clothes in my passion, or I lose control protecting you, but I growl and have fangs, and kill people with my claws. You see what it's disturbing?
In the long run I don't suppose any attraction I feel towards Vincent is any more disturbing then, oh the Devil in Legend, but that was a clear-cut case. I am wrong to be attracted to the Lord of Darkness, Tim Curry or not. I know this; I've accepted it. I have inappropriate urges--it's my cross to bear. But Vincent is educated and gentle, and angel not a devil. Does that justify bestiality? If you're born of humans (so we are led to believe) and, despite your animalistic qualities, are human--perhaps just a mutated human--am I allowed to sleep with you? He walks upright; that's an improvement over the werewolf scene in Dracula with Lucy. And he isn't evil, see aforementioned Lord of Darkness comment. He won't lock me in an attic so we're ahead of Mr. Rochester who is all human on the outside and probably he won't strangle me so we're one up on both the Phantom and Darth Vader. Vincent in so many ways is such a better decision than I could (and have) make (made).
And so I propose this question: is it considered bestiality if I sleep with a furry humaniod? This is a modification on my previous positing which asked only if I married a werewolf, but I feel this new phrasing is more all inclusive.
I leave that issue now for another one. This one perhaps less disturbing, perhaps more so--depends on your own comfort level. Vincent is empathic which means he feels everything Catherine does as soon as she does. This makes him great for knowing when she's in danger and coming to help her fight off the bad guys (on a digression he always helps her, but she is kicking ass on her own too which is so awesome) but I'm not sure I want someone who can feel what I can all the time. I mean, perhaps it would be fantastic if he could catch on when I just needed to be [fill in the verb] but aside from that--do I want you to know when I'm moody? Do I want you to know when I'm irrationally angry? I don't think so. I'm very protective of my emotions that way. And Vincent has an incredibly annoying way of always saying "I know" or some variation thereof when talking about her feelings. On the one hand you want to slap him for not knowing, but because he's empathic he really does! Do I still have to talk about my feelings then? It would be really quite exciting not to have to, but can an empath really know all the variations of the emotion? Does he feel it as I feel it? Is he me for just a second? Or does he just get the general sensation with none of the baggage? These are all things that need to be clarified.
For better or worse I doubt I'll be sleeping/marrying/dating a hairy, empathic humaniod anytime soon so probably I'm safe not having an answer to these questions. But I do feel the answers are out there. And they should be found.
What will you do when the beast comes for you?
But that's not actually the point of this. My point, rather, is that I'm in a quandary over whether sleeping with Vincent would be bestiality or not. You see, he is supposed to be a romantic figure and I know that in later seasons they totally have a kid together, so if it is bestiality then Linda Hamilton's Catherine just got a whole lot sketchier. I myself have an inappropriate attraction to all things Ron Perlman, but I find that I am discomfited at certain moments by the sheer animalism of him. Not animalism hot I rip your clothes in my passion, or I lose control protecting you, but I growl and have fangs, and kill people with my claws. You see what it's disturbing?
In the long run I don't suppose any attraction I feel towards Vincent is any more disturbing then, oh the Devil in Legend, but that was a clear-cut case. I am wrong to be attracted to the Lord of Darkness, Tim Curry or not. I know this; I've accepted it. I have inappropriate urges--it's my cross to bear. But Vincent is educated and gentle, and angel not a devil. Does that justify bestiality? If you're born of humans (so we are led to believe) and, despite your animalistic qualities, are human--perhaps just a mutated human--am I allowed to sleep with you? He walks upright; that's an improvement over the werewolf scene in Dracula with Lucy. And he isn't evil, see aforementioned Lord of Darkness comment. He won't lock me in an attic so we're ahead of Mr. Rochester who is all human on the outside and probably he won't strangle me so we're one up on both the Phantom and Darth Vader. Vincent in so many ways is such a better decision than I could (and have) make (made).
And so I propose this question: is it considered bestiality if I sleep with a furry humaniod? This is a modification on my previous positing which asked only if I married a werewolf, but I feel this new phrasing is more all inclusive.
I leave that issue now for another one. This one perhaps less disturbing, perhaps more so--depends on your own comfort level. Vincent is empathic which means he feels everything Catherine does as soon as she does. This makes him great for knowing when she's in danger and coming to help her fight off the bad guys (on a digression he always helps her, but she is kicking ass on her own too which is so awesome) but I'm not sure I want someone who can feel what I can all the time. I mean, perhaps it would be fantastic if he could catch on when I just needed to be [fill in the verb] but aside from that--do I want you to know when I'm moody? Do I want you to know when I'm irrationally angry? I don't think so. I'm very protective of my emotions that way. And Vincent has an incredibly annoying way of always saying "I know" or some variation thereof when talking about her feelings. On the one hand you want to slap him for not knowing, but because he's empathic he really does! Do I still have to talk about my feelings then? It would be really quite exciting not to have to, but can an empath really know all the variations of the emotion? Does he feel it as I feel it? Is he me for just a second? Or does he just get the general sensation with none of the baggage? These are all things that need to be clarified.
For better or worse I doubt I'll be sleeping/marrying/dating a hairy, empathic humaniod anytime soon so probably I'm safe not having an answer to these questions. But I do feel the answers are out there. And they should be found.
What will you do when the beast comes for you?
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Sometimes I marvel at the interesting ways my life goes. It's been a hell of a weekend for the universe reaffirming that I am where I'm supposed to be. First, last night while partying with classmates, I was struck with a sense of deja vu. One of my friends pointed out that it is supposed to be a good thing, a sign you are on the right track. We talked and I explained that I knew when I applied to grad school that I would end up where I was supposed to be, but knowing I was supposed to be here hadn't helped make being here any easier. And then, as I was telling her this, I was overcome with a sense of joy and lightheartedness. I was bombarded with endorphins and for just an instant, the universe opened up and it felt so good to be where I was. I was with friends, and they were (are) my friends. I was safe; I was loved, and it felt good. I was so excited to be a part of an energy exchange like that, and I had forgotten how much I missed it. But, in some ways, it was sweeter because I had never given up on Vegas being the place I was supposed to be. At times I've been miserable and horrifically unhappy, but I have never doubted that I was supposed to be here. That here was where I had a lesson to learn. And last night, as I hugged my friends, it was amazing to remember why it was worth it.
Tonight I attended lesbian-fest 07 at my place of residence. My roommate (who is a lesbian) had several people over for dinner, who also happened to be lesbians, and after everyone had gone home my roommate, one of the guests and I were talking. The conversation turned, as it so often does, to whether or not I really am straight or if I just haven't realized yet that I'm gay. I admit, I find this topic amusing, tedious, and disheartening at this point. It saddens me that what I am is so misunderstood by everyone, while it irritates me that no one believes that I know myself well enough to know myself. And yet as we talked about how I know I am straight--I crave a masculine presence, I like male body parts, I enjoy the way being with a man makes me feel--the conversation evolved into a talk about how much of what I think I want is because I want it, and how much has been put there by society.
Anyone who has read this knows that I've talked ad nauseum about society and its affect on all of us. But as I tried to explain that I craved a man as physically strong as myself if not more (the mental is a given) and she continued to doubt it was anything more than a societally implanted idea, I found I was running out of convincing arguments. I had thought things through to a point, and I had assumed that point was good enough. Silly me, the dialogic (so I hope) composition teacher--I of all people should know there is always more to think through.
This is the second time this idea of chivalry, or protector, or someone saving another has come up this weekend. In the previous night a friend (male) brought up that he hoped there was someone out there who could save him. I jumped on that quickly explaining that I did not want someone who could save me; I wanted (want) someone who can save himself so that I can save myself and we aren't always saving each other. But putting that conversation alongside tonight's conversation I can admit that's not true. Deep down inside I feel a sense of satisfaction when the hero rushes in and saves the heroine. I only feel that satisfaction if it is obvious that the heroine could take care of herself, but I like the idea of a man that can rescue me when I need him too. I have not shaken this idea of a man that can "heal" me, as it were, and a wounded man that I might "heal" as well. There are many reasons for this not the least of which is a plethora of chick-flicks, lifetime movies, and beloved trashy romance novels. I've been indoctrinated with this idea that he should have a hard time expressing his emotions because otherwise he's a wimp and I should be appropriately loving and giving so that I can heal him with my vagina.
And yet after one non-consensual loss of virginity, a good year of seeking validation through one night stands and more than one unhealthy relationship I've got to admit--that is all total and complete bullshit. I offer this slightly overly honest post not because I think I've got it all figured out, but mostly because I would like to admit that I haven't. I know that the only way for two people to really interact healthily with each other is if they don't objectify each other, and yet, I too instinctually go for the simplicity of a plot. If I objectify you and myself as characters than I don't have to deal with the complexities of life. If I behave in ways that show what sort of person I am, and speak in ways that demonstrate it then it must be true. It doesn't need to be more complicated than that, more human than that, because I don't want to deal with the mess. I want the love story. I want to marry the hero, the Spartan, the wounded bad boy turned good for me because he was healed by my vagina and live happily ever after. I don't want to worry about five years from now when we're poor, or ten years from now when we're bored, or twenty years from now when I wish for anything but what I have. I don't want to engage in the full realm of human existence because it's too hard, too messy to acknowledge it's there. I don't want to believe that it always will be because I want to think that when I find my hero, my Spartan, that the messiness will fade away. That we will "save" each other. And for all the times I've said that isn't true about myself, on some level deep down where I'm still sixteen and waiting for Jake Ryan, it is.
And so I share this with you, in part, because I want to admit it. Admitting it is naming it and gives me some degree of power to change it. But admitting it also allows me to acknowledge that if I've learned anything in the last two days it's that you aren't ever done figuring out who you are. You aren't ever done answering questions about why you are who you are or believe what you believe. In part because there is always something more, but mostly because you're always changing. And if you are always changing then the whys have to change, at least a little bit, too.
The only thing that actually saddens me about all of this is that I feel once I work through this really I won't be waiting for Jake Ryan and that means the last vestiges of me that are still sixteen will be gone. Not my playfulness or even my hopefulness, but perhaps the last naively simplistic parts of myself that are still banking on someone else taking care of the hard stuff or at least me. It's hard to give up the dreams of youth, even the ones you know are unhealthy. Doing that seems sad somehow. But waiting to be saved isn't a good dream, and I don't think my life has been lessened because it wasn't realized. If anything I'm more happy with the person I am today because of it. But I suppose what makes it hard is that once I give this up, I'm really not going to be a heroine in one of my trashy romance novels because I won't be like any (almost) of the heroines in the trashy romance novels.
But I suppose I could just write my own story. Yeah, who says you can't be loved because you don't fit a literary archetype? Maybe Freud, but he's full of shit anyway.
Tonight I attended lesbian-fest 07 at my place of residence. My roommate (who is a lesbian) had several people over for dinner, who also happened to be lesbians, and after everyone had gone home my roommate, one of the guests and I were talking. The conversation turned, as it so often does, to whether or not I really am straight or if I just haven't realized yet that I'm gay. I admit, I find this topic amusing, tedious, and disheartening at this point. It saddens me that what I am is so misunderstood by everyone, while it irritates me that no one believes that I know myself well enough to know myself. And yet as we talked about how I know I am straight--I crave a masculine presence, I like male body parts, I enjoy the way being with a man makes me feel--the conversation evolved into a talk about how much of what I think I want is because I want it, and how much has been put there by society.
Anyone who has read this knows that I've talked ad nauseum about society and its affect on all of us. But as I tried to explain that I craved a man as physically strong as myself if not more (the mental is a given) and she continued to doubt it was anything more than a societally implanted idea, I found I was running out of convincing arguments. I had thought things through to a point, and I had assumed that point was good enough. Silly me, the dialogic (so I hope) composition teacher--I of all people should know there is always more to think through.
This is the second time this idea of chivalry, or protector, or someone saving another has come up this weekend. In the previous night a friend (male) brought up that he hoped there was someone out there who could save him. I jumped on that quickly explaining that I did not want someone who could save me; I wanted (want) someone who can save himself so that I can save myself and we aren't always saving each other. But putting that conversation alongside tonight's conversation I can admit that's not true. Deep down inside I feel a sense of satisfaction when the hero rushes in and saves the heroine. I only feel that satisfaction if it is obvious that the heroine could take care of herself, but I like the idea of a man that can rescue me when I need him too. I have not shaken this idea of a man that can "heal" me, as it were, and a wounded man that I might "heal" as well. There are many reasons for this not the least of which is a plethora of chick-flicks, lifetime movies, and beloved trashy romance novels. I've been indoctrinated with this idea that he should have a hard time expressing his emotions because otherwise he's a wimp and I should be appropriately loving and giving so that I can heal him with my vagina.
And yet after one non-consensual loss of virginity, a good year of seeking validation through one night stands and more than one unhealthy relationship I've got to admit--that is all total and complete bullshit. I offer this slightly overly honest post not because I think I've got it all figured out, but mostly because I would like to admit that I haven't. I know that the only way for two people to really interact healthily with each other is if they don't objectify each other, and yet, I too instinctually go for the simplicity of a plot. If I objectify you and myself as characters than I don't have to deal with the complexities of life. If I behave in ways that show what sort of person I am, and speak in ways that demonstrate it then it must be true. It doesn't need to be more complicated than that, more human than that, because I don't want to deal with the mess. I want the love story. I want to marry the hero, the Spartan, the wounded bad boy turned good for me because he was healed by my vagina and live happily ever after. I don't want to worry about five years from now when we're poor, or ten years from now when we're bored, or twenty years from now when I wish for anything but what I have. I don't want to engage in the full realm of human existence because it's too hard, too messy to acknowledge it's there. I don't want to believe that it always will be because I want to think that when I find my hero, my Spartan, that the messiness will fade away. That we will "save" each other. And for all the times I've said that isn't true about myself, on some level deep down where I'm still sixteen and waiting for Jake Ryan, it is.
And so I share this with you, in part, because I want to admit it. Admitting it is naming it and gives me some degree of power to change it. But admitting it also allows me to acknowledge that if I've learned anything in the last two days it's that you aren't ever done figuring out who you are. You aren't ever done answering questions about why you are who you are or believe what you believe. In part because there is always something more, but mostly because you're always changing. And if you are always changing then the whys have to change, at least a little bit, too.
The only thing that actually saddens me about all of this is that I feel once I work through this really I won't be waiting for Jake Ryan and that means the last vestiges of me that are still sixteen will be gone. Not my playfulness or even my hopefulness, but perhaps the last naively simplistic parts of myself that are still banking on someone else taking care of the hard stuff or at least me. It's hard to give up the dreams of youth, even the ones you know are unhealthy. Doing that seems sad somehow. But waiting to be saved isn't a good dream, and I don't think my life has been lessened because it wasn't realized. If anything I'm more happy with the person I am today because of it. But I suppose what makes it hard is that once I give this up, I'm really not going to be a heroine in one of my trashy romance novels because I won't be like any (almost) of the heroines in the trashy romance novels.
But I suppose I could just write my own story. Yeah, who says you can't be loved because you don't fit a literary archetype? Maybe Freud, but he's full of shit anyway.
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