I ramble, I write, I blog. Somehow that doesn’t have quite the same power as “I burn, I pine, I perish” but Shakespeare I’m not. I have a few friends who would be willing to attest to that.

Let’s see, so much to say—where to begin? I don’t have much to rant about as things have been good. There are silly (and stupid) people posting answers to msn.com survey’s but that’s nothing new. No one has argued the right to mutilate their child’s body recently so I’m feeling hopeful on that front.

I suppose I’ll start with an update. Looks like I might move to Sin City and progress on my journey towards a PhD. I can’t wait to make everyone call me “doctor.” Granted I’ll be so very far in debt at that point that they’ll be calling me “doctor” before telling me to take out the trash, but hey, at least I’ll have the title.

Secondly and far more importantly…I saw Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles! Yeah, that’s right, I did. And I liked it! There were several moments in the theatre when I forgot my now enviable age of twenty-something in favor of being eleven again; a couple times during the movie I almost broke out in a rousing “go ninja, go ninja go!” Vanilla Ice has warped my fragile little mind. It was a fun, action-packed adventure. Me likey. I also had these wonderful deep thoughts about which I was totally going to write…and then I didn’t. So now you’re all stuck with this drivel and I would feel bad for you, but I don’t. I don’t promise entertaining writing all of the time.

I would, however, like to take a moment to discuss how very, very wrong I am. As in bad, socially unacceptable, and sexually perverse. I thought some of the turtles were cute. Yeah, I don’t know what that makes me, but I’m sure there’s a disorder name in a book somewhere. I can’t help it, when they personify the characters and make them all wounded deep down. Anyone whose read more than two posts knows I’m a sucker for the bad boys. Apparently I’m a sucker for the bad turtles too.

So that is most all of my news—the final project is in and graduation looms. My dreams of changing the world via comic books and Shakespeare are still going strong. So I leave you with these inspirational words:

Go ninja, go ninja go!!

An Ode To Itty-Bitty, Teeny-Tiny, Little Leather Panties

My title this installment is inspired by the movie 300. For anyone interested in a very interesting and entertaining action movie (not to mention the aforementioned itty-bitty, teeny-tiny leather panties worn by 300 well *ahem* endowed Spartans) I highly recommend it. I personally find it to be a brilliant idea. Muscled men, in not much clothing running around acting all manly in that I-kill-to-save-my-country way, jumping, stabbing, thrusting, usually a little bit dirty and sometimes all wet. Brilliant I say, brilliant.

All right, I’ll stop objectifying the other sex now. I don’t feel horribly bad about it, though and I’ll tell you why. Because it isn’t just the hotness of the Spartans that inspires my lust, it is, believe it or not, their personalities. In the movie you see the honor that drives them, the bonds of friendship, the love for their wives, children, and countrymen. Without that I wouldn’t be writing any “odes,” but with that I’m simply grateful that someone decided to present honorable men whom happen to be hot not wearing many clothes. That, I feel very little guilt for expressing.

As I sit grading papers I worry that my student’s ethics aren’t nearly as thought-out (or at least rationalized) as mine are. It can be “necessary and right” to kill someone they say, even if murder is always unethical. Well to that I say, why is murder always unethical? And if it is necessary and right but still unethical, is it perhaps neither necessary nor right? I am not claiming all ethical answers of the universe here, more just a general fright that these questions never seem to cross their minds. It is as if the world they live in cannot stand to be challenged in any way. That frightens me terribly, but then I suppose that’s why I’m doing what I’m doing. No fun being teacher if the people you teach have nothing to learn, myself included.

In any case, I have more papers to grade and more fantasizing to do. I also have a little bit of wishful thinking that I will receive an acceptance letter for myself (with funding) to a PhD program. I have even more wishful thinking that my friends will as well. If not I might just be moving back home with the ma and the pa and I’m not sure I’m ready for that sort of situation. Afterall, Spartans in itty-bitty, teeny-tiny, little, leather panties never date twenty-something teachers who live at home with their parents.

Oh, bless the leather panties though. Bless them indeed.

Captain America is dead! Shot by an assassin coming out of a courthouse! That’s not noble, or heroic!

Okay, I’ve abused my quotient of exclamation marks so I’ll stop now. But still, Captain America is dead. I’m not nearly as moved as I was by the loss of Superman, but that’s mostly because I’ve never been particularly close to Captain America. And anyone who grew up with X-Men learned to accept death in the Marvel universe at an early age. I now look forward to the release of Civil War in a graphic novel so I can read the whole story line—I wasn’t particularly interested but in a brilliant marketing move they’ve roped me in. Marvel and I have had a bit of a falling out, you understand, but perhaps they’ve reclaimed my patronage.

D.C. and I have been having a bit of a love affair recently, the Infinite Crisis was an extremely good storyline and I really enjoyed reading it. We’ll have to see if Civil War is as good—it seems to have possibilities. I really can’t wait until I’m tenured and can teach entire freshman seminars on comic books; I’ll have to be very clear to my students that we’re going to be doing that so none of them whine at me later, but I’ve learned that whining is what freshman do. No avoiding it.

But Captain America…can you kill Captain America? In some ways it’s the loss of childhood innocence—not a bad move, D.C. did it with Superman and it rejuvenated the industry, but I have been hanging on to Marvel as my last link to childhood. Now it’s gone. They aren’t the same comics they used to be. And for as many stories as they have had about racism, bigotry, responsibility, sacrifice and any number of other topics, they’ve never killed anyone I couldn’t let go.

This isn’t to say that I can’t let Captain America go; he was always a little to black and white for me. Captain America fought for the government in a way I never saw Superman. Perhaps it was the name, perhaps it was the origin story, perhaps it was the amazing propaganda, but I always found it difficult to completely put my trust in Captain America. To say he was “too good” seems odd since Superman ought to be the one seeming to be “too good” and, yet, that is exactly how I would describe my refusal to read Captain America comics.

But he has been a staple; something I could always count on. I have several professors who like to remind us that characters are not people, but maybe I would argue with them. Not because the characters are living or breathing, but because characters that move you, characters that are part of your life do become real people. They become friends, someone you think about, perhaps even write about or consider when attempting to develop what kind of person you want to be. They feel like a friend. For literary studies that doesn’t mean you can write about them as if there is a history there you don’t know, but it does mean, I think, that we can use them as touchstones for philosophical thought. They are symbols of our culture, icons. When we kill them it is (to borrow a word from my roommates thesis) iconoclasm and I think anytime you destroy a cultures icons that is a very real reverberation. That’s something that affects us that we are completely unprepared to deal with. We point fingers at “geeks” and say dude, get over it. He isn’t a real person. But that’s just it. Captain America is more than a real person, he’s an icon, an idea. And the destruction of that affects more than just your emotional well-being. It’s a sign of your culture changing, shifting.

People look at comic books and graphic novels and call them children’s literature, pop culture—without currency in true academic debate. The truth is that we imbue our heroes, in comic books, movies, or television, with iconic status and some trust that so long as Captain America, or Superman, or Batman is fighting the good fight we as people are still fighting the good fight. When they die or break or fail—it’s more than a story. It’s the destruction of one of our ideals.

So Captain America is dead. And even though I didn’t read his comic book often he was still my friend. And I’m sad.

I think my ability for rational thought has officially vanished. I’m on day three of the “writing the final project binge” and all I can think about is Macbeth, V for Vendetta, and that ole sly dog Guy Fawkes. And I think I’m more than slightly in love with Guy Fawkes by the by. Which is odd because, you know, he was a terrorist (and is 500 years old, but whatever) but he was fighting for what he believed in and that’s hot. Granted he was going to kill lots of innocent people in the process, but what’s innocent anyway?

Did I just say that? I think I did. See, rational thought. Out the window!

Here’s a question, though; what do people think about V, from V for Vendetta? Terrorist? Hero? Savior? All of the above? And if you are a cop for a corrupt government is it more or less ethical to kill you? These are the issues kicking around in my head right now. Unfortunately I am incapable of musing on an answer since, like I said, rational thought, not so much.

I abuse the comma. That’s right, abuse it. And I like it!

I’m no longer even linking my thoughts and that’s scary. You shouldn’t be subjected to this. Especially when I’m just killing time and have absolutely nothing of substance to say here. Except Guy Fawkes…he was hot. All holding out against torture and stuff until they broke him. That’s a man that’s wounded deep down, and I, I just want to make it better. I want to heal him with my vagina. I mean, isn’t that why all women go for the wounded guy? We think we’re going to give them magical sex and then suddenly they’ll be healed, but it was because of us and only for us and weren’t we that special woman he’s been waiting for to make him whole?

Yes, I’m throwing up a little bit in my mouth too, but it’s true. We want to fix someone and we secretly hope they’ll fix us. Except that no one can fix you but yourself and isn’t that just depressing. I don’t want to fix myself, I’m tired. I’d much rather Guy Fawkes (or Gerard Butler playing the part of Guy Fawkes) fix me. Of course, Batman would work too—again with the acting outside the government. Subversion is sexy. I seem to have this thing for guys that are prone to physical violence. I don’t think I’m going to examine that aspect my personality just yet. I’m quite sure that’s something I should repress—and repress I fully intend to do, like a champ. At least until I find someone that will only hit me when I ask for it.

And now that I have successfully weirded you all out I sign off. Obviously I need to repress my scary self a little better.

You all need to go here http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/16429930/ and here http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/16981527/wid/11915773?GT1=9033 as soon as possible. The first is an article discussing the groundbreaking news that girls who read articles about dieting develop more food-related problems later in life and the second is information on an increase in child obesity related surgeries. Apparently, the surgeries are now safer and so it’s okay to stick your fat kid under the knife—might as well nip that weight problem right in the bud right?

Again, I’m not advocating an unhealthy lifestyle—but I am advocating non-mutilation of our children’s bodies. At times gastric-bypass surgery or the stomach band might very well be a responsible necessary decision for an adult to make after serious consultation with a doctor. But, for a child? Obese or not is “corrective” surgery for an obese child the best way to improve the child’s situation? How about taking your kid for a walk everyday, playing catch, hide and go seek, tag, and monitoring what sorts of food they eat? I mean if your child has that serious of a weight-problem then don’t you, as a parent, carry the responsibility of teaching them good lifestyle choices? And isn’t the message of “if you don’t like yourself just have surgery” not the best option?

I’m no Doctor Spock here people—I don’t have kids and I certainly am not a health-nut advocate, but…please. First we mutilate the bodies of our retarded kids and now we mutilate the bodies of our ugly kids.

Oh brave new world and what wondrous beings are in it.

I don't know what quality of posts are coming in the future, but I thought I would post something from a creative writing class back during my undergrad years. I wrote this when I was 19 and now seems like a good time to share it.

She lay in bed, content with her life. He had called her today, like he’d called everyday before and now she laid there, she, he, and her best friend; three in a bed, three friends content to be. Her best friend was beautiful, with cute blond hair and a million dollar smile, but he didn’t like the cute one, he’d told her so-she finally had a chance. Letting down the barriers and coming from her shell, she had discussed this very fact with her best friend earlier that day; the fact she thought she had a chance, he seemed interested. Thus it was quite a surprise as she lay there in bed, and felt him turn away toward the vixen on the other side; pushing her toward the side, shoving her over the edge. She could feel their bodies moving on the sheets, denting the bed with their amour as they drowned in each other’s spittle. She could hear the smack of skin on skin and feel his arm moving over the other’s body-branding her as he caressed her friend. Her mind, unable to accept the truth, her emotions roiling insider her-she knew she had to escape. Run away before her volcanic feelings erupted, burning her body, her friends, the bed. The bed that was to small for three people-was any bed big enough for this? Her feelings funneled to movement, she exploded from the bed, the bed of Satan and his succubus and she a mere mortal burned in their fire-she escaped the bed and its dirty sheets on dirty people. She ran from the room, ran from the feelings, ran from the friend. She had forgotten that to feel was to hurt; to love was to cry. She had forgotten an unarmored back was as broad as a barn. Her friend, with a thrust through her spine had stabbed to her heart, reminding her of that truth of life. She couldn’t beat her beautiful friend, she, a medusa to the siren; her friend had reminded her to stay in her place, that men would always think with the wrong head. Fuck that. And fuck them.

The world is abounding in ethical dilemmas these days. On one side it looks to be possible for parents to chose their child’s sexual orientation. Goodbye gays. On the other side parents’ whose child’s brain stopped developing at 3 months have decided to keep her from growing. That’s right, extreme estrogen therapy stunts growth, and combined with a hysterectomy, and removal of the breast buds you essentially have one, very oversized child or undersized adult. All depends on how you look at it right? We’ll talk about the girl first.
So, the parents’ stunted her growth because it made it easier for her to be handled by her care-givers. They desexualized her so that her breasts wouldn’t get in the way of her wheelchair straps and said care-givers (again) wouldn’t feel “uncomfortable” when undressing and dressing her. She would also never “suffer” from menstruation, cramps or any of the other downsides of a post-pubescent woman. You can read all about it at http://www.slate.com/id/2157861/?GT1=9010 or ashleytreatment.spaces.live.com. My question is this—if your kid is going to be too much of a hassle as an adult, why bother to spend the money on keeping her a kid? Why bother keeping her alive at all? And that leads me to my next issue.
The ability to ensure a child’s sexuality—eliminate homosexuality effectively. One person argued that if a woman could ethically abort a fetus with down syndrome why couldn’t a parent ethically decide upon his or her child’s sexuality? Well I guess that depends on how you view sexuality. Is it a disease? Is it some sort of birth defect? Does being born a homosexual really reduce your life expectations so very much? What about down syndrome? Or any other abnormality?
At what point are we ethically empowered by science to ensure the absolute best life for our children we can? And if you find out the fetus you are carrying (or your wife is carrying) is flawed in someway, can you abort it in favor another, less broken one? I honestly don’t know. Given the option of aborting a baby I knew had down syndrome I have no idea what decision I would make. But I do know two things. You are born with the genetics you have and there is nothing wrong or right about that. “Wrong” and “Right” are moral terms and genetics are not an issue of morality. That means that while down syndrome (and some might argue homosexuality, though that seems to prevalent to be an accident) might be a mutation, it is simply a difference from the norm not a punishment or failing of some kind. If as a parent you give birth to a child with such a condition, Ashley’s for instance how can you mutilate that child’s body for your convenience? At that point what little quality of life is being experienced has been completely destroyed so why not kill the kid? You obviously don’t want the hassle of dealing with it anyway. And finally, the female body will abort any fetus not viable for life so maybe if your body carries the kid to term, gay, stupid or otherwise, you should be prepared to deal with what you have, and love it, not look for a better model.

So I’ve been a bit testy lately. It finally occurred to me just a moment ago that my testiness might be do to the fact that I haven’t written in a long time—really written. Of course, to be honest part of my testiness is that I haven’t had any interaction with testes but I can’t do much about that. And hey, I can write about interaction with my favorite male anatomy and while that might not be the same thing, it at least alleviates some of the frustration. At least that’s what “they” say, whoever “they” are.
This whole “don’t be a ho” mentality I’ve adopted is honestly starting to get on my nerves. It’s been a year now of not sleeping around and only part of that year was due to lack of opportunity. There was one very blatant invitation and I didn’t accept. Looking back I flog myself a little bit for said decision, but the truth is I’m tired of bad sex. The only reason I decided not to sleep with anyone who offered was because I’ve yet to get to know someone before I sleep with him. What a concept.
Anyway, this whole self-awareness bit and accepting that maybe I’m a little more broken than I wanted to admit is annoying. And besides, who isn’t more broken than they want to admit? But here I sit, holding out for love because if I meet the right guy he’ll make it all better right? (Yes I was joking, I barfed a little in my mouth as I wrote that sentence too, don’t worry.) Seriously, here I sit holding out for love because if I’m going to continue this process of not being broken I have to make decisions that further my cause, not harm it. And, at the moment, this one seems to be the correct choice. However, making said correct choice has gotten neither love nor sex and we’re back to where we started: me being testy.
So I suppose I’ll write something; maybe a fanfiction or a short story, or I’ll start another novel I won’t finish. What matters is that for the time I’m writing I’m happy, and if I can’t ensure that I’ll be happy all the time I can ensure that I will be happy all the moments that are within my control. In a week school will start and I will be swamped with homework, a final project and grading, but that’s in a week. And if I planned ahead I wouldn’t be me now would I?

Well, it's four o'clock in the morning and that to me says “time to write!” To the rest of you it might say “go to bed” but hey, since when do I care what the voices in my head tell you?

I wonder sometimes if I'm turning into a crotchety old feminist. If I am, in fact, losing my ability to enjoy comedy because I am too horrified by the truth behind the joke to find said joke funny. The other problem is that in my horror, I want nothing more than to explain to others why they should be horrified with me—I want to spread my knowledge...like the plague. Is that acceptable?

I remember once during my undergraduate years when a man stood on the sidewalk and preached at all who walked by. He called out to the young women in revealing clothing labeling them “whores” and “Jezebels” and preached the word against homosexuality, abortion, and premarital sex. I was so incensed by him and my brother said that I shouldn't be. That if this man truly believed all of us were going to hell wasn't it honorable that he was doing his best to keep us from going there? He wasn't attacking anyone physically, only verbally. He wasn't limiting anyone's choices, just trying to elucidate why their choices were wrong. It was unwanted opinion and he was spewing it at the top of his lungs.

I am now the spewer of the unwanted and I have to question if that is acceptable or not. Of course I believe that what I know to be true is true—or, the best version of true. But so did this preacher. And, as much as I could argue why he was wrong and I am right, if the world he believes in is the truer world than all my arguments fail. Of course I wouldn't see things the way he sees them because I haven't seen the light. Naturally his arguments seem silly to me because I haven't accepted God into my heart. This conveniently shifts the playing field of the debate from the mundane to the spiritual thereby making it impossible for me to prove my point or disprove his. So, knowing that I can't disprove what he had to say I have only the unswerving belief that I am right—it is that same unswerving belief that keeps him warm at night. Does that make me a fanatic? Does that make me a zealot? Am I at liberty to express my opinions regardless of who wants to listen at will?

I would say no, but I would acknowledge that I can be zealous at times. I shut down sometimes when someone says something I don't want to hear and stop listening to what it is they are trying to say, instead focusing entirely on what they are saying literally. This isn't the way to handle any situation, especially not one where opinions are flying. But it is so difficult, perhaps the most difficult, thing I've ever had to do—this listening to what others are trying to tell me, regardless of my emotional response to their words. And, by choosing to listen to their side and not continually fight for my own I have to accept that they might not see what I see; they might not agree with me in the end. That's actually the hard part. Giving up the fight because this knowledge that I am so sure is correct and so sure would improve their thoughts and lives if they had it isn't, in the end, for them. Whether because they aren't ready to hear it, can't hear it or choose not to hear it is inconsequential. The fact of the matter is that it is like poison to them.

Sometimes a joke is just a joke, regardless of the history or the horror behind it, and you have to let people laugh. Even if you know deep down it isn't very funny it doesn't matter because on some level, some level even they don't fully understand or acknowledge, they know it isn't funny too. They know it's horrible. But laughing at it, knowingly or unknowingly, takes some of the power of that horror away. It is important to laugh at things that are tragic to the marrow of their bones I think, but I hope very, very strongly, that all will eventually learn to laugh while knowing why it isn't funny. Because in the end, so I believe, until you know the full history and meaning behind something your laughter isn't removing the power from the horror but merely hiding it. Until a thing is completely understood and, I would go so far as to say felt, the joke is still doing more harm than good.

I suppose I have to start trying something new. I suppose I will have to learn to say things quietly and when I feel they should or must be said only. I hope that isn't giving up the fight. I hope that is learning to fight more wisely. I suppose we shall see.

I don’t post very often anymore do I? I wonder why that is. Probably because the longer I stay in school the less entertaining my thoughts become and the more academic (read socially-stunted) my writing sounds. I am so very sorry about that. Except perhaps not, because there are only so many times a person can talk about her bodily functions and get away with it. I’m not sure what that limit is, but I’ll let you know when we hit it.

So today I unburden the search for the perfect Ph.D. program on all of you. Of course, when I say “perfect” what I mean is someone that will accept me. I truly, truly hate selling myself and I look forward to the day I’m an old tenured professor who doesn’t have to do that sort of thing. But I will always be engaging in that behavior because I’m going to have to publish and publishing means selling your work…I’m sensing a pattern here and I don’t like it.

Instead I offer a change of subject: Daniel Craig as the new James Bond. Wet. Running. Panting. With his shirt off. Yes please.

I know there was a lot of skepticism preceding the release of the movie (myself included) but I am the first to admit that I am pleasantly surprised. Honestly, I thought it might be the best Bond movie yet. And, alternatively, I thought Craig to be the best Bond yet, and no, not just because he is hot. In all honesty, as much as I love the Sean Connery, I actually like older, post-Bond Connery better. What I’m about to say is going to be sacrilegious to all you Bond fanatics so just stop reading now.

I love Timothy Dalton. There, I said it; it’s done. My dirty, dirty secret is out in the open (one of them at least). I found Craig surpassing Dalton, but having some of the same characteristics that made me love Dalton in the first place. There’s a restraint about both of them like maybe, just maybe, they might lose control and it’s going to be a lot of action. A girl really likes seeing that. Not to mention, when Craig fights in this movie you really believe in his ability to fight. With the other Bond’s it was almost as if the bad guys were so inept that Bond couldn’t help but win the brawl. Daniel Craig really had to work for it. I appreciated that.

And right now, as I sit here with a cold and my snot-ridden self I’m really happy about the new Bond movie. Except I can’t go see it again because with the way I blow my nose people would have me kicked out of the theatre for being too loud. Ugh, I’m so hot right now it’s amazing men can keep their hands off of me. My roommate has asked the question how can my nose, as little as it is, produce so much snot? I don’t know man, I don’t know.

But I have now worked school, subjectification of men, and bodily functions into one blog. My life is complete.

I’ve been watching Battlestar Galactica with my roommate and it has prompted some very interesting debates. In the most recent episode the Humans were given the chance to exterminate the Cylons. And I do mean exterminate. I’m not sure I could do it. Yes, they are at war and yes the Cylons have been trying to exterminate the Humans for three seasons now, but does that make it justifiable? If it is a matter of life and death can one completely exterminate another race of sentient beings?
Another question raised just today, had to do with abortion. Humans would die out in eighteen years if they didn’t start having babies so the President declared abortion illegal. My roommate said you could not start limiting freedoms. It wasn’t enough just to survive, you had to be worthy of it.
Now here’s the kicker: she was pro-extermination and anti-outlawing abortion. I was the opposite. Why is that surprising you ask? Well, how is protecting our freedoms worthy of survival but exterminating a race not? Because the Cyclon are neither human nor part of the human government the removal of their freedom, of their race is somehow more justifiable than outlawing abortion?
I am (obviously to those of you who know me) very pro-choice. I will fight to my dying breath for a woman’s right to choose. But in this particular scenario we are faced with the extinction of the human race. No one can have babies but women. Does that reduce us to mere breeding cattle? Perhaps. What other option is there I ask you? My roommate says so be it; it is better to die than to start taking away freedoms. There is also all the typical stuff—women will find a way to do it themselves and probably suffer and die; women who suffer from rape or whose life is in danger will have no recourse etc., etc. So what is the answer?
If we preserve the freedom and the probable cost of the human race—do we not have to do the same thing for the Cylons? If we are going to be “worthy of surviving” doesn’t that include avoiding mass genocide? In war people die and that is, to some extent, to be expected, but where is the line? Where and how does biological warfare “break the rules”?
I’m not sure I have an answer. I believe in survival and yet while I understand the outlawing of abortion I can’t countenance the destruction of the Cylons. I suppose it has something to do with the fact that pregnancy is to some degree avoidable. Not always, but some. Furthermore, pregnancy only lasts for nine months and no matter how unpleasant is over. Granted one can die giving birth and the changes to the body are permanent but in a life or death situation, truly, a situation where the survival of the race is as stake and every new child is needed it’s a price I could pay. But destroying the Cylons—an entire race—that’s permanent. Yes, the Cylons brought it upon themselves; yes, if we don’t kill them they’ll probably kill us, but what does that make us? But, then again, what does taking away a woman’s right to chose make us?
Taking away people’s freedoms “for their own good” is a very, very dangerous path to walk indeed.

I read the most amazing book today. It’s called God’s Debris and it’s by Scott Adams, you know, the Dilbert guy. It only took me about an hour to read but it has certainly provoked much more than an hour’s worth of thought.

Debris reminds me of another book I read recently, Way of the Peaceful Warrior by Dan Millman. I don’t know if I’ve actually promoted many books thus far but I feel it’s important to share the titles of these two. I’m not saying you have to read these—they will change your life. Fear of Flying by Erica Jong is another one that might change your life. Or they all might make you really angry and wonder what the hell is wrong with people today.

I’m getting off point, finding it difficult to focus you understand. The point I’m trying to make here is that no one can tell you what will change your life or not. No one can tell you what will make you think. A Patrick Swayze (is that how you spell that?) movie might make you think for goodness’ sake, there is just no predicting these things. But these books—these are books that I’m almost willing to bet no two people have the same opinion of.

I suppose what interests me the most is that within their covers you see original human thought at work, or as original as human thought gets anyway. You see people willing to stretch what they think they know and smother themselves in what they know they don’t. It’s…intoxicating. To surround yourself with what you don’t know, acknowledge that you don’t know it, revel in not knowing it and then, slowly, painfully, try to claw your way out—that’s discovery. That’s worth doing.

Who cares about what we know? What we’ve already figured out? I can no more convince you of what I know than you could convince me I don’t know it. Knowledge is…illusory. Fickle, if you will. But there’s so much of it out there!

I use to complain that I wanted a handbook, a guide. I wanted to run away to a monastery and have the monks train me in the ways of wisdom and self. I knew there must be a secret cult somewhere with all the answers and if I asked enough questions I would find it, or they would find me.

There were many things wrong with this want (other than the obvious) but most importantly was the idea that anyone could teach me what I needed to know, and that the knowledge wasn’t already out there waiting to be harvested. It’s there; it’s all there. The human mind, when taken as a sum of every thought written down thus far, is a brilliant thing. Classics people. Literature. It’s all already there. But, you must be willing to work for it, and you must be willing to search for it. There’s a lot of drivel in the English cannon that passes for literature, believe me. And there are brilliant ideas off the beaten path. But how do you find them? How do you stumble across them?

Word of mouth helps, talking helps. Finding out what people read and why. I’ve given you three titles here, but I doubt they do much for many of you. These are my books you see. These are the books that changed me. They might not change you. But, the only what to know is to read them and that I cannot do for you.

I cannot share my knowledge, because my knowledge exists only in my reality and my reality is not your reality. I am, however, more than interested in discussing life, the universe, and everything. In particular I have some very pressing physics questions for any scientists out there. So, drop by if your in town. We’ll have tea and talk about books.

So I’ve finally figured out my obsession with trashy romances. Well, one reason among many anyway. Other than the fact that I am a hopeless romantic (and if you tell anyone I’ll kill you and eat you so as to leave no evidence) trashy romance novels don’t move me to do…well, anything.

When I finish a romance I don’t feel like I’ve been a part of something great—like I’ve just read a story that everybody simply must read. I’m entertained and rejuvenated (in the midst of the semester one needs to read something that doesn’t require much mental work on her part) but certainly not motivated.

Perhaps I should explain. I just read Fray, a graphic novel by Joss Whedon. Before I continue I must proclaim, “Damn you Joss Whedon!” There, I feel a little bit better. Anyway, the point of the story is that this is an amazing tale. Set in the future of the “slayer” world (think Buffy) it simply captivates the reader. It moves you. But, more importantly, I read it and I think “I can write like that. I can tell stories like this. I need to write like this. I need to get off my ass and make my mark.”

Yeah, don’t have that problem after reading a rousing rendition of girl meets completely unacceptable guy who, after much illicit sex, finally admits he loves her following a near death experience on her part, live happily ever after and have many babies. Oh, and said unacceptable guy (read bad-boy with heart of gold) is also loaded. In all the necessary areas. It’s a good time, but not exactly life changing.

So, do you read the stuff that teaches you, motivates you, moves you? Or do you stick with the trashy romances? I’m going to go with both, but I thought I would share my epiphany with you all. I mean, it’s always good to know why it is one behaves the way one does. The more you know about yourself the better off you are going to be. At least, that’s been my experience. I always seem to get heartburn when I repress too much.

My body hates me.

Hmm..so do I have anything of actual worth to impart to you all tonight? Absolutely not. I just wanted another excuse to talk about hot, rich, well-endowed guys. See, I really am shallow. It’s my cross to bear.

Well, I promised a friend I would discuss period poops but I’m not sure I’ve got that one in my right now (no pun intended). I can’t recall offhand if I have ever dedicated an episode to the wonders of menstruation, but I can’t believe I haven’t at some point. I know I’ve talked about cramps and mood swings—surely I’ve discussed the effects on the digestive track as well. If not well..it’s going to have to wait.

I haven’t read any news regarding the mess in the middle east at the moment—and not the Iraq mess, but the Israel/Lebanon mess. I, the advocate of awareness and political tectonics, have a distinct aversion to educating myself to what’s going on in the world. And the odd thing is, it isn’t because I don’t care, but rather I find myself caring too much. Every time I think about it I get a feeling of almost physical nausea.

The realist in me says to myself, “Self, buck up. You don’t get to ignore what’s going on because it’s ugly.”

But the soft side of says, “I’ll read the news tomorrow. It can’t possibly be real can it? Surely it’s not as bad as everyone’s making out.”

The problem seems to be that most of the world agrees with the soft side in thinking that it couldn’t possibly be as bad as all that and we should, therefore, go on with our silly lives. So I don’t think the answer is that lives stop in place and we all stand around feeling bad, but what is the answer? How should one behave when the world is falling apart?

I don’t have an answer. I guess I should go read the news, but I really don’t want to.

Alright, I’ve taken all I can take and I can’t take no more. The nation has declared war on fat people and what’s worse, they’re targeting the children. Get ‘em while they’re young and they’ll grow up just like you want them to be.

Now before you all get worked up, I’m not saying we should let our kids grow up to be fat. I’m not saying you shouldn’t raise a healthy child with healthy eating habits. What I’m saying is that our nation has found it’s latest enemy, smoking and drugs aren’t so hot anymore so now it’s attacking fat people.

I am fat. Not husky, not voluptuous, not big-boned (though I am that, but it’s not an excuse) I’m fat. And, more importantly, it’s my god damned right to be so. I’m going to have type II diabetes by the time I’m thirty; I’ll be at a higher risk for cancer. I can’t hike as far as I want to or do a pull up or have sex in a shower (unless I find a big strong man which I hope to do anyway). Men don’t gawk when I walk by and I see no jealousy in the eyes of other women. My grandfather hugs me and says “How’s my big girl?” And you want to know why? Because I’m fat. I was a fat kid with fat parents and a fat sibling and I grew up fat.

It’s not my parents fault, they tried to teach me many wonderful things that I refused to learn. It’s not my genetics fault (though my body is never ever going to be petite). It’s not anybody’s fault. IT IS NOT A BAD THING. It’s an unhealthy lifestyle choice that goes right along with smoking and drinking—both of which are my uncontested rights.

So what does this mean? We’ll make being fat illegal until you’re 18 and can make an “educated” decision about your weight? We’ll force kids to eat certain foods and work out a certain amount of time each day so that they’re healthy as can be? We’re well on our way. Regular soda has been banned from school, replaced with diet soda only. Arkansas sends notices home to parents with report cards informing them their children are overweight. TLC has a show called “Honey, We’re Killing the Kids.” Some group is lobbying for restaurants to remove certain foods, oils and fats from their products and suggesting restriction of things like fast food.

Fat people die “early” depriving society of their labor. Fat people have more illnesses which raises health care costs. Obesity is the leading cause of “preventable illness” behind smoking. Well, I ask you, what the fuck is “preventable illness?” Who gets to say whether my illnesses are preventable or not? Who gets to say that I have “deprived” society of my labor? When did it become morally wrong to die young and lead an unhealthy lifestyle?

When did I lose the ability to chose for myself how I would live my life? I pay for healthcare why should I be made to feel guilty about needing it? My blood pressure is good, my cholesterol is good, whose business is it how big my ass is?

I’m furious. I’m fucking furious and it’s not okay. My life is my choice and fat people are not a fucking circus act to be put on t.v. like some sort of talk-show subject that other people can watch and laugh at and feel good because they aren’t like that. My life is not entertainment. I will always make decisions in my children’s best interest and I will do my best to raise them healthy both mentally and physically. But I am their parent. I will decide whether they have money to buy soda at school, diet or otherwise. And I am a person. I decide what I eat and why. I decide how I feel about my body. I decide my self-worth as a human being and no one gets to make that decision for me. I shouldn’t have to pay more for health care. I shouldn’t be made to feel guilty because I’m “depriving” society of my labor by dying “prematurely.” I shouldn’t have to listen to countless women talk about “being good” or “bad” in regards to how they eat. Food has no moral value. There are good and bad decisions to be made as with everything, but those decisions do not concern your moral compass.

When does it stop? When do we stop letting the media circus tell us how we’re “wrong” and need to “fix” ourselves? When do we stop consuming their products in an attempt to be what we are told are better people? When do we finally stand up for our right to make our own decisions? It is my right to smoke a cigarette, have a drink, eat MacDonalds, wear my seatbelt, wear a helmet, marry who I want and fuck ‘em how I want.

I am a human being and no one gets to tell me how to live. I’ll abide by societies ETHICS but I’ll be damned if I let them force me to abide by they’re MORALS. For all of you that don’t know the difference look it up and then go eat a donut.

This is something I wrote after seeing V for Vendetta, but I felt I should share it after reading an article this morning on Slate. Apparently the war on fat is fully underway. Obesiety has been declared "worse than 9-11". That, is not okay. For those that don't understand why that's not okay I won't be able to explain it to you. As a woman I've had my share of marginalizing, but I've never been part of a group specifically targeted as evil and detrimental to the country before. Some of you will argue that a person can control how fat she is, therefore, there is no reason for it. I will say, yes I can control the size of my ass to a certain degree, but it's my right. It's my choice what I eat how I eat and where I eat. The government does not get to make that decision for me. How many more liberties are we going to sacrifice "in our own good"? How many more freedoms are we going to let be regulated and taxed away? How many more times will a group of people be targeted because they offend the state? Answer me that, and then tell me I'm not allowed to be fat.

There's a problem with apathy. Or, rather, the thought that whatever you want to do someone has already done, and done better than you ever could. There is a danger in that thought. There is a danger because while it might be true, it is never an excuse for inaction. If, always, we leave it up to others to change things, enact those actions we so desperately wish for ourselves, then eventually some thoughts will remain unsaid. Eventually, enough people will be sure enough of other's actions that they cease to act themsevles and eventually action itself will slow to a crawl and those that feed off the inaction of others will rise to the forefront. We have reached that point now. The other problem with apathy is that it provides no protection against fear. When you never really care about anything other than your world you are never willing to fight for anything. Then, when fear threatens the only thing you've cared about, you have no idea how to fight for it and so you let others fight for you. You let them fight for whatever they want and give up everything you didn't know you had to ensure that those things of which you are aware, your home, your comforts, your material posessions, remain unharmed. Your ideas, your thoughts, your freedom is sacrificed without a thought; those things can be lost without pain after being neglected for so long. Their loss is never missed until the fear returns, and it is then that you realize what you had and what you've lost. Because now the fear has returned, only this time it isn't just a fear for your comfort or even your life, now it's a fear for your soul. But not it's too late. That which you didn't say because you were sure someone else had or would can no longer be said. Thoughts that might have changed the course remained silent and now the course is set. And maybe you think it's not a bad thing. Perhaps you think the course would be a good thing. The fear has yet to set in and you probably think it never will. And that is where you are wrong most of all. Because the sacrifice of ideas, thoughts and freedom are never acceptable losses. You are not safe if those must be given up. Instead you are more vulnerable than ever before, but in a subversive way. Those that would take these things from you for your protection will never protect you, only enslave you. Those that keep control of you for your own good want only to control you for theirs. The thought of a government that polices morals with actions is comforting to children but our country is not full of children. As easy as it would be to let the government parent we must never. We must never because a government must be the policer of injustice, the protector and stabilizer of the people. To be the moral parent might seem necessary to accomplish these things but it is the antithesis of them. To parent you must supress and control the child, lead her into what you want her to be. But the people are not children and parenting by the government will only result in the supression and control of the people. It will result in the squashing of unsavory ideas and forbidding of seemingly immoral acts. This isn't right. This is not okay because while the idea of a society that encourages specific moral ideas can be comforting the reality will always result in the abuse, supression and control of its people. That is never okay. If you believe that the violence against certain persons is justified because their moral structure does not match yours what does that say about you? Do not shy away from that question, do not rationalize. What does it mean if you believe that facism is acceptable if it results in stability? These are the questions we must ask of ouirselves because we like to justify our choices. We like to think we have reasons, good reasons for what we do and what we let happen. But do we really? Do we really have any better reason for the allowance of control than fear? Fear for our lives, homes, material possessions? And if all you have is fear what are you allowing to be done to allieviate that fear? And now we're back to where we started.

I would like to say that some ass posted a comment promoting porn on my last blog and that is not okay. I get to choose what porn I promote and don't promote so this is my official comment not sanctioning the promotion.

Other than that I really don't have much to say, it's finals and my brain is fried which makes for not very interesting material really. Oh for the day when I can be noted author and Professor and not have to worry about homework anymore!

Well, this week we're on to Pericles. I'm not sure this one will make as much sense, but we'll put it up here anyway.

Ode to the Sodden Brothel

Before we begin I must say that Shakespeare (and whoever might have written Pericles) is a true master of describing female anatomy in the most hideous way possible. Why are there no criticisms written on this? I think it’s absolutely fabulous.
Moving on to Benjamin and Pericles—I don’t have much to say. Gower is the storyteller. I think it would be easy to make the case that everything seen (or read) is done so through him; even though he only appears at the beginning of the acts it is his story. It’s strange to view Pericles through Walter Benjamin’s essay “The Storyteller” because I don’t view Pericles as that great of an epic. I liked it, I think it might be the one I have most enjoyed reading thus far, but it doesn’t fit into Benjamin’s essay really. What wisdom does it impart? That incest is bad? Check. Don’t try to kill the kid you’re supposed to take care of? Check. You can always talk your way out of “working” by ministering in a brothel? Hm, not so sure about that one.
But perhaps Pericles could be looked at as an example of a story lacking all those qualities Benjamin is discussing. Let’s focus on the experiences related by Pericles and decide if they are justly rendered.
All aspects of the play are fairly clear; in fact, if it is truly written by Shakespeare it certainly is the least layered of all of his plays. Were it written at the beginning of his career I could understand this—the guy’s just starting out, he hasn’t hit is stride yet and the words just don’t quite flow so easily. But this is placed near the end. So how can Pericles be written by Shakespeare, at the end of his career, and be so amazingly different from the other plays? I would say perhaps he got tired of hiding his meanings, but The Tempest is nothing if not elusive. So where does that leave us? Perhaps it was written on a dare? Someone got tired of Shakespeare always hiding the incest and double dog dared him to write it clear out? Seems like as good of an idea as any. No matter the man’s talent he was human (and I would say egotistical) so the idea of Shakespeare writing Pericles on a dare doesn’t particularly surprise me.
So we will assume (because it’s late and I’m tired) that Shakespeare wrote Pericles. Smarter people than I have sat around and discussed this quite snottily and I’m happy to go with their decision. How does it rank as storytelling? I think for pure enjoyment value, it’s right near the top. No one in this play is overly melancholy, the gender roles are by far the easiest to digest (minus Marina being married at 14 to a man she met in a brothel, but concessions must be made) and I like most all of the characters. Seems like a good story to me. But what about the wisdom? What is it imparting to the reader? After arguing criticism should cover more of these topics last week why is Pericles the first play to talk about?
Honestly, it seems like Shakespeare’s attempt at a blockbuster. Not a whole lot of substance, but we’ve got action, romance, dirty sex, people dying, intrigue—the whole lot. It’s even got catchy music in between acts sung by Gower. But I think maybe, this play (and Gower in particular) does fit Benjamin’s definition of a good story or storyteller. On page 91 Benjamin says, “The storytelling that thrives for a long time in the milieu of work…is itself an artisan form of communication…It does not aim to convey the pure essence of the thing, like information or a report. It sinks the thing into the life of the storyteller, in order to bring it out of him again.” No one’s conveying particularly sought after wisdom with Pericles but it does sink into one’s life. It’s not a play you forget and it is one you want to talk about soon after reading it. Hamlet might be more dense and ripe for literary discussion, but it’s Pericles that makes you go “oh, that’s not right.” Then you have to go verify with everyone else, yes, incest is wrong, no, none of us have ever tossed our spouse overboard because we neglected to check for a pulse.
What greater purpose for a story than for it to stay in people’s minds? To be remembered and told again? A person loses a bit of her purity after reading Pericles, much like watching Deliverance, and you don’t ever get to be the same person after that you were before. Nothing’s hidden, meaning doesn’t have to be sought after, but like herpes it gets inside you and doesn’t go away (no, I don’t have herpes).
I suppose that could be argued to be the hidden genius of this play. I still maintain, though, that he wrote it on a dare.

Here's the latest on Hamlet. Enjoy...


Hamlet, what a guy. I’m having a really hard time figuring out what to say for this paper. What observations do I have to offer on Hamlet or Hamlet? Perhaps I should focus my energies more towards the criticisms. I read the articles that formerly annoyed me. I even read the business explaining what the different types of criticism were to better understand what I was reading. And, now making an informed opinion about the feminist essay and the psychoanalytic essay I have two observations: 1) Freud is fucking nuts and 2) the essays still annoy me (though slightly less). I use strong language in my description of Freud for a very specific purpose in describing just how strongly I find his ideas repugnant. The things of use he has to say weren’t even his original thoughts; he simply expounded on them, more often than not, in terrible ways.
Yes, it’s fun in a slightly juvenile way (which I am much more than slightly juvenile myself) to joke about incest and the son having unnatural urges towards the mother and all that. However, I am quite sure no one before dear old Sigmund Freud honestly thought that sons wished to kill their fathers so they could bang their mothers. It’s an inane thought! Does Hamlet have mother issues? Undoubtedly. Is it because he wants to literally or figuratively have sex with his mother? Please. Even I in my admitted immaturity am not that stupid. In case I have offended I will explain. I am certainly not attempting to insult you or any of my classmates.
Shakespeare was writing in a time when gender roles were very much not as they are today. His views on women as expounded by his plays (his personal views I cannot vouch for) are horrific and barbaric. There is no excuse or reason for it; you can write all the feminist criticism you want but you’re never going to find a better reason for the women being they way they are other than women’s rights, freedoms, or basic understanding of the female gender simply did not exist at that time. It doesn’t take an essay to figure that out. Throw in a heavy mix of guilt, embarrassment and oppression towards anything sexual is it any wonder men, women, parents and children interact the way they do? Our cultural completely repressed a healthy sexual development for the better part of two millennia. That’s not an oedipal complex that’s religion (or people) screwing people up. Hamlet does not want to have sex with his mother he wants to keep his mother from having sex because he is completely uneasy with his own sexuality, let alone that of his parents. Like every child in the world his reaction to the idea of his parent getting it on is “gross!” What is so hard to understand about that?
Freud is an idiot. I can’t say it any better. Not to mention he completely misunderstood the female urge to use a penis as being envy for one of our own. Why do put any weight on what this man says?!
Okay, moving on. The above speaks, more or less, to Adleman’s essay. As to Showalter I have to say she has given me nothing that sparks my thoughts on Ophelia or Ophelia’s relationship to the play. She doesn’t talk about the character she talks about what the character has meant to the culture of art and literature and the study of psychology. That’s all well and fine, but that doesn’t help me better understand the play. It doesn’t teach me anything and it certainly doesn’t make me think. These critics (and most all critics for that matter) seem to disregard that what we are reading are stories. Stories (this is excluding metafiction) must have a plot and certain things must progress as they do for said plot to make sense and be effective. That means that not every piece of the play can or should be extracted and examined on its own. It must be looked at in the context of the rest of the story. And some of it doesn’t mean anything—it’s just there to help the story move along. Am I exceptionally naïve in having this belief? Why? It’s the nature of any piece of writing so why isn’t it considered in criticism?
Ophelia, I believe, exists for a very specific purpose. She goes mad for a purpose. There is more than one purpose, perhaps, or more than one purpose could be argued certainly but you can’t look at her as a psychological study and expect to understand her position in the play. And you certainly can’t take Hamlet out of it’s time and attempt to look for reasons of Hamlet’s treatment of Ophelia in modern day feminism. It doesn’t work. He treats her like an ass because he is an ass and because he had no basic respect for women. He has no basic respect for himself and, therefore, cannot have respect for women but there’s no deep thought that needs to accompany that revelation. That’s not the part worth pondering anyway. What I want to know is what was Hamlet lacking as a human being and how did that lack affect Ophelia who obviously hoped to (or did I’m not sure) love him. What does Ophelia’s character have that I as a woman, if not a medieval woman, can relate to or learn from? Why does it matter that I read this play? What does it make a person feel? What does it hope to teach? What is the warning here in this tragedy?
I don’t care if Ophelia had schizophrenia. I don’t care if Hamlet couldn’t define himself because his father and Claudius kept falling into each other. How does his inability to separate the father figures affect his musings on life and the meaning of it all? Why is he so damn whiny? What’s the true story of Gertrude? Who is she, what does she like, why did she marry Claudius so quickly following the death of her husband? What can I as a reader learn or feel from that? Why does it matter that I read this story in the 21st century?
The Tempest and its implications for modern technology mattered because it helped us consider what we might be doing wrong all these years later. It makes us think about the danger of creating Calibans. Hamlet has extremely important lessons concerning growing up, becoming an adult, recognizing our place in the world and coming to peace with ourselves and where we come from, but everyone seems more interested in talking about the incestuous urges he has towards his mother and oedipal complexes. I think that’s a blatant misreading and a way for everyone to run away from the parts of the play that are truly worth studying. I think people are scared to really contemplate the questions Hamlet himself asks in the play. I think people would much rather think of an outlandish, unavoidable reason to be angry with their parents other than to face it. Who wants to accept responsibility for him or herself? There’s no fun in that.
This play is thick and while I hate the character Hamlet I do think the play is worth reading and studying. I think it’s worthwhile because it forces us to seriously consider or own inner natures. And I think we don’t study it that way because none of us wants to.

Well I had so much fun posting last week's paper I thought I would do it again. This week we read Hamlet. Enjoy.

Episode 3--Revenge of the Hamlet

I do not think I have been this depressed since seeing Star Wars: Episode 3 (hence the pseudo-title of this informal paper). I mean, honestly, could there be a more depressing tale in all of human history? I haven’t read any of the other Shakespearean dramas so I don’t know the answer to that, but I have to say I stayed away from them for precisely this point! It’s a sad story! Why the hell do I want to be sad?!

Anyway, I apologize and I promise at some point I will get to the point of this paper, but first I must point out the irony of reading Hamlet during the week of Valentine’s day (which I would like to think you planned) and since one’s seasonal depression is usually at its worst in February (never mind the snow storm) I’m really in no mood for the melancholy Prince of Denmark. But despite all of that it had the same effect on me a lifetime original movie does on a lazy Saturday afternoon--I just couldn’t turn away.

I’m not trying to demean Shakespeare here, and I’m certainly not trying to undermine the importance of Hamlet. I might be the only person in the class to be excited to recognize the relationship to Star Trek 6: The Undiscovered Country (in which they quote Hamlet) but that doesn’t mean I don’t comprehend why it important to read this play.

That being said I have a few issues. First of all, how can Hamlet muse on the meaning of life in such a powerful way as he does in his soliloquies and still be such a self-obsessed, whiny, immature little troglodyte? It’s almost as if he’s two separate characters--owing to which, people suffering from extreme depression as Hamlet does sometimes do seem that way. Also, there is something seriously more screwed up with that boy than just his father’s death. He was already inconsolable before he spoke to the ghost, the whole revenge plot seemed more to give him an out for his unhappiness than anything else.

And what about poor, dear Ophelia! Alas for such a fate as hers. I do think Hamlet loved her, but I think his love for her, like his love for everyone stemmed mostly from how much he perceived they loved him. The boy (and I say boy on purpose because he was not truly a man, despite the beard) had issues with his parents. His father’s death seemed to deny him the ability to prove his worth and his mother’s second marriage was the cause of some serious abandonment issues. Freud would have a field day!

Though, Freud completely screwed up Oedipus so probably we should leave him out of this, but I digress.

Hamlet is completely unable to process human nature. I suppose that is the best way to describe it. I know there is speculation that this play was written following the death of Shakespeare’s son, Hamnet, and that much of the philosophical ponderings derive especially from a need to understand that. It certainly makes the greater purpose of the play easier to understand. Hamlet is such a dramatic character that without believing he is the author’s tool for pondering life and death I’m quite sure I would scoff him. Or I would if the writing weren’t so damned good.

But what do you say about Hamlet? What can you say? I’ve been known to ramble on the meaning of life and death but I have no urge to do that here. A more purposeful matter would be to ramble on some people’s inability to handle life and death. For that I turn to a modern day example of Anakin Skywalker.

Poor Anakin, turned to the dark side not because he is a sociopath or pure evil at heart, but because he couldn’t handle love. And that too, I think, describes Hamlet. Hamlet doesn’t know how to love. To love is to forgive and let go and he can do neither of those things. His inability causes him to kill an innocent just as Claudius and become that which he hated--a crime he eventually dies for. Karma’s a bitch.

Hamlet and Anakin both have too much passion and not enough wisdom. They seem trapped in that perpetual state of philosophizing without any closure. Their intelligence causes them to know things they shouldn’t, Anakin with the force and Hamlet with his father’s ghost (and before that his natural dislike of Claudius) and they are left separated from their fellows by an irreconcilable difference. They feel too strongly without any idea how to handle it.

That leads me to my next question. Do some people feel more strongly than others? Why is Hamlet so affected by his father’s death? Was he always prone to fits of melancholy? Did he suffer from bi-polar disorder? What is the deal?

I think part of it stems from being unable to see the world in shades of gray. Hamlet saw everything in white and black, but most everything he saw was black. What else will become of a man when all he sees is failure surrounding him? What else is to be expected but slight madness and severe depression?

Is it better then to become the cynic and accept human nature as failing and beyond hope? To shut down the emotional drives, cease to philosophize about what it all means and simply accept? Is anyone that dares to feel as Hamlet does and ponder those dark questions of the afterlife doomed to depression and madness? I don’t think so, I think Hamlet lacked the emotional maturity to deal with his station in life, but, in his defense, when one is overwrought with sadness it’s awful hard to be mature. He is, in the end, a sympathetic character, though, and that is what matters. At some level we can each relate to Hamlet and indeed, learn from his mistakes.

Though, on a happier note, it’s pretty okay that my uncle was gay. I never had to worry about him killing my dad and marrying my mum to get to the family fortune.

After reading The Tempest for class I had to read Brave New World and watch an old sci-fi movie, Forbidden Planet. I then had to write a response to all of this for my teacher. I like my response so much I'm going to post it here. It will make more sense if you've read these works or seen the movie, but I think it gets its point across anyway. And perhaps it will inspire you to expand your horizons. I am writing directly back to the teacher so just ignore any references to "last week".

Ahhh!

“The Monster in the Id! The Monster in the Id!” I love that line. Anyway, on to more important matters. The Tempest did not bother me have so much as what we have read and watched this week. How has reading Brave New World and watching Forbidden Planet changed how I view The Tempest? I’m not quite sure, but I know they have changed how I view my life.
Brave New World is just flat out scary. I was sure I would hate it (since I hated it in high school) but I read it in a day. Absolutely couldn’t put it down. I suppose that means I’ve matured at least a little bit since fifteen. However, for as much as I liked it, it scared me more. Especially in this age of the government secretly tapping phones and keeping tabs on people all over the place without their consent. Which being a conspiracy theorist myself I’ve thought has been going on this whole time and the media just finally caught wind of it, but that’s neither here nor there. The important thing is that Brave New World might be closer to coming true than any of us want to admit. But I’m supposed to be relating this to Shakespeare.
I have to say I thought Brave New World was more a commentary on the overall works of Shakespeare than The Tempest in particular. I didn’t see an exact link to that play in particular, more an overall commentary on emotion viewed thru Shakespeare and what that means. There isn’t really a character in the novel a person can get behind except perhaps Mustapha Mond or Helmholtz. Bernard is a whiny, self-pitying idiot and John Savage is a misogynistic ass. I feel for The Savage, I honestly do but he is an excellent example of the dangers of learning the world only through Shakespeare. Helmholtz and Mustapha Mond were right in their assessment that you must go over the top when reaching for an emotional reaction but they recognized, which The Savage failed to do, that such excess should exist only in the text. “Civilization” is devoid of emotion and John Savage has too much of it--or, too much held in too tight of strictures.
As to how all of this relates to The Tempest I suppose it goes back to an idea I am still half-forming. There is something different about The Tempest from Shakespeare’s other plays. It isn’t just about colonization or a god story. Reading it this last time it’s almost like Shakespeare himself didn’t even know where he wanted it to go exactly. In his other plays he expresses the major theme explicitly. One of his characters offers the reader (or viewer) a nice little emotional rant that sums it all up quite nicely. But in The Tempest we don’t ever get that. It bothered me last week that no one saw a greater meaning in the play. We read the critics and we all tailored our responses around what we read but none of us, myself included, really reached for something greater. Maybe a critic has already commented on this, but what if The Tempest is bigger than love or death or revenge? What if this is Shakespeare’s culminating play? The one that truly tries to tackle all the aspects of the human condition, humanity itself?
Certainly Brave New World and Forbidden Planet go in that direction. Their storylines have nothing to do with colonization or revenge and everything to do with man tinkering with powers that are beyond him. As the captain says at the end of the movie, “man is not meant to play God.” I suppose that’s where you were trying to get us to go last class with your talks of Chimeras and what not. Sarah and I knew we were missing it but we couldn’t figure out where you wanted us to go. Sorry about that.
So I’m back once again to that age-old question, what does it all mean? Was Shakespeare trying to warn us away from creating Calibans or warn us that we already had? Did he create Prospero so like his enemies in the hopes we would look to ourselves and see our own faults so clearly? Was he trying to show us the dangers of a caste system or too much knowledge? Or all of the above?
Prospero is an amazingly powerful character, but his power truly lies in manipulating those with more power than himself. That does reflect mankind in that, as human beings we are fearfully fragile, but immense in our ability to create technology that protects us. Is Prospero then, a metaphor for all of humanity? And, if so, what does that mean? Is Shakespeare trying to tell us we are meant to lord over nature or show us that we are, actually, equal to it? Without his servants Prospero wouldn’t survive and without our natural resources neither do we. Perhaps Shakespeare saw in the discovery of the New World the destruction of the last pure wilderness and with it the total sublimation of the Earth. But how could he have possibly predicted we would end up where we are today?
But maybe it’s more simple than that. Greed is no new friend to humans and greed was as powerful in the 17th century as it is today. Greed has been the root of destruction for entire cultures. Assuming that Shakespeare was bound by the strictures of the time, Prospero had to fulfill certain requirements for the audience to accept, the play had to end a certain way where does that leave us? Prospero had to get his dukedom back and had to forgive his brother. Miranda and Ferdinand needed to fall in love. These were all necessary parts to the story for the basic plot. Of more interest is Prospero’s dealings with Caliban and Ariel.
Caliban is an ill-mannered brute, there can be no doubt about that, but he reminds me of Magua from The Last of the Mohicans. Beaten and abused by the world he lives in is he truly to blame for what has become of him? Unable to comprehend the world Caliban attacks Miranda and Prospero deals with him accordingly. Does that make Prospero evil? Who is at fault? What if no one is at fault? What if that is the point?

What if Shakespeare was just trying to say shit happens and there’s nothing anybody can do about it?

That’s not a very eloquent way of stating the argument but it does get the point across. Caliban is a victim of circumstance, but a dangerous creature none-the-less. Prospero is a conceited jerk, but must deal with the very real threat Caliban poses to Miranda. Antonio is a backstabber, but Prospero wasn’t watching over his dukedom properly. Alonzo should have kept Antonio from stealing the dukedom, but as King he had the very real need of his provinces being run by competent people. Everyone in the play makes a bad decision but not a completely unjustified one.
What if, after all his plays and all his sonnets William Shakespeare finally came to the realization that humanity will never be perfect? Could The Tempest be his response to that realization? Both Brave New World and Forbidden Planet deal with the ills of utopian societies. Could Aldous Huxley and the writer of Forbidden Planet have grasped this concept so clearly? Did they grasp this realization or did it just work its way out in their works?
Deep down we all know utopia isn’t possible but perhaps on Shakespeare and the writer of Forbidden Planet understand why. Because always, for all our education and refinement, for all our power, magical or otherwise, there will always, always be a monster in our id.

I’m trying here people. Honestly I’m working at posting more regularly, I promise. Unfortunately, my pursuits into higher education are not good for the concept of free time. Apparently last semester was really just the padded introduction to lure blindly into the world of graduate school. There is screwing around this time, folks. Nope, three classes each assigning well over fifty pages a week to read and papers to write applying the knowledge we garnered from said reading. I know, I know, it’s not like I’m in law school or med school or any other school that actually promises a job and an income at the other end. The English degree really is the haven for the pompous, lazy people of academia--we sit in our chairs and write our essays and spout these great ideas like we’re the best thing since Aristotle when in fact we are just philosopher wannabes.

But enough of that! I don’t know what’s wrong with me, honestly. It isn’t like I didn’t walk into this willingly. And it isn’t like I didn’t know what being an English major would entail. I think maybe I just like to bitch. But hey, everybody’s got to have a talent.
So what is more fun to talk about than school? Why boys of course! Or men, in actuality, but I think I say “boys” because when one is drooling over hot men it’s hard to view them as people. Really at that point I’m objectifying. And that means that I have become that which I hate most, a shallow, useless human being who looks at others only for what can be used and taken. Dammit, that makes it all entirely to complicated. What if I promise never to let said object of my affection know I’m drooling and in all real encounters not judge the book by its cover? Does that work? I figure since we’re all catty to some degree its okay to enjoy it a little bit so long as you don’t hurt another human being in the process. I’m rationalizing, I know. This whole blogging thing, I’m still working my way back up to it.

So now that I’ve beat the ever-living fun out of sex lets go back to talking about my favorite subject--men. I would say penis, but unfortunately it’s the men that make the penis so much fun so I can’t separate the two. Believe me, I’ve tried. Anyway, I’ve taken to watching “Charmed”. It is a truly awful t.v. show I have got to admit. I mean, they couldn’t write an original plot line to save themselves; and Shannon Doherty (whom I’ve always had a soft spot for since Mallrats) doing Matrix-moves is not okay. And when I say not okay I mean that in the strongest way possible. Be that as it may, however, they do have a penchant for casting extremely attractive men in the supporting roles and that is really all I’ve ever needed to enjoy a good show. By the bye, if anyone reading this hasn’t bought Firefly and Serenity and watched them multiple times I urge you strongly to do this. Both are stories with significant substance and well worth your time. (And I made that jump because both also include hot men, if you follow.)

So the point of this useless story is to say I think I have a problem. All the characters in books, t.v., movies, comic books, take your pick, that I fall in love with have serious mental problems. Darth Vader, the Phantom of the Opera, Cole Turner, Jean Claude (vampire from the Anita Blake novels), and so on. The only thing these men have in common is that they are mentally unstable and kill people. Coming to this realization has not allowed me to sleep any easier at night. Oh yeah and they all end up with some grotesque physical defect too, Darth Vader and the Phantom’s being most obvious, but the half-demony and vampire folk aren’t exactly smoking-hot when they’re all fanged out either.

I suppose there is no real point to sharing all of this except that should I ever disappear please start the search for me with whatever recovering serial killer is running loose in the area. And I am the future of the academic community. That is a truly frightening thought indeed…

Well son-of-a-bitch. Do you know what our government is up to now? Actually, I believe they’ve been up to it for awhile, but I’m just now learning about it. A “fat tax” is what they’re calling it. It’s actually a one penny tax on foods considered to be low in nutrition and high in calories and/or fat. Some senator is also proposing the tax to be on video games as well. The full story is on MSN if you want to check it out. Now, a one penny tax on soft drinks can bring in a lot of money and it doesn’t change the price that much so my first impulse wasn’t to be overly dismayed. But then I started thinking about it. Why does the government get to decide what’s good for us and bad for us? Why do they get to tax certain items to “encourage” us not to buy them? I understand the need for taxes, I am democratic afterall, they are a necessary part of the world. But where do you draw the line? At what point do you say, “hey, I get to decide what I want to spend my money on and you don’t get to charge me more because you don’t approve!”

I find this all very irritating. My life, my fate lies in the hands of men I don’t know anything about, not really. The government is incredibly complicated and I have not made nearly enough of a study of it. Now, obviously it has to be complicated and there are significant variables to be dealt with in legislation, but doesn’t it strike anyone as a little odd that the average American knows so little about it? We choose to know so little about it. We get confused and give up. We ignore high school civics classes and sleep our way through political science 101 (if we even take it). Meanwhile, other people make a lot of money off our ignorance.

This is not something I am happy about and I do hope to take a more active part in my government in the future. But I implore you, anyone who is reading this, to take an active part yourselves. We need to converse amongst ourselves. Help each other find ways of being heard. Give each other ideas. And we must hurry. Soon the government will be taxing ideas as well as going to war over them.

Here I go again on my own/ going down the only road I’ve ever known

Yes, I just quoted Whitesnake. I have no pride. I admit it.

So how ya’all doin’ out there anyway? It’s January, I haven’t posted since June and I would apologize about that except well, you all have better things to do than read what I have to say so really there isn’t any need is there? I’m in Massachusetts now, have been for sometime and I absolutely love it. L-O-V-E it. There are mountains! And I see ocean every time I drive to school! And trees, lots and lots and lots of trees. Everywhere. Have I mentioned I love it? I am truly a nature nerd; well, I am truly a nerd and nature is just one more obsession among many. I love the comforts of home, don’t get me wrong, air conditioning, indoor plumbing, these are all good things. But nothing beats being able to drive 15 minutes and go for a walk on a mountain. There is no greater feeling than that, for me at least.

What else have I got to say? I do miss my friends terribly—they were all wonderful people, after all, and missing them is therefore only natural. But I think it’s good that I’ve gone. In some ways it reminds me why I love them all so much and gives me something to look forward too when I settle down in the next decade or so.

That’s really about all I’ve got right now. I’m attempting to get back into this blogging thing slowly but surely. I will attempt to be more humorous and my normal pompous self at a later date. I will try to think of something suitably inflammatory to write next time.

Well it’s been a long while and I suppose there probably aren’t many of you out there still checking this, if any at all. I don’t think I mind. The thought that I’m writing for the first time in months without an audience is somehow, liberating.

I’ve been a bit of a recluse lately, not just from here, though this certainly wins the medal for most ignored, but from myself really. It’s been eating away at me for awhile now and as I ignore it I just become more withdrawn. More apathetic.

Oh, I’ve had my moments. In a lot of ways it’s been a fabulous five months. I’ve been accepted to graduate school and will be moving to Massachusetts in August. I’ll leave almost all my family and friends and hand myself over to an entirely new world with one cousin as my only safety net. I’m not afraid. I will be lonely, and I will miss everyone and most likely, at least once, I’ll have a good heart-wrenching cry. But it’s time.

It seems like I’ve started countless posts only to delete them before they ever really get going. Wouldn’t you know it would take another obsession with a story to bring me back out again. I don’t think I’ll share what story because I don’t feel that is important, but I do feel I need to get my thoughts out there. Even if they’re only for me.

It’s odd this love thing. I’ve remarked on it many times in the past. Sometimes with, what I hope could be called a little insight, and sometimes like a bloody fool. I’ve ranted in anger. I’ve ranted in pain. But I don’t think I’ve ever really told the truth. The truth is something more than scary—the truth is frightening as hell.

The truth is I’m afraid.

I know what love is, you understand. And I know that true love, the love that shakes the mountains and boils the seas…well, you don’t get to keep that kind of love. People sometimes scoff romance novels; they say it’s all a lie and life isn’t like that. They’re right, but not in the way they know. True love does exist, and it is absolutely the most beautiful thing in the universe. But we don’t get to keep it. True love requires sacrifice and I suppose it would be easy to say we’ve all heard the cliché let’s move on with the story, but the reason this thought is worth hearing out—the reason this thought is anything new at all—is because you never have true love, not really, until you’ve made the sacrifice.

That’s the trick you see. We can love with all our hearts, we can fully believe we are willing to die for the ones we love, but that’s easy. Loving with all your heart is easy. Dying for the one you love is easy. When you die you don’t have to worry about going on. If you’re dead, what’s to worry about? But what if it’s not your job to die, but to kill? What if, you have to let go of the one you love—the one you love more than your own life—to do what is right?

That’s why true love doesn’t exist until that second. That’s why certain couples grow old, happy with each other. Ignorance is bliss. Love is tested and love is genuine, but true love…well, true love means loving everything. True love means loving life. True love means that even if you each want nothing more than to be with each other you just say no.

I know it sounds crazy. What scenario could I possibly be dreaming up in this twisted little head of mine? It’s not a particularly pleasant idea, even to me. But there is a difference between loving too much, and loving truly. The true lover stops when he sees what is happening. He stops when he sees the consequences. The one who loves too much just keeps going—keeps grasping at the sandcastle trying to protect it from the rising tide. Trying to change the world. And that’s the real shit of it.

The world is a living place. You can make that argument using New Age mumbo-jumbo Mother Nature garbage, or you can make that argument pointing out the cause-effect relationships of every human being, animal, and plant on this planet. It’s all alive. And it’s all connected. And sometimes, to preserve the purity of that life we have to give up that we most want.

Tragedies irritate me so because they miss the point. It isn’t about dying for one another. In Romeo and Juliet there was no reason for Romeo to kill himself when he thought her dead. Nothing to be gained from it, no lesson to be learned. Not for him anyway. Relieving yourself, running away from the pain isn’t true love. That’s loving too much. And yes, you can love too much, just like you can eat too much, smoke too much, or sleep too much. Love is not a pure ideal. Not the way it exists for us anyway.

And therein lies the second thought tonight. I once refused to tell a high-school boyfriend I loved him because at the tender age of fourteen I knew I would never marry him and thus thought I couldn’t possibly love him. If I could live without him it couldn’t be love could it? I didn’t understand how people could say "love isn’t enough" or not choose to be with someone they cared about. But love is a malleable thing; when have human hearts ever felt clearly about anything? Even parents don’t always like their children. I loved my high-school sweatheart and sometimes love isn’t enough, because love is only one part of the equation.

True love implies pure love. And there are very few things in our world that, in their pure state, aren’t deadly. Why should love be any different? And, with all the different types of love in the human heart, why do we think true love exists only between a romantic couple? What of true love between friends? What of true love between a parent and a child?

Love is a chemistry equation. Lust + Compromise + Humor + Adrenaline + Hope + Stubbornness = Romantic Love. Take out the lust and you’ve flipped over into Friendship. Take out the Adrenaline and you’ve got what exists between a parent and the child.

But true love, that is something altogether different. On some level I think we all know this. That’s why we hide it behind religion, "You can’t understand God’s plan" and Hollywood. We create vehicles to express what we know is out there and are afraid to grasp.

Most likely no one will agree with me on this. I could explain it further, but…it’s not my place to do that. It’s possible I’ve said too much, but perhaps I’ve said just enough. It’s also possible no one will ever read this and thus I needn’t worry.
But if you should stumble across these words think about what I’ve said. They mean nothing by themselves—their power comes only from how it relates to your life.

Are you afraid to understand the lesson of love? I still am. But I’m most afraid it’s already too late.

Now, first of all I have to say I feel a little cheated. The two lines quoted in that last comment seemed petulant and childlike by themselves. Combined with the rest of the statement I am not nearly so ashamed of them, but perhaps I am at fault for writing such lines in any context. That being said, let’s get down to business.

I have fabulous family and friends (as stated in previous blogs) and would never be so arrogant as to say I could get along easily without them. Nor would I argue that they have all been there for me through hard times. Stood by me, supported me, and ultimately helped me grow. I do not hesitate, nor have I ever, to inform all around me that I have, possibly, the best family in the world. Yes they drive me crazy, yes I want to kill a vast majority of them at times, but they are all fabulous. When it comes to friends outside the family I have had exceptional luck meeting phenomenal. I am lucky. Flat out, plain-spoken lucky. And now I should clarify.

I have never expected anyone to take care of me (except, perhaps, my mother but that doesn’t enter into this statement). When I say, “learn to lean on” I mean asking for support, help, or a swift kick in the ass. Learning to lean on others is learning to accept my emotions. Learning to lean on others means opening up and not being a crazy co-dependent. Learning to lean on others means betting my emotional health and abilities to interact with others. Perhaps I didn’t make that clear and perhaps I’m just not agreed with. I can accept that, but if so I do believe we are arguing for the same cause. Whatever words you choose to use the meaning is still the same—healthy, loving, supportive relationships. Isn’t that what the lifetime channel has been preaching all these years?

So, my response having been given, I now have a confession to make. I am quite sure if asked to craft a statement on the same topic as the mentioned blog it would read completely different. That’s the way it goes when you write with emotion as the emotion hits you. Not that I take back any of my words or step back from what I said, but I can sound significantly more whiny, petulant, and like a god damned martyr than intended when I get going on my soap box. It isn’t that I don’t believe what I’m saying, but catch me the next day after a good nights sleep and what was cause for the end of the world last night no longer makes my head turn. I guess that’s just the way it goes.

Never think I am not aware of my station up on the cross some days. If there is one thing I do well it is complain about how bad I’ve got it when the mood strikes me. And look, I’m complaining about complaining. That takes talent, I don’t care who you are.

So on to happier subjects! I am still on my Phantom kick—oh yeah. I had a brilliant description of said obsession in an email to a friend and I like it so much I’m going to quote myself now:

I am sorry to admit that the aforementioned Post-Melodramatic Stress Disorder was not my invention. I stole it from the Onion actually, but regardless of its origins, it does apply to my situation. George Carlin prefers “Shell Shock” to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder so perhaps in honor of him, I will call my malady by a truer name: pathetic. Yes, I and the legions of single women around the world sitting on their couch night after night watching lifetime original movies, feeling as if they can “sympathize” with the poor widowed, abused wife, raped by her stepfather while her mom popped pills, now on the run from her husband with her two kids, one of whom actually belongs to the man she really loves but who died tragically from an aneurysm suffered while lifting a large boulder off a small child during the freak landslide that accosted this small Kansas town are pathetic. We flock to Phantom of the Opera, oogle Gerard Butler (the actor who played Phantom) write distressing fan mail and tell every man we meet our life story, menstrual cycle and appropriate behaviors necessary for different mood swings. Then we wonder why we sit at home engaging in the aforementioned behavior and the cycle starts all over again.
And even knowing all that I can’t help but go back and see the damn movie again, and again (and again and again). It just speaks to the sap in me. Who am I to argue with beautiful, crazy, mask-wearing men proclaiming their love? For some reason I find myself more readily able to forgive the craziness I so often preach against when said crazy person is singing “Music of the Night” to me. Go figure.

So how is that for food for thought? I think I have divulged enough premenstrual thoughts to you all (fear the dark blue pills, fear them very much) and I leave now before I say something I mean, but never wanted anyone to know I mean.

Well, I suppose it’s that time again. I’ve had my vacation and as I have absolutely nothing to do at work right now there is no better thing than to blog. At least, that’s what I’m rationalizing. So the holidays are finally over. I have to say, I enjoy Christmas; I had a fabulous Christmas and New Years, but I am glad they are done. I’m just not a holiday girl anymore—the older I get the less sentimentality I seem to hold. Funny how that works.

And on a completely unrelated side note I urge you all to never, ever, eat Long John Silver’s. Sure, it tastes good, but I haven’t been quite right for two days now. There food just isn’t natural (and neither is the effect it is having on my body for that matter).

Okay, on the main event. You wouldn’t think I would wait all this time and not offer you a tirade worthy of your time? I would, but hopefully not this time—at least not intentionally. I actually have two events that are somewhat related, though not at first glance.

I offer you my thoughts on Phantom of the Opera and graduate school.

Oh Phantom, dear sweet Phantom. Has it struck anyone else’s notice you can wake up a fully functional adult, perhaps a bit nerdy but nothing overwhelmingly disturbing about your attitude and by the time you go to sleep you have devolved into a purely pathetic mass of gibbering, drooling obsessive mass? Perhaps I’m being a bit hard on myself, but I doubt it. I am preparing you, you understand, for the obsession that is about to be unleashed on this page. I am a pathetic mass of gibbering, drooling, obsessive mass you understand. I acknowledge it.

Besides, when The Phantom marries me one day it won’t matter. (Yes I know he’s a fictional character, I’m not that far gone…yet)

So—where to begin? Oh the movie is stupendous! If you do not like musicals, true musicals, you might not enjoy it as much as myself. If you aren’t a fan of well-executed melodrama you certainly won’t like it. But then again, perhaps you will. I am a huge fan of Andrew Lloyd Webber and while I have always liked the music of Phantom, not having seen the stage play I just didn’t get it. Then I saw the movie. It’s dark. It’s spectacular. It’s quite possibly the best love story ever told. Ya’all can keep Gone With The Wind. Rhett Butler’s got nothing on the Phantom.

I will grant you, Phantom is crazy. That is indisputable. But he loves Christine perfectly. He would never hurt, never cause her harm, would do anything to make her happy—and yet he is not whipped. He is not pathetic. He is regal, powerful, and still very much his own man. I’ll take a little crazy to get that. Granted, trying to keep him from killing all my friends he didn’t like would be a chore, but I think we could work through it. The point I’m trying to make is this: a few months ago I posted my thoughts on not wanting to cheapen myself with the “game”. Not wanting to fake the electricity between two people. This movie, the love in this movie is the real deal. It is a soul-binding eternal love that happens to one in every one-thousand couples (if that). That is what I’m after and that is what I won’t play the game to get. When I said I didn’t want to fake it, it was because in my heart I am still very much a hopeless romantic. I want it all or nothing at all. I am fully prepared to love someone as deeply as the Phantom loves Christine, but I will not accept Raoul instead. That was what I was attempting to communicate and perhaps didn’t get across as clearly as I hoped.

I am the Phantom. (See, told you I was a pathetic mass of gibbering, drooling, obsessive mass.) I should add when I said I was a romantic the word “twisted” should be included in there. I am a twisted human being, and perhaps that is why this story speaks so strongly to me.

Now, what does all of this have to do with graduate school you ask? How could cow-eyes over an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical possibly have a connection with my ever-shifting life plans? It all boils down to one thing—the will to live.

The Phantom was miserable—lonely and pathetic, his emotional growth stunted, but dammit he wanted to live. He wanted his life and he had a fire that was (is) undeniable. I watch that movie and I think, how can I, someone with no excuses, and no real reasons not to, neglect to live my life completely? How can I, an intelligent, virile young woman settle into oblivion with no better reason than laziness? I can get a job anywhere. I can support myself anywhere. I don’t doubt that. The thrill is in the experience. Where I live, who I’m with, what I’m doing. There is a whole wide world outside Illinois and I’m ready to jump into it. I made the move to Peoria, I liked it, but it is now time to move on. I’m going to grad school in Nevada or Massachusetts and should I not be accepted, I’ll move somewhere anyway. Come August I will no longer be an Illinois resident. I need mountains and ocean and vivacity. I need life.

Anyone who wants to come with me is more than welcome. We’ll make it work.