For the last two minutes I’ve been moving my fingers across the keyboard like eight dancing legs to David Bowie’s “Fame”. It was fun, actually, and it inspired me to do a little music video. It did. But then the song was over and on came Nancy Sinatra’s “Boots”. And now my fingers have a mind of their own…. When I’m not writing this ridiculous, pointless essay they’re dancing again across the keyboard to the rhythm.
My music video idea is just getting better and better and better.
I can’t wait to whip out my little amateur Flip and try to do professional things with it just to entertain myself. Now Avril Lavigne is playing, “I’m With You”. Good song.
Not dancing-finger music video material though.
Let’s see what’s next… Hmm. Glee’s “Don’t Stop Believin’”. Potential. Nope. Fingers aren’t liking it. Oooo, this isn’t bad: “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” by the Hawaiian guy.
Did you just tell me to get a life?
You wait. Oscars are in my future. This finger-dancing movie video with my awesome Flip is going to rake in the millions. I’ll be swimming in dollar bills up to my eyeballs. I’ll have to go on medication for my allergic reactions to money dust. My eyebrows will be dyed with real gold, and my toenails will be studded with diamonds. I’ll be so rich that chocolate covered, fudge-dipped, double-fudge rocky road brownies will envy me.
“Evenin’”. That’s the song that’s playing now. “Red Stick Ramblers”. My fingers like it so much! This is so going into the video…
Wait. Did you just tell me to go see a doctor? Oh. “Get help”, is what you said. Same thing.
Already did. There’s nothing they can do for this condition. But thanks for caring! Aaw. You’re so sweet. But no. No cure for this.
YES! Rogue Wave’s “Harmonium”! This is SO going into the video. Wait! No. Oh ho… Folks? I just found my grand finale. Oh yessiree! Alright. I have to go. I have some practicing to do. But first I have to draw little faces on each of my knuckle tips…
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Saturday, December 26, 2009
The Empires of the Inkwell
The Empires of the Inkwell
I was talking to an old friend not to long ago, and she and I came to a bit of a disagreement over the quality of a certain author’s writing. You may have heard of this author... JK Rowling? (note sarcasm) My friend, a brilliant intellect and avid (to say the least) book reader, remarked that JK Rowling wasn’t really that good of a writer. She’s “a really good storyteller, but her writing is simplistic…her first couple of books aren’t really written that well”. I respect my friend’s opinions in the utmost manner, but there was something about this particular statement that bristled my back hairs and curled my lip. I took it a little personal. I believe that JK Rowling’s writing style has raised the bar in literature so high that writers nowa days are scrambling to get their talents together in a panic fit of, “Damn. How do I compete with her?” I know I was one of those writers immediately after I read “The Boy Who Lived”. Now don’t get me wrong, she’s not the only author that’s made me shake in my boots. Tolkien, Barrie, Alcott, Austin, Dickens and so on and so on. But that’s just it: only good writing, excellent writing, can make a fellow writer question their own skills and talent. And Rowling did that for me. A good story teller is a good writer.
I decided that taking someone else’s opinion personally was just stupid, and that to settle my own emotions about it I should do what I normally do: write about it. So, here’s my own personal opinion on the art of good writing:
Storytelling, in whatever medium one uses to tell a story, is about entertaining an audience. Writing, in a personal sense, is for the author and the author alone. I’ve devoted years of my life to projects that I know deep in my heart will never see the light of publication, but satisfy my own esteem in the mere completion of them. But when I think about sharing with the public? I consider the market, I do. I consider the elements of what has made past blockbusters a hit, and the magic behind a great story. It all comes down to entertainment. This doesn’t negate an author’s soulful endeavor, and it doesn’t mean that an author’s personal story can’t be entertaining, but a good writer has to have more than just a good background in English. Anybody can have good grammar. Anybody can string together sentences in an orderly, sensible way. But not just anybody can sell their well written story by the millions. And I’m not the only one who thinks so.
“I think the first duty of all art, including fiction of any kind, is to entertain. That is to say, to hold interest. No matter how worthy the message of something, if it's dull, you're just not communicating.” Poul Anderson
“I have been successful probably because I have always realized that I knew nothing about writing and have merely tried to tell an interesting story entertainingly.”
Edgar Rice Burroughs
“Those who write clearly have readers. Those who write obscurely have commentators.”
Albert Camus
“The virtue of books is to be readable.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson
“Tediousness is the most fatal of all faults.”
Samuel Johnson
The empires of the inkwell have been built with nothing more and nothing less than a creative use of words, and a good, meaningful, entertaining story, and an author’s ability to move people’s emotions with the simplicity of writing what they know.
I was talking to an old friend not to long ago, and she and I came to a bit of a disagreement over the quality of a certain author’s writing. You may have heard of this author... JK Rowling? (note sarcasm) My friend, a brilliant intellect and avid (to say the least) book reader, remarked that JK Rowling wasn’t really that good of a writer. She’s “a really good storyteller, but her writing is simplistic…her first couple of books aren’t really written that well”. I respect my friend’s opinions in the utmost manner, but there was something about this particular statement that bristled my back hairs and curled my lip. I took it a little personal. I believe that JK Rowling’s writing style has raised the bar in literature so high that writers nowa days are scrambling to get their talents together in a panic fit of, “Damn. How do I compete with her?” I know I was one of those writers immediately after I read “The Boy Who Lived”. Now don’t get me wrong, she’s not the only author that’s made me shake in my boots. Tolkien, Barrie, Alcott, Austin, Dickens and so on and so on. But that’s just it: only good writing, excellent writing, can make a fellow writer question their own skills and talent. And Rowling did that for me. A good story teller is a good writer.
I decided that taking someone else’s opinion personally was just stupid, and that to settle my own emotions about it I should do what I normally do: write about it. So, here’s my own personal opinion on the art of good writing:
Storytelling, in whatever medium one uses to tell a story, is about entertaining an audience. Writing, in a personal sense, is for the author and the author alone. I’ve devoted years of my life to projects that I know deep in my heart will never see the light of publication, but satisfy my own esteem in the mere completion of them. But when I think about sharing with the public? I consider the market, I do. I consider the elements of what has made past blockbusters a hit, and the magic behind a great story. It all comes down to entertainment. This doesn’t negate an author’s soulful endeavor, and it doesn’t mean that an author’s personal story can’t be entertaining, but a good writer has to have more than just a good background in English. Anybody can have good grammar. Anybody can string together sentences in an orderly, sensible way. But not just anybody can sell their well written story by the millions. And I’m not the only one who thinks so.
“I think the first duty of all art, including fiction of any kind, is to entertain. That is to say, to hold interest. No matter how worthy the message of something, if it's dull, you're just not communicating.” Poul Anderson
“I have been successful probably because I have always realized that I knew nothing about writing and have merely tried to tell an interesting story entertainingly.”
Edgar Rice Burroughs
“Those who write clearly have readers. Those who write obscurely have commentators.”
Albert Camus
“The virtue of books is to be readable.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson
“Tediousness is the most fatal of all faults.”
Samuel Johnson
The empires of the inkwell have been built with nothing more and nothing less than a creative use of words, and a good, meaningful, entertaining story, and an author’s ability to move people’s emotions with the simplicity of writing what they know.
Monday, December 21, 2009
I Do Not Believe in Miracles
When Time Stood Still
December 18, 2009
Friday, 11:44pm
I confess, Reader, that I’m always rather emotional this time of year. But, if it be possible, I believe this year has tugged harder and more viciously on the strings of my heart more than any other year. My emotions have been a mixture of things, all deriving from separate channels. I’ve cried for good things as well as bad. Some things have moved me, and some things have shattered me. I’m trying desperately to hold onto hope and faith, consoling myself that some day everything and everyone will eventually be saved. I want so desperately to believe in salvation, but it is still just a fairy tale to me.
And yet… and yet I still search the skies for answers. Every year I remember the stars I saw that night, twelve years ago. Twelve. Twelve shooting stars twelve days before Christmas. It was supposed to mean something. Now, dear Fates, it is twelve again… will the miracle finally happen? I’m not even sure what sort of miracle I’m expecting… I don’t want to be foolish enough to believe in these sorts of things, but I feel like now that I’m at the end of all that is left in me, I have nothing to loose.
It happened by accident, Reader. I use the word “accident” because I’m cautious of the word “miracle”, or the phrase “divine intervention”. This accident, as I call it, however was a strange, profound, emotional happening. I’m not sure it’s the “miracle” I’ve been waiting for or not, but regardless of what one wishes to label it, it has begun a new spiritual journey for me.
I was wanting to post something “Christmassy” on my blog. I had written about my twelve stars in a writing class in high school, and hadn’t read it in many, many years. I wondered if it was really as good as my then audience had declared it to be. I was seventeen years old. I wasn’t expecting anything. I wasn’t even sure if it was on this particular computer or not. So I did a file search: I typed “twelvestars”. Two folders popped up that had nothing to do with these words. One said “journals”, so I thought to myself, “Maybe it’s one of my really old folders…” So I clicked on it.
It wasn’t my journal, but I couldn’t resist reading it when I realized instantly what it was. It was my mother’s journal, a quick type up of things she wrote about us four siblings when we were children. I couldn’t close it up. I was rapidly addicted.
Goodness. Love. A family that was whole. I was three years old, becoming “more active” and “enjoys singing and Sunday school”, and apparently enjoyed wrapping my little brother’s head in a blanket and then hugging it. I had also apparently “painted his face twice now, once with her paints and once with Jason’s paints.”
I was eight years old, and my kitten had just died, and my two older brothers held me and comforted me in my grief. Kyle gave me a book mark he won at camp to cheer me up.
1988, my mother was having a stressful morning trying to get all of her children up and ready for school, and my little brother rose from his bed, bright eyed and full of smiles asking my mom, "Mom? Did you notice what a beautiful day it is outside?" And it saved her.
On and on it went, little snippets of each of us, all giving praise to our goodness, our worthiness, and our love as a family. It was the story of our lives that I had long forgotten. And to hear the voice of my mother behind these memories was a new feeling, a new emotion that I have yet to find a vocabulary for.
I then read a passage of prayer she prayed, a personal giving of thanks for each of her children, and something very old, and very forgotten moved within me. Two of her prayers had come to be, and for a fleeting moment I believed in the magic of what people with faith call “miracles”. I cried. I sobbed. I read it over and over and over again, feeling both grief and rejoicing. Grief for the part of the prayer that was yet to be or no longer is, and feeling an overwhelming joy for the part that had come to pass.
It changed me. I still doubt my senses like any other Scrooge would, but I’ve been shaken. I can surely say that I just might be looking toward the night sky more often again, awaiting a sign from the heavens that I’ve long forsaken to believe in. I don’t know if this qualifies or not as a Christmas miracle, but it was something my soul has been without far too long, and even though the grief weighed heavy in some ways, the joy brought a new hope back to life again. The remembrance and evidence of love when love is said to never die, makes me believe again that maybe, just maybe, everyone and everything will eventually be saved in the end. That would make a good ending, and all endings should be good lest the story be untold.
December 18, 2009
Friday, 11:44pm
I confess, Reader, that I’m always rather emotional this time of year. But, if it be possible, I believe this year has tugged harder and more viciously on the strings of my heart more than any other year. My emotions have been a mixture of things, all deriving from separate channels. I’ve cried for good things as well as bad. Some things have moved me, and some things have shattered me. I’m trying desperately to hold onto hope and faith, consoling myself that some day everything and everyone will eventually be saved. I want so desperately to believe in salvation, but it is still just a fairy tale to me.
And yet… and yet I still search the skies for answers. Every year I remember the stars I saw that night, twelve years ago. Twelve. Twelve shooting stars twelve days before Christmas. It was supposed to mean something. Now, dear Fates, it is twelve again… will the miracle finally happen? I’m not even sure what sort of miracle I’m expecting… I don’t want to be foolish enough to believe in these sorts of things, but I feel like now that I’m at the end of all that is left in me, I have nothing to loose.
It happened by accident, Reader. I use the word “accident” because I’m cautious of the word “miracle”, or the phrase “divine intervention”. This accident, as I call it, however was a strange, profound, emotional happening. I’m not sure it’s the “miracle” I’ve been waiting for or not, but regardless of what one wishes to label it, it has begun a new spiritual journey for me.
I was wanting to post something “Christmassy” on my blog. I had written about my twelve stars in a writing class in high school, and hadn’t read it in many, many years. I wondered if it was really as good as my then audience had declared it to be. I was seventeen years old. I wasn’t expecting anything. I wasn’t even sure if it was on this particular computer or not. So I did a file search: I typed “twelvestars”. Two folders popped up that had nothing to do with these words. One said “journals”, so I thought to myself, “Maybe it’s one of my really old folders…” So I clicked on it.
It wasn’t my journal, but I couldn’t resist reading it when I realized instantly what it was. It was my mother’s journal, a quick type up of things she wrote about us four siblings when we were children. I couldn’t close it up. I was rapidly addicted.
Goodness. Love. A family that was whole. I was three years old, becoming “more active” and “enjoys singing and Sunday school”, and apparently enjoyed wrapping my little brother’s head in a blanket and then hugging it. I had also apparently “painted his face twice now, once with her paints and once with Jason’s paints.”
I was eight years old, and my kitten had just died, and my two older brothers held me and comforted me in my grief. Kyle gave me a book mark he won at camp to cheer me up.
1988, my mother was having a stressful morning trying to get all of her children up and ready for school, and my little brother rose from his bed, bright eyed and full of smiles asking my mom, "Mom? Did you notice what a beautiful day it is outside?" And it saved her.
On and on it went, little snippets of each of us, all giving praise to our goodness, our worthiness, and our love as a family. It was the story of our lives that I had long forgotten. And to hear the voice of my mother behind these memories was a new feeling, a new emotion that I have yet to find a vocabulary for.
I then read a passage of prayer she prayed, a personal giving of thanks for each of her children, and something very old, and very forgotten moved within me. Two of her prayers had come to be, and for a fleeting moment I believed in the magic of what people with faith call “miracles”. I cried. I sobbed. I read it over and over and over again, feeling both grief and rejoicing. Grief for the part of the prayer that was yet to be or no longer is, and feeling an overwhelming joy for the part that had come to pass.
It changed me. I still doubt my senses like any other Scrooge would, but I’ve been shaken. I can surely say that I just might be looking toward the night sky more often again, awaiting a sign from the heavens that I’ve long forsaken to believe in. I don’t know if this qualifies or not as a Christmas miracle, but it was something my soul has been without far too long, and even though the grief weighed heavy in some ways, the joy brought a new hope back to life again. The remembrance and evidence of love when love is said to never die, makes me believe again that maybe, just maybe, everyone and everything will eventually be saved in the end. That would make a good ending, and all endings should be good lest the story be untold.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Breeding the Non-Sexist, Respectable Man
I have carefully reviewed my observations (twenty some years of research), and have come to the conclusion that the absolute non-sexist, respectable man is so incredibly rare that we ought to start picketing for the survival of their extinction.
But here's the funny thing:
they're not really on the verge of extinction, but rather on the rise of coming into existence. It's not like there used to be millions of non-sexist,respectable men in the country and now they're dying out due to an alarming growth rate of manhood aliances and wars. No. They're actually beginning to emerge, and I'm hoping that maybe, just maybe, with the power of the written word I might be able to assist the reproduction.
I'm not quite sure who to address, to be perfectly honest. The men, or the women? Who shall I call to rise? Many of you reading this will find it ridiculous that I'm even considering any kind of "ralley" at all. Believe me, a few years ago, and all growing up, I never thought that my future would still have women having to demand respect. But it does. And I've finally decided to actually do something about it.
Growing up with three brothers I learned a few basic things that they themselves have told me point blank about men. 1)Men only think with their penis. 2)A man will say anything he needs to, to get a girl, so never believe a thing he says. 3)Men think about sex 24/7.
I know my brothers were only trying to protect me, but that's where my confusion came in. I mean, if this was all true then why the hell are women even attracted to men at all? I'm sorry, but if all men's brains are in their pants... it sort of makes them out to be monkeys. Right? And if he never tells a woman the truth...well, why would I want to pro-create with a liar? And if sex is all they think about 24/7, well, that just stirs up some sypathy, right? Poor guys! Thinking about it all the time! How cruel!
Something isn't adding up.
Expectations. If you expect a monkey, then what more can you ask for? If he only thinks with his penis, well, then a woman needs to just deal with that. If you expect him to always lie, well, then a woman needs to just always be on her guard. She's been warned. If he thinks about sex 24/7, well, then, his needs suddenly become more important to fulfill than ours. This is the way men are. "Don't expect anything more out of us."
I'm fully aware that my brothers were only trying to keep me from having fairy tale like ideas about men, but instead it made me realize that this is what most men want us to think of them so that we don't expect anything more from them. I'm sorry, Ladies, but even if it means me being unmarried till the end of time, I'm waiting for that prince I deserve. I'm not expecting perfection. I'm not expecting literal royalty (let's just be clear about things for those who like to misconstrue words...). But I am going to be raising that bar a few notches higher than "brain-in-the-pants". I am going to be expecting the truth. I am going to be expecting that my own needs get met, too.
I’ve addressed it a few times in my life, but have never really, really realized how openly I've had to battle sexism. Looking back, I remember all the times in my life that I was regarded as “silly” or "emotionally unstable" or told that I was "overreacting" when I was doing nothing more than sticking up for myself. Or, how about the times when my ideas were always ignored until a man (after long, unnecessary debate) had the same idea (stealing it from me), and suddenly POOF! My (stolen) idea was magically heard, and then used. Or how I’ve had to work double hard to get the respect I deserve for my cleverness, my creativeness, my comedy. Sexism was everywhere as it was for all of us. It was at school when our sixth grade teacher blatantly stated that men are smarter than women, and the entire class of boys whooped and hollered leaving us girls completely enraged and helpless and humiliated. It was at the park with the building of the forts when the boys stole our tools, we retaliated, and then they sought revenge on our retaliation, and started our infamous war. The worst part about that, the topper on it all, was that the boys went and retold their story to another girl in the neighborhood, manipulated her into thinking they were the victims, and got her to help ran sack our fort. All because they stole our tools to begin with, and we stood up for ourselves.
Or,
how about when I did something wrong, made a mistake, and it was instantly blamed on my gender instead of my humanness.
Here's an example I'd like to lead into and use: Years ago, I took my friend and her boyfriend to a tattoo and piercing parlor. I had just met the boyfriend, for one, and he had the audacity to ask to borrow money from me for the piercing (of his nipple...). For my friend's sake, I did. I lent it to him. But when we pulled into the parking lot, he was having second thoughts. So, being distracting from his concerns, I never put the car into Park. He finally made his decision to do it, so I turned off the car. I couldn't get the keys out of the ignition because it was still in Drive. None of us could figure out what was wrong (including him, mind you). When I finally figured out what the problem was, we all laughed about it until he had to ruin the moment with: "That's why women shouldn't drive." OH YEAH. HE DID. (And for those men who are reading this and are in denial, no he wasn't joking) I went into my usual rant, of course, told him what I thought of him, made a point or two about him being a coward about the piercing, and how any human being in the world could've made the same mistake I just made, and if he ever says something that sexist again it'll be the last thing that ever comes out of his mouth. He was scared of me from that point on, and for the three years she dated him, he never said anything sexist again.
And there it is. Who do I address? The men or the women? Strange things happen when we stick up for ourselves, Ladies. There's absolutely no reason at all that any of us should accept this sort of bullying just because "guys will be guys". "They only think with their penises, what else should we expect?" Um, we should expect a hell of lot more. But some situations are a little more subtle, and harder to address. There's plenty of nice guys out there who treat women with a decent amount of respect, but can't come to terms with the fact that being nice has nothing to do with sexism.
Stupid little things, right? What about all the really nice guys who couldn't find it in their egos to laugh at my jokes? What about how one my guy friends thought he was being chivalrous by letting me know he let me win a game of chess? What about when I was on the church softball team and I was out in the outfield, and a super easy-peasy grounder came rolling at me and as I swooped down to scoop it, my own team mate came running in front me and snatched it up? I gave him a look that could kill, but that was about all I could do… Or was it? Sure I made my friend's boyfriend want to wet himself, but that case was easy. The harder part is getting the less blatent stuff confronted.
Most of my life I’ve done nothing but grit my teeth and allow this fury to build up and flash out at the most inconvenient times. And then what? Well, that just makes us women look emotionally unstable, right? I must be on my period, right? No. NO. There’s more that can be done than just an angry look, or a clenched fist. I was given a gift of voice, of words, and a defiance to be told that I am less of anything. And any respectable man or woman who agrees with me, should follow my lead.
So. How do we, as a society, breed the non-sexist, respectable man? Women: you need to expect more, and not be afraid to demand it. Men: try not to be defensive when a woman speaks out agaist sexism or demands to be respected. Please, open your mind at least a little to the possibility that you just might, just maybe, truly see yourself as a higher being, and us as lessers. That's about all I can really say. It's up to a man to actually want to not be sexist, and so few do because it means they have to give up so many of their priveledges. So few do because women are often used as bonding tools between men, and the minute they have to regard a woman as a human being instead of "getting some tail", then they've lost the respect of their caveman buddies. If you need an incentive, men, try racing your fellow mankind out of the next stage of evolution. Because I truly believe that a non-sexist, respectable man is far more evolved than all the other men, and in turn is far more desirable. The trick is, to get women to stop settling for the cavemen. Men would be quicker to try harder if they knew they'd loose out on us. My mission may seem impossible, no doubt, but that's not going to stop me from trying.
But here's the funny thing:
they're not really on the verge of extinction, but rather on the rise of coming into existence. It's not like there used to be millions of non-sexist,respectable men in the country and now they're dying out due to an alarming growth rate of manhood aliances and wars. No. They're actually beginning to emerge, and I'm hoping that maybe, just maybe, with the power of the written word I might be able to assist the reproduction.
I'm not quite sure who to address, to be perfectly honest. The men, or the women? Who shall I call to rise? Many of you reading this will find it ridiculous that I'm even considering any kind of "ralley" at all. Believe me, a few years ago, and all growing up, I never thought that my future would still have women having to demand respect. But it does. And I've finally decided to actually do something about it.
Growing up with three brothers I learned a few basic things that they themselves have told me point blank about men. 1)Men only think with their penis. 2)A man will say anything he needs to, to get a girl, so never believe a thing he says. 3)Men think about sex 24/7.
I know my brothers were only trying to protect me, but that's where my confusion came in. I mean, if this was all true then why the hell are women even attracted to men at all? I'm sorry, but if all men's brains are in their pants... it sort of makes them out to be monkeys. Right? And if he never tells a woman the truth...well, why would I want to pro-create with a liar? And if sex is all they think about 24/7, well, that just stirs up some sypathy, right? Poor guys! Thinking about it all the time! How cruel!
Something isn't adding up.
Expectations. If you expect a monkey, then what more can you ask for? If he only thinks with his penis, well, then a woman needs to just deal with that. If you expect him to always lie, well, then a woman needs to just always be on her guard. She's been warned. If he thinks about sex 24/7, well, then, his needs suddenly become more important to fulfill than ours. This is the way men are. "Don't expect anything more out of us."
I'm fully aware that my brothers were only trying to keep me from having fairy tale like ideas about men, but instead it made me realize that this is what most men want us to think of them so that we don't expect anything more from them. I'm sorry, Ladies, but even if it means me being unmarried till the end of time, I'm waiting for that prince I deserve. I'm not expecting perfection. I'm not expecting literal royalty (let's just be clear about things for those who like to misconstrue words...). But I am going to be raising that bar a few notches higher than "brain-in-the-pants". I am going to be expecting the truth. I am going to be expecting that my own needs get met, too.
I’ve addressed it a few times in my life, but have never really, really realized how openly I've had to battle sexism. Looking back, I remember all the times in my life that I was regarded as “silly” or "emotionally unstable" or told that I was "overreacting" when I was doing nothing more than sticking up for myself. Or, how about the times when my ideas were always ignored until a man (after long, unnecessary debate) had the same idea (stealing it from me), and suddenly POOF! My (stolen) idea was magically heard, and then used. Or how I’ve had to work double hard to get the respect I deserve for my cleverness, my creativeness, my comedy. Sexism was everywhere as it was for all of us. It was at school when our sixth grade teacher blatantly stated that men are smarter than women, and the entire class of boys whooped and hollered leaving us girls completely enraged and helpless and humiliated. It was at the park with the building of the forts when the boys stole our tools, we retaliated, and then they sought revenge on our retaliation, and started our infamous war. The worst part about that, the topper on it all, was that the boys went and retold their story to another girl in the neighborhood, manipulated her into thinking they were the victims, and got her to help ran sack our fort. All because they stole our tools to begin with, and we stood up for ourselves.
Or,
how about when I did something wrong, made a mistake, and it was instantly blamed on my gender instead of my humanness.
Here's an example I'd like to lead into and use: Years ago, I took my friend and her boyfriend to a tattoo and piercing parlor. I had just met the boyfriend, for one, and he had the audacity to ask to borrow money from me for the piercing (of his nipple...). For my friend's sake, I did. I lent it to him. But when we pulled into the parking lot, he was having second thoughts. So, being distracting from his concerns, I never put the car into Park. He finally made his decision to do it, so I turned off the car. I couldn't get the keys out of the ignition because it was still in Drive. None of us could figure out what was wrong (including him, mind you). When I finally figured out what the problem was, we all laughed about it until he had to ruin the moment with: "That's why women shouldn't drive." OH YEAH. HE DID. (And for those men who are reading this and are in denial, no he wasn't joking) I went into my usual rant, of course, told him what I thought of him, made a point or two about him being a coward about the piercing, and how any human being in the world could've made the same mistake I just made, and if he ever says something that sexist again it'll be the last thing that ever comes out of his mouth. He was scared of me from that point on, and for the three years she dated him, he never said anything sexist again.
And there it is. Who do I address? The men or the women? Strange things happen when we stick up for ourselves, Ladies. There's absolutely no reason at all that any of us should accept this sort of bullying just because "guys will be guys". "They only think with their penises, what else should we expect?" Um, we should expect a hell of lot more. But some situations are a little more subtle, and harder to address. There's plenty of nice guys out there who treat women with a decent amount of respect, but can't come to terms with the fact that being nice has nothing to do with sexism.
Stupid little things, right? What about all the really nice guys who couldn't find it in their egos to laugh at my jokes? What about how one my guy friends thought he was being chivalrous by letting me know he let me win a game of chess? What about when I was on the church softball team and I was out in the outfield, and a super easy-peasy grounder came rolling at me and as I swooped down to scoop it, my own team mate came running in front me and snatched it up? I gave him a look that could kill, but that was about all I could do… Or was it? Sure I made my friend's boyfriend want to wet himself, but that case was easy. The harder part is getting the less blatent stuff confronted.
Most of my life I’ve done nothing but grit my teeth and allow this fury to build up and flash out at the most inconvenient times. And then what? Well, that just makes us women look emotionally unstable, right? I must be on my period, right? No. NO. There’s more that can be done than just an angry look, or a clenched fist. I was given a gift of voice, of words, and a defiance to be told that I am less of anything. And any respectable man or woman who agrees with me, should follow my lead.
So. How do we, as a society, breed the non-sexist, respectable man? Women: you need to expect more, and not be afraid to demand it. Men: try not to be defensive when a woman speaks out agaist sexism or demands to be respected. Please, open your mind at least a little to the possibility that you just might, just maybe, truly see yourself as a higher being, and us as lessers. That's about all I can really say. It's up to a man to actually want to not be sexist, and so few do because it means they have to give up so many of their priveledges. So few do because women are often used as bonding tools between men, and the minute they have to regard a woman as a human being instead of "getting some tail", then they've lost the respect of their caveman buddies. If you need an incentive, men, try racing your fellow mankind out of the next stage of evolution. Because I truly believe that a non-sexist, respectable man is far more evolved than all the other men, and in turn is far more desirable. The trick is, to get women to stop settling for the cavemen. Men would be quicker to try harder if they knew they'd loose out on us. My mission may seem impossible, no doubt, but that's not going to stop me from trying.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Secrets to Understanding Women....Phase 1: dating
I've debated about this with myself for years, now. I've always wanted to write a sort of "handbook" for men. But when you think of all the variables it's hard to go down one, specific path with it. Every human being is too individual to throw into catagories, or stereotype. Because, hey: not all women have shoe fetishes, and not all men are good with a wrench. Right? And we're all attracted to different types, and we all have our own way of playing the dating game, and we all have different reasons for being in a relationship. And? When it really comes down to the real deal? Love? There's no guidelines for love. It's the most impractical, illogical force of all... But, dating? On a shallow level? A simple level?
Let's throw all those variables out the window, entirely. I've been itching to let out a few clues, tips, and basic rules to follow for a man in pursuit of a woman. Now there's different stages, of course. I want to start with my "favorite" (which conveinently comes first in the sequence already), which is: asking the woman, out.
Dating, it's called.
Now,I'm going to share a secret. Consequently, this secret is going to turn me into the biggest hypocrite (a good kick off!), but I think it's only fair.
I don't date.
I hate dating.
I hate the ritual of a man I hardly know forking out money to pay for my dinner, or for my drinks, or my cheesy bowling games. It makes me feel obligated to a complete stranger. Awkward! And flowers? No thanks. Nice gesture, but I believe that romance like that should come later. Buying me flowers when I hardly know you makes me feel like you're trying to buy my affection. I'm either going to be attracted to you or I'm not, flowers aren't going to change that.
I'm terrible, aren't I?
Yeeeah...
I don't think I am. I'm real.
But here's where the hyprocritical part of it comes in:
I'm about to share some "tips", and "rules" and what not about dating a woman properly. I'm going to pretend that I'm a woman who actually likes dating, and I'm going to let you in on a few of our secrets. (I can already feel the controversy rising....)
Our signals:
Subconsciously, women will hold themselves in as feminine of a light as possible when first meeting a man they're actually attracted to. If her voice seems up an octive, your chances are good. If her posture is ladylike, and she's moving about like she wants you to know how flexible she is, your chances are even better. If she holds your gaze for a while, and smiles seductively. You're totally in.
But these are easy. The harder ones are telling when she's NOT into you. Pay attention to these, now.
1) If she's talking to you like an old buddy from elementary school, she's not interested. Just because she's laughing at your jokes doesn't mean she wants to sleep with you. If her giggles are sort of shrill, and she touches you when you make a joke, then you're totally in. But if she laughs, and doesn't want to make eye contact, she's trying not to lead you on.
2) Nine out of ten times a woman who says "no" (to anything), MEANS "no". She's not playing hard to get. Get over it, respect her "no", and for the love of nancy, MOVE ON.
3) If she doesn't call you, she's not interested. Period. She didn't loose your number. She's not too busy. She doesn't like you in that way, and doesn't want to lead you on.
4) "Just friends" means: "In no shape or form am I ever going to be sexually attracted to you." "Just friends for now" means: "I like to take it real slow, and I'm unsure of you right now, so I want to wait it out..."
Those are the basics.
You want to know how to turn a woman off? These are good...heh heh...Check it out:
*Stare at her breasts and grin stupidly.
No, it's not a compliment. A glance, is a compliment. Staring and grinning makes you look like a man with absolutely no self control, which, in turn, makes you look no more evolved than an ape.
*Talking in a weird, trying-to-be-sexy voice. Dude. You're either sexy or you're not. The voice is just lame and weird. Very, very few men can pull off the sexy voice, and the ones who can have a natural talent that they themselves are probably not even aware of.
*Don't buy a drink for a woman without asking first. Don't be that guy. Don't ask the bartender to send a drink "to the blonde by the pool table", and then wink at her when the waitress points you out. Double, trible, quadtruple rude. Why? Because for one, you don't even know if she has a boyfriend. Two, you have no idea what kind of drink she likes or even if she WANTS another one. Three? It looks like you're buying her off. You're putting her into a position where she's now going to feel rude if she doesn't come talk to you whether she's attracted to you or not. There's nothing worse than "tricking" a woman into talking to you. This happened to me once, and I was a little bit of a snot about it. I saluted the guy (who was...whoa. super hot...)in a sort of sassy way, drank my free drink, and never went over to talk to him. Mean bitch? No way.
Now. If she's been sending you signals all night? Okay. Sure. But you should still ask her, no matter what. ASK HER.
*And for the love of pete: just because you own a house, have a nicely manicured lawn, work in an upscale office, drive a nice car, and really, really like to talk about yourself, does not in any shape or form automatically make you a good catch. Having a hobby or two, a passion, a joke to tell, something of the sort is going to make your night all the better. That is, of course, if she's a normal, unshallow, good woman. (Again with those variables! Crap.)
Ugh. Writing this is making all those variables spring up, and is making me second guess everything I'm writing. I certainly can't speak for all women, only myself and the ones who are like me. There are plenty of women who would love to have a mystery man buy them a drink from across the way. There are plenty of women who totally dig guys with deep pockets and nice offices...
So. I suppose this is simply a list, an essay, a rant on things that I wish I could say to every man who's ever tried to hit on me and has only pissed me off doing so. If there are any women out there who agree to any of this, I sure would like a show of hands. There's so much more I still want to carry on about, but I think I ought to end it here before my foot gets lodged completely into my mouth.
Let's throw all those variables out the window, entirely. I've been itching to let out a few clues, tips, and basic rules to follow for a man in pursuit of a woman. Now there's different stages, of course. I want to start with my "favorite" (which conveinently comes first in the sequence already), which is: asking the woman, out.
Dating, it's called.
Now,I'm going to share a secret. Consequently, this secret is going to turn me into the biggest hypocrite (a good kick off!), but I think it's only fair.
I don't date.
I hate dating.
I hate the ritual of a man I hardly know forking out money to pay for my dinner, or for my drinks, or my cheesy bowling games. It makes me feel obligated to a complete stranger. Awkward! And flowers? No thanks. Nice gesture, but I believe that romance like that should come later. Buying me flowers when I hardly know you makes me feel like you're trying to buy my affection. I'm either going to be attracted to you or I'm not, flowers aren't going to change that.
I'm terrible, aren't I?
Yeeeah...
I don't think I am. I'm real.
But here's where the hyprocritical part of it comes in:
I'm about to share some "tips", and "rules" and what not about dating a woman properly. I'm going to pretend that I'm a woman who actually likes dating, and I'm going to let you in on a few of our secrets. (I can already feel the controversy rising....)
Our signals:
Subconsciously, women will hold themselves in as feminine of a light as possible when first meeting a man they're actually attracted to. If her voice seems up an octive, your chances are good. If her posture is ladylike, and she's moving about like she wants you to know how flexible she is, your chances are even better. If she holds your gaze for a while, and smiles seductively. You're totally in.
But these are easy. The harder ones are telling when she's NOT into you. Pay attention to these, now.
1) If she's talking to you like an old buddy from elementary school, she's not interested. Just because she's laughing at your jokes doesn't mean she wants to sleep with you. If her giggles are sort of shrill, and she touches you when you make a joke, then you're totally in. But if she laughs, and doesn't want to make eye contact, she's trying not to lead you on.
2) Nine out of ten times a woman who says "no" (to anything), MEANS "no". She's not playing hard to get. Get over it, respect her "no", and for the love of nancy, MOVE ON.
3) If she doesn't call you, she's not interested. Period. She didn't loose your number. She's not too busy. She doesn't like you in that way, and doesn't want to lead you on.
4) "Just friends" means: "In no shape or form am I ever going to be sexually attracted to you." "Just friends for now" means: "I like to take it real slow, and I'm unsure of you right now, so I want to wait it out..."
Those are the basics.
You want to know how to turn a woman off? These are good...heh heh...Check it out:
*Stare at her breasts and grin stupidly.
No, it's not a compliment. A glance, is a compliment. Staring and grinning makes you look like a man with absolutely no self control, which, in turn, makes you look no more evolved than an ape.
*Talking in a weird, trying-to-be-sexy voice. Dude. You're either sexy or you're not. The voice is just lame and weird. Very, very few men can pull off the sexy voice, and the ones who can have a natural talent that they themselves are probably not even aware of.
*Don't buy a drink for a woman without asking first. Don't be that guy. Don't ask the bartender to send a drink "to the blonde by the pool table", and then wink at her when the waitress points you out. Double, trible, quadtruple rude. Why? Because for one, you don't even know if she has a boyfriend. Two, you have no idea what kind of drink she likes or even if she WANTS another one. Three? It looks like you're buying her off. You're putting her into a position where she's now going to feel rude if she doesn't come talk to you whether she's attracted to you or not. There's nothing worse than "tricking" a woman into talking to you. This happened to me once, and I was a little bit of a snot about it. I saluted the guy (who was...whoa. super hot...)in a sort of sassy way, drank my free drink, and never went over to talk to him. Mean bitch? No way.
Now. If she's been sending you signals all night? Okay. Sure. But you should still ask her, no matter what. ASK HER.
*And for the love of pete: just because you own a house, have a nicely manicured lawn, work in an upscale office, drive a nice car, and really, really like to talk about yourself, does not in any shape or form automatically make you a good catch. Having a hobby or two, a passion, a joke to tell, something of the sort is going to make your night all the better. That is, of course, if she's a normal, unshallow, good woman. (Again with those variables! Crap.)
Ugh. Writing this is making all those variables spring up, and is making me second guess everything I'm writing. I certainly can't speak for all women, only myself and the ones who are like me. There are plenty of women who would love to have a mystery man buy them a drink from across the way. There are plenty of women who totally dig guys with deep pockets and nice offices...
So. I suppose this is simply a list, an essay, a rant on things that I wish I could say to every man who's ever tried to hit on me and has only pissed me off doing so. If there are any women out there who agree to any of this, I sure would like a show of hands. There's so much more I still want to carry on about, but I think I ought to end it here before my foot gets lodged completely into my mouth.
Friday, October 23, 2009
An Equalist's Nightmare
This is a warning to all those who may be sensitive to a stronger use of words. I’m not saying I intend to bombard you with vulgarity, but I am anticipating on using some blunt terms (we’ll call them) to get my point across.
I’ve sworn up and down that I’m not a sexist. I do not believe in “the battle of sexes” on any level. Men are not better than women, and women are not better than men. I’m an equalist, that is a certainty. But every once and awhile an extremely annoying feminist or an extremely annoying sexist spews out a few things about the opposite gender that ruins it for every other equalist out there trying desperately to keep things balanced. It pisses us off. It pisses us off because now we can’t just stand by without standing up in defense of either our own gender, or our own personal selves. Tonight, folks, it was a comedian who pissed me off. And comedians are most difficult to confront, because: “Hey! It’s a joke! It’s an act! Don’t be so uptight!”. No no. I don’t care what joke, or who’s act, if it’s creating false stereotypes and condemning a certain group of people into a false reputation, then someone has to take a stand.
A friend of mine posted a YouTube audio clip of this comedian, Bill Burr, explaining his ever ingeneous, comedic views on the women’s liberation movement and what it means for the modern woman. He joked how the reason men make a dollar an hour more than women do is because women get first dibs off the Titanic….(okay, sort of funny….) or if a burglar breaks in, the man’s off to endanger himself to check it out….or, if there’s a rabid dog coming their way, the man steps in front…
You get the idea. At first, I thought, “Heh…”. And I gave it a chuckle. I get it. I saw where he was going with it. Sort of funny. But he sort of went on and on about it. You see, the whole thing began with him trying to explain how feminists want to be equal to men, but only when it’s convenient. The funny thing is, I’ve seen that before too so I was intrigued with where he was going with it. But then it sort of morphed into “all feminists” and “all women”, and when he spewed out his description of a feminist having a butch haircut that turns into pigtails when she wants to have a man do the dirty work, I cringed. Bristled, actually. I think my eyes may have actually turned red, and I’m pretty sure I was close to breathing fire.
To begin with, the first thing I wanted to say to him when he talked about how it wasn’t fair for him to have to put himself in harm’s way should a burglar come into the house was, “What an effing pussy. Give me the damn gun, and I’ll go sacrifice myself for you, you flipping coward.” Really? Not all women are going to cower at the sound of breaking glass in the middle of the night and expect the man to go check it out. But truth be told? So what if they do. Here’s what women have to fear from a break in: kidnap, rape, then murder. How fun for us! I would much rather have to only risk getting shot in the head, like a man. Raped by a psycho? No thanks! When I’m home alone? It can be absolutely terrifying to hear bumps in the night, you have no idea. But when I know there’s a man in the house (father/brother)? Different. And for a reason. It’s not because we’re unequal to men. It’s not because we’re weaker, or less intelligent, or inferior. It’s because we’re more vulnerable. We’re more vulnerable because of the mere fact that we have vaginas that are always, constantly, in the danger of being violated by…who? By….what? Men! Bad men, sure. Rapists, psycho serial killers and the like. Creepy perverts. You know. Et cetera, et cetera. Oddly enough, our only absolute guarantee from these predators, are….well, men. Sure, we can learn a defense move or two. ‘Carry our pepper spray. I don’t doubt that there’s an olympian or two who doesn’t have to worry about getting raped…. And sure, we know not to drink from a glass that’s been left unattended, and sure we know not to get in the car with a stranger no matter how cute he is…. And sure there’s enough of us who fight when we have to and make it out okay. Sure. But the unrelenting, horrible dependence on another man to protect us is something we will never, ever be able to escape (unless you’re one of the said olympians, or some crazy street fighter or something….). I’ve met my share of wimpy men, I have. There’s a few choice ones that I would not want fighting my battles for me, no doubt about it. But tell me again: how is it going against feminism, a woman’s equal rights, to have a man defending her? ‘Not quite getting that part of the joke.
I’m an equalist, as I previously stated. I believe both men and women are equally human. Neither is superior over the other. However, we’re still very, very different. And those differences are supposed to play a part in balancing us out, not turning us against each other. Women have a certain purpose to men, and men have a certain purpose to women. ‘Generally speaking, of course. It’s pretty much as simple as this: men protect us, and we give them babies. Lovely, isn’t it?
“HOLD ON!” you say.
Isn’t it true, though? You want to know why women get to leave sinking boats first? We have one thing men don’t have that gives us first dibs on life. It’s called: a uterus. To expand a little, it’s also called: going through nine months of hell to create the fruit of a man’s loins. It’s called: he gets the fun part in pro-creating while we have to suffer through almost a whole year of gestation. Puking, swelling, pimples, hormone rages, swings of temporary insanity, leakages, unbelievable gas (which could also fall into the "leakages" catagory), weight gain, painful shape-shifting, zero sleep, aching boobs, being stripped of all sexiness entirely, constant exhaustion…..
Now, wait. Wait. Now it sounds like I’m complaining about being a woman. I’m not. I couldn’t be more proud to be one. I love the fact that I’ve been built strong enough to endure these things. But that’s just it. This, is the exact reason why men should not only respect women, but take care of us and keep us safe. It’s not because we’re lesser beings. It’s not because we’re inferior. It’s because we’re valuable. We’re valuable to men because without us we cannot give them life. And men are valuable to us because we need them to protect the family they’ve created. I really don’t see any reason either sex should find any shame in this arrangement. It’s degrading to neither party, so why is it always such a controversy of sexism? I’m more than willing to go through those nine months of agony to create a family with a man I love, if he’s willing to protect us emotionally and physically.
Am I taking this all a little too personally? Should I have really just laughed or not laughed at some stupid comedian’s jokes, gone to bed, and forgot about all of this the next morning? Most people would have. But it gave me a good excuse to express something that bothers me on a constant basis, and something that I am always, extremely passionate about. I am going to make no apologies for being offended. Change never comes from those who are too afraid to speak against their offenses. I, my dear audience, have spoken against it.
I’ve sworn up and down that I’m not a sexist. I do not believe in “the battle of sexes” on any level. Men are not better than women, and women are not better than men. I’m an equalist, that is a certainty. But every once and awhile an extremely annoying feminist or an extremely annoying sexist spews out a few things about the opposite gender that ruins it for every other equalist out there trying desperately to keep things balanced. It pisses us off. It pisses us off because now we can’t just stand by without standing up in defense of either our own gender, or our own personal selves. Tonight, folks, it was a comedian who pissed me off. And comedians are most difficult to confront, because: “Hey! It’s a joke! It’s an act! Don’t be so uptight!”. No no. I don’t care what joke, or who’s act, if it’s creating false stereotypes and condemning a certain group of people into a false reputation, then someone has to take a stand.
A friend of mine posted a YouTube audio clip of this comedian, Bill Burr, explaining his ever ingeneous, comedic views on the women’s liberation movement and what it means for the modern woman. He joked how the reason men make a dollar an hour more than women do is because women get first dibs off the Titanic….(okay, sort of funny….) or if a burglar breaks in, the man’s off to endanger himself to check it out….or, if there’s a rabid dog coming their way, the man steps in front…
You get the idea. At first, I thought, “Heh…”. And I gave it a chuckle. I get it. I saw where he was going with it. Sort of funny. But he sort of went on and on about it. You see, the whole thing began with him trying to explain how feminists want to be equal to men, but only when it’s convenient. The funny thing is, I’ve seen that before too so I was intrigued with where he was going with it. But then it sort of morphed into “all feminists” and “all women”, and when he spewed out his description of a feminist having a butch haircut that turns into pigtails when she wants to have a man do the dirty work, I cringed. Bristled, actually. I think my eyes may have actually turned red, and I’m pretty sure I was close to breathing fire.
To begin with, the first thing I wanted to say to him when he talked about how it wasn’t fair for him to have to put himself in harm’s way should a burglar come into the house was, “What an effing pussy. Give me the damn gun, and I’ll go sacrifice myself for you, you flipping coward.” Really? Not all women are going to cower at the sound of breaking glass in the middle of the night and expect the man to go check it out. But truth be told? So what if they do. Here’s what women have to fear from a break in: kidnap, rape, then murder. How fun for us! I would much rather have to only risk getting shot in the head, like a man. Raped by a psycho? No thanks! When I’m home alone? It can be absolutely terrifying to hear bumps in the night, you have no idea. But when I know there’s a man in the house (father/brother)? Different. And for a reason. It’s not because we’re unequal to men. It’s not because we’re weaker, or less intelligent, or inferior. It’s because we’re more vulnerable. We’re more vulnerable because of the mere fact that we have vaginas that are always, constantly, in the danger of being violated by…who? By….what? Men! Bad men, sure. Rapists, psycho serial killers and the like. Creepy perverts. You know. Et cetera, et cetera. Oddly enough, our only absolute guarantee from these predators, are….well, men. Sure, we can learn a defense move or two. ‘Carry our pepper spray. I don’t doubt that there’s an olympian or two who doesn’t have to worry about getting raped…. And sure, we know not to drink from a glass that’s been left unattended, and sure we know not to get in the car with a stranger no matter how cute he is…. And sure there’s enough of us who fight when we have to and make it out okay. Sure. But the unrelenting, horrible dependence on another man to protect us is something we will never, ever be able to escape (unless you’re one of the said olympians, or some crazy street fighter or something….). I’ve met my share of wimpy men, I have. There’s a few choice ones that I would not want fighting my battles for me, no doubt about it. But tell me again: how is it going against feminism, a woman’s equal rights, to have a man defending her? ‘Not quite getting that part of the joke.
I’m an equalist, as I previously stated. I believe both men and women are equally human. Neither is superior over the other. However, we’re still very, very different. And those differences are supposed to play a part in balancing us out, not turning us against each other. Women have a certain purpose to men, and men have a certain purpose to women. ‘Generally speaking, of course. It’s pretty much as simple as this: men protect us, and we give them babies. Lovely, isn’t it?
“HOLD ON!” you say.
Isn’t it true, though? You want to know why women get to leave sinking boats first? We have one thing men don’t have that gives us first dibs on life. It’s called: a uterus. To expand a little, it’s also called: going through nine months of hell to create the fruit of a man’s loins. It’s called: he gets the fun part in pro-creating while we have to suffer through almost a whole year of gestation. Puking, swelling, pimples, hormone rages, swings of temporary insanity, leakages, unbelievable gas (which could also fall into the "leakages" catagory), weight gain, painful shape-shifting, zero sleep, aching boobs, being stripped of all sexiness entirely, constant exhaustion…..
Now, wait. Wait. Now it sounds like I’m complaining about being a woman. I’m not. I couldn’t be more proud to be one. I love the fact that I’ve been built strong enough to endure these things. But that’s just it. This, is the exact reason why men should not only respect women, but take care of us and keep us safe. It’s not because we’re lesser beings. It’s not because we’re inferior. It’s because we’re valuable. We’re valuable to men because without us we cannot give them life. And men are valuable to us because we need them to protect the family they’ve created. I really don’t see any reason either sex should find any shame in this arrangement. It’s degrading to neither party, so why is it always such a controversy of sexism? I’m more than willing to go through those nine months of agony to create a family with a man I love, if he’s willing to protect us emotionally and physically.
Am I taking this all a little too personally? Should I have really just laughed or not laughed at some stupid comedian’s jokes, gone to bed, and forgot about all of this the next morning? Most people would have. But it gave me a good excuse to express something that bothers me on a constant basis, and something that I am always, extremely passionate about. I am going to make no apologies for being offended. Change never comes from those who are too afraid to speak against their offenses. I, my dear audience, have spoken against it.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Purpose
I woke up this morning blissful, cheerful,and ridiculously giddy. I had wanted to give credit to the brisk, sunny morning, or the plenty of hours of sleep I had, or the wonderful clean smell of my sweater, but I then remembered that I had taken my anti-depressant before I went to bed the night before. Was that it? I'm not really on the pill to make me happy, but rather to keep me from returning to a certain addiction I have proudly conquered recently. I drove on, thinking, "Maybe I need this pill more than I realized..."
Depression is difficult to anylize. They say it's anger turned inward. They say it's a chemical imbalance. They say it's genetic. But what most choose to avoid talking about is the very sadness itself, the hopelessness, and the spiritual despair. Doctors don't want to say, "You're sad because you don't feel loved. You're sad because you have no hope. You're sad because you have no purpose." Depression is a powerful darkness. It can consume the strongest of souls, and it can be undeniably sneaky and undeniably deniable. But I seem to have discovered a fairly simple, accessible light that, I believe, can save even the most seemingly un-savable.
The darkest times in my life have been when I've felt the least needed. The darkest times in my life have been when I've felt completely and utterly purposeless. Futureless, pathetic, and unwanted. Useless, un-respected, and futile. Perception plays a role, no doubt. So does that chemical imbalance thing. But there's a way out. And it's not with a pill.
As I drove on I realized how inconsistant the pill had been. I haven't woken up this cheerful every single morning I've taken it the night before. So, why was this morning different?
The autumn air was different.
It smelled sweet, crisp, as if it was its own life. It made me remember the goodness of change.
It woke me.
I was alert and aware that the breath of something good was blowing through my soul. After years and years of pursueing the end of a rainbow that I would never reach, I realized that the meaning of living and breathing and dieing is entirely summed up by what we ourselves give selflessly back to life. Everything is designed by cycles and circles, and giving out is the only way we'll gain inwardly.
I thought of all the people in my life that I love. I thought of the children I teach and care for. I thought of strangers, and enemies, and criminals. If I could only figure out how to give selflessly to my community, the entirety of it, not just the ones that are safe and easy, then I could surely find my simple light, my simple salvation.
Purpose.
For once, in a very, very long time, I feel like I have a purpose for living, for breathing, and for dieing without regret. The morning sun looks very different when you know you're headed toward a horizon of promise, and a place where people need and want you. The road is a much happier place to be when you have a direction. People in your life become much less oppressive when you give to them without expecting anything in return. It is a great feat, and a great joy to make others feel loved.
Purpose.
It truly is, as simple as that.
Depression is difficult to anylize. They say it's anger turned inward. They say it's a chemical imbalance. They say it's genetic. But what most choose to avoid talking about is the very sadness itself, the hopelessness, and the spiritual despair. Doctors don't want to say, "You're sad because you don't feel loved. You're sad because you have no hope. You're sad because you have no purpose." Depression is a powerful darkness. It can consume the strongest of souls, and it can be undeniably sneaky and undeniably deniable. But I seem to have discovered a fairly simple, accessible light that, I believe, can save even the most seemingly un-savable.
The darkest times in my life have been when I've felt the least needed. The darkest times in my life have been when I've felt completely and utterly purposeless. Futureless, pathetic, and unwanted. Useless, un-respected, and futile. Perception plays a role, no doubt. So does that chemical imbalance thing. But there's a way out. And it's not with a pill.
As I drove on I realized how inconsistant the pill had been. I haven't woken up this cheerful every single morning I've taken it the night before. So, why was this morning different?
The autumn air was different.
It smelled sweet, crisp, as if it was its own life. It made me remember the goodness of change.
It woke me.
I was alert and aware that the breath of something good was blowing through my soul. After years and years of pursueing the end of a rainbow that I would never reach, I realized that the meaning of living and breathing and dieing is entirely summed up by what we ourselves give selflessly back to life. Everything is designed by cycles and circles, and giving out is the only way we'll gain inwardly.
I thought of all the people in my life that I love. I thought of the children I teach and care for. I thought of strangers, and enemies, and criminals. If I could only figure out how to give selflessly to my community, the entirety of it, not just the ones that are safe and easy, then I could surely find my simple light, my simple salvation.
Purpose.
For once, in a very, very long time, I feel like I have a purpose for living, for breathing, and for dieing without regret. The morning sun looks very different when you know you're headed toward a horizon of promise, and a place where people need and want you. The road is a much happier place to be when you have a direction. People in your life become much less oppressive when you give to them without expecting anything in return. It is a great feat, and a great joy to make others feel loved.
Purpose.
It truly is, as simple as that.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Tree
June 8, 2006
Wait, wait for it. Words will come, they always do...
I was not suppose to be here, tonight. Tonight is another end to another dead day, and I grieve about where life has brought me. Melancholy is a dreadful thing to be redundant with, but an artist knows no other way. I am tormented by simple things, and strengthened by the terrible. It is a mystery, dear Reader, a mystery.
I wait for new growth. I wait for a new stature. I try to love the simple life that has been given me, but I grieve for its simplicity instead. I want suffering, and hardship, and turmoil. A fool! I know. But without challenge there is no purpose, and I feel purposeless. I feel like I have nothing to show for bravery, and strength, and virtue. I have nothing to show for wisdom, growth, and accomplishment. None have come to challenge me, but I don’t even know if I could meet up to them anyway if they were to even come at all. In all frankness, I fear the outcome. I fear the mirror of inevitable truth, the evidence that I am nothing but weak, fragile, sinful, and failing.
My good childhood has cursed me. I have been sheltered from the darknesses of the world, and I know nothing about it. I relate to no one because everyone has not been kept up in a shell like I have. Men don’t want me because I have no strength or wisdom to carry their burdens. Friends don’t want me because I have nothing to offer but desperate melancholy. Is it good to have a good life? Not if you feel spoiled by it.
I realize my fragility when I confront the reasoning to why I have been so safe. For years upon years, I did nothing but hide from the world. I hid in the secret caverns of my poetry and stories, creating safe worlds that were familiar to me, and I never came out of my hiding to find out what truly lay beyond the veil of fantasy. I have been shut up in a prison of safety, and it has maimed me. It has turned my own self against itself, and the battle is tiresome and cruel. I hate the unwanted person that I’ve become. I give illusion to myself that I have so much to offer to the world, and to people, and more intimately, to men. But I then come to realize that I am so shut up in selfishness and safety, and I am so stunted in worldly knowledge, and I have no challenger to give me reason to grow, and I am so virgin to all the ways of true goodness and virtue that I have absolutely nothing at all to give. I am empty. The void is falling into decay as the age of uselessness consumes it. A rotten, fallen tree. Hollow, and purposeless. But then I say to myself, if only I had been but a tree! A fallen tree would’ve been much more elegant than what I’ve become. I envy the tree.
I hope with all hope that I’ll find reason, or a path, that will lead me out of this terrible fate. Instead of waiting for life to challenge me, I should rise above it and challenge life itself. But, in truth, I am a coward indeed. This speech is redundant, and still I have not changed. I have written this melancholy many a time, and I always draw the end to a “new beginning”, or a “new hope.” But the new beginning never comes, and hope becomes foolish. I am a coward. I speak of coming out of my hiding veil, but I never do. What will become of me tomorrow? All that I know, is the world inside my head. I will be blind with never the hope of seeing simply because I am too afraid to open my eyes. A fool’s way, but it is the only way I know.
If I remember how to listen to the trees again, I just might find my way to certainty and purpose. They beckon to me, wanting a better life for me. They seem to be the only ones to know why life is said to be so beautiful. Maybe, tomorrow, I will rise to the heavens with them.
Wait, wait for it. Words will come, they always do...
I was not suppose to be here, tonight. Tonight is another end to another dead day, and I grieve about where life has brought me. Melancholy is a dreadful thing to be redundant with, but an artist knows no other way. I am tormented by simple things, and strengthened by the terrible. It is a mystery, dear Reader, a mystery.
I wait for new growth. I wait for a new stature. I try to love the simple life that has been given me, but I grieve for its simplicity instead. I want suffering, and hardship, and turmoil. A fool! I know. But without challenge there is no purpose, and I feel purposeless. I feel like I have nothing to show for bravery, and strength, and virtue. I have nothing to show for wisdom, growth, and accomplishment. None have come to challenge me, but I don’t even know if I could meet up to them anyway if they were to even come at all. In all frankness, I fear the outcome. I fear the mirror of inevitable truth, the evidence that I am nothing but weak, fragile, sinful, and failing.
My good childhood has cursed me. I have been sheltered from the darknesses of the world, and I know nothing about it. I relate to no one because everyone has not been kept up in a shell like I have. Men don’t want me because I have no strength or wisdom to carry their burdens. Friends don’t want me because I have nothing to offer but desperate melancholy. Is it good to have a good life? Not if you feel spoiled by it.
I realize my fragility when I confront the reasoning to why I have been so safe. For years upon years, I did nothing but hide from the world. I hid in the secret caverns of my poetry and stories, creating safe worlds that were familiar to me, and I never came out of my hiding to find out what truly lay beyond the veil of fantasy. I have been shut up in a prison of safety, and it has maimed me. It has turned my own self against itself, and the battle is tiresome and cruel. I hate the unwanted person that I’ve become. I give illusion to myself that I have so much to offer to the world, and to people, and more intimately, to men. But I then come to realize that I am so shut up in selfishness and safety, and I am so stunted in worldly knowledge, and I have no challenger to give me reason to grow, and I am so virgin to all the ways of true goodness and virtue that I have absolutely nothing at all to give. I am empty. The void is falling into decay as the age of uselessness consumes it. A rotten, fallen tree. Hollow, and purposeless. But then I say to myself, if only I had been but a tree! A fallen tree would’ve been much more elegant than what I’ve become. I envy the tree.
I hope with all hope that I’ll find reason, or a path, that will lead me out of this terrible fate. Instead of waiting for life to challenge me, I should rise above it and challenge life itself. But, in truth, I am a coward indeed. This speech is redundant, and still I have not changed. I have written this melancholy many a time, and I always draw the end to a “new beginning”, or a “new hope.” But the new beginning never comes, and hope becomes foolish. I am a coward. I speak of coming out of my hiding veil, but I never do. What will become of me tomorrow? All that I know, is the world inside my head. I will be blind with never the hope of seeing simply because I am too afraid to open my eyes. A fool’s way, but it is the only way I know.
If I remember how to listen to the trees again, I just might find my way to certainty and purpose. They beckon to me, wanting a better life for me. They seem to be the only ones to know why life is said to be so beautiful. Maybe, tomorrow, I will rise to the heavens with them.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Wanting Pretty
I'll be the first to admit it. I will. I want a pretty husband. I don't want a pretty husband without substance or virtues, but damn it all, Folks, I want my husband to be pretty.
I don't consider myself a shallow woman. My wants for beauty in the oppostie sex do not reflect a dysfunctional value system. It bluntly reflects my need for a healthy sex life. Now, here it is, Reader, the moral hidden beneath my misleading ways: I want a man who is pretty...in my eyes.
Obvious, right? We All want that. But you know what's interesting? So many people settle for less. I'm not saying people settle for ugly people... No. I'm saying that some people would rather be in a relationship with someone they're only sort of attracted to opposed to being alone or waiting for someone they're truly attracted to.
Sex without passion is a strange phenomenon to me. I could understand that lifestyle if we were living in the 19th century when women were forced to marry their rich cousins, old, young, ugly or uglier (not to mention the creepy blood relation...), but now? Now women have the choice to marry for love, and still, STILL some settle too soon, or feel that marriage is just something you do after college, or... one of the other millions of reasons people marry people they're only half attracted to.
I guess I don't quite get it, Reader. Am I really that shallow for wanting pretty? I honestly couldn't throw myself full-heartedly at a man who, in my own eyes, turned me off by the sight of him (no matter how nice he is as a person).
Please do not misread me, Reader. You must, it is vital that you must, understand that I am ultimately speaking of true love. Loving someone infinitely turns every part of your senses on to the deepest, most passionate desires. And that is all I want. I want a pretty man to love for all the days of my life.
I don't consider myself a shallow woman. My wants for beauty in the oppostie sex do not reflect a dysfunctional value system. It bluntly reflects my need for a healthy sex life. Now, here it is, Reader, the moral hidden beneath my misleading ways: I want a man who is pretty...in my eyes.
Obvious, right? We All want that. But you know what's interesting? So many people settle for less. I'm not saying people settle for ugly people... No. I'm saying that some people would rather be in a relationship with someone they're only sort of attracted to opposed to being alone or waiting for someone they're truly attracted to.
Sex without passion is a strange phenomenon to me. I could understand that lifestyle if we were living in the 19th century when women were forced to marry their rich cousins, old, young, ugly or uglier (not to mention the creepy blood relation...), but now? Now women have the choice to marry for love, and still, STILL some settle too soon, or feel that marriage is just something you do after college, or... one of the other millions of reasons people marry people they're only half attracted to.
I guess I don't quite get it, Reader. Am I really that shallow for wanting pretty? I honestly couldn't throw myself full-heartedly at a man who, in my own eyes, turned me off by the sight of him (no matter how nice he is as a person).
Please do not misread me, Reader. You must, it is vital that you must, understand that I am ultimately speaking of true love. Loving someone infinitely turns every part of your senses on to the deepest, most passionate desires. And that is all I want. I want a pretty man to love for all the days of my life.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Piece of It: An Excerpt from Jeff Roman and the Copper Spade
...Jeff had four older sisters, two younger, and a twin. He got along with most of the them for the most part, all with the great, huge exception of one. As much as the others drove him crazy (as normal siblings do), there was one who always seemed to walk around with an ax in her hand ready for the perfect moment to chop Jeff’s dignity into a million pieces. Her eyes never softened, and her sharp mouth never ceased. Her entrance into a room could make the captain of the football team shake in his knees (and inevitably run). She was quick minded like a fox, and had the prowl of a lioness, the brains of a surgeon and the heart of a mercenary. Her name was Jenny, and she was thirteen years old.
Jenny despised Jeff thoroughly. She enjoyed verbal abuse to the degree where Jeff often thought the Universe should open up its heavens and bend its rules of nature, just for a moment, and make it perfectly ethical to hit a girl in the face. He often wanted to hit her in the face. It was an awful feeling, but anybody who knew Jenny’s relentless mouth would have no problem forgiving Jeff if he ever submitted to his urges. However, it was because of Jenny (and Jeff’s will to resist his urge in hitting her) that the Universe did decide to open up its roof of rules for Jeff and send him something that would change his life forever. Just when he thought that being a respectable gentleman would never pay off, and just when he thought that being outnumbered by women would soon send him to the loony bin, and just when he thought he couldn’t bare another one of Jenny’s relentless ax blows, a blue light had fallen from the night sky to save him...
Jenny despised Jeff thoroughly. She enjoyed verbal abuse to the degree where Jeff often thought the Universe should open up its heavens and bend its rules of nature, just for a moment, and make it perfectly ethical to hit a girl in the face. He often wanted to hit her in the face. It was an awful feeling, but anybody who knew Jenny’s relentless mouth would have no problem forgiving Jeff if he ever submitted to his urges. However, it was because of Jenny (and Jeff’s will to resist his urge in hitting her) that the Universe did decide to open up its roof of rules for Jeff and send him something that would change his life forever. Just when he thought that being a respectable gentleman would never pay off, and just when he thought that being outnumbered by women would soon send him to the loony bin, and just when he thought he couldn’t bare another one of Jenny’s relentless ax blows, a blue light had fallen from the night sky to save him...
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Storytelling and Its Secret Ingredients
The Harry Potter phenomenon prompted questions of deep yearning and greed to understand the magic behind its success. World wide, people have been asking with demanding desperate force, "How?", "Why haven't other wonderfully written stories reaped the same fate?". I ask, Is it really that mysterious? Can they really not figure it out?
My piano teacher always said, "Simplicity is beauty, simplicity that is well done." The simplicity in Rowling's writing is demonstrated by the fact that she can paint a universally viewed picture in three sentences or less. World wide, everyone shares her vision. Her ability to communicate universally is an extremely rare trait (for any human being). Not only that, but the magic behind the hero Harry lies in nothing more or less than his creator. The books have a soul. Her soul. Everything in the tale illustrates an extraoridary person of virtue, wisdom, humor, wit, cleverness, love, commitment, discipline, and passion. Most writers can, sure, string together some clever metaphores, or come up with a good one-liner, or even invent some unique, clever plot, but what most writers fail to do, where Rowling did not, is deliver a plothole-less, seamless, consistantly charming, character driven masterpiece.
Dialog is key. Never has a story come to page with such vivid, bio plotted, three dimensional characters such as Rowling's magical descendants. Each character speaks in their own manner, giving them an individuality that readers can relate to. The only other author that has ever mastered character development this profoundly (and possibly more so, in my own personal opinion) was the King of Fantasy, JRR Tolkien himself.
Good vs. Evil. Age old no doubt, but nothing is more powerful than the absolute darkness battling the absolute light. And when you churn in the love values, and friendships, and the tragedies and the triumphs, and then put it all together with characters that feel so real to you that you become completely, entirely, utterly engrossed in the destiny of their fate, you have the components of something extremely, terrifically awe-inspiring.
Humor and comic relief is an absolute necessity, no matter what story one is trying to tell. And truth be told, not all writers have this gift. In fact, a majority don't. Being quippy and abstractly silly can only take you so far. Being over the top clever, using your humor as your only compensation for your lack of story-telling talent isn't going to do the trick either. Gimmicks. Stay away from gimmicks! Rowling has an imbeded gift for laughs in her own person, and it's a natural part of a human being that can't be formulated or re-created or borrowed.
Passion. For me, this is where it gets personal. Not all writers are passionate. Just because one may be published, does not mean that one eats, drinks, and breathes their craft. There is something almost (dare I say it?) supernatural about true passion and its driving force. Some people plough through college, turn in A+ papers, have people telling them how good their writing is and that they should, "Hey! Write a book!". Some people pick up a pen during mid-life year and decide, "I should write a memoir." And then there's those of us who have been writing, in a sense, before we even knew our letters. Storytelling comes in all shapes and forms, through make-believe, playtime, acting (giving personalities to dolls and stuffed animals....). All of that is important to honing the craft of writing, of storytelling. I, myself, have known nothing else all my life other than creating, inventing, and producing stories in some shape or form. (Told you this was where it got personal...) The written form came to me young, age seven. And as I grew older, it became clear that it was my purpose. By seventh grade, I was working on my first novel. It was horrible, no doubt, but that's how serious I was. And ever since, I couldn't live without it. When I picked up Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone for the first time and read that first line, something completely unexplainable moved within me. I felt connected. I don't mean this in an arrogant way; please, please don't misread me! I am in no shape or form putting myself up to par with the great JK Rowling, but there was something there in her writing that I related to. I could sense and feel and know her passion. I knew instantly that she had a deep, personal relationship with her writing, and because of it, because of that driving force, she dedicated nearly her entire life to her pen and ink hero. She commited to the story. No plot holes, no loose ends, notebooks upon notebooks of bios, a plethera of details that never even made it into the books. But it was because of all those details, those backstories, that breathed life into the entire thing and made all of us, ALL of us believe that it all could, very possibly, just maybe, be real. That was the magic that sucked us all in to her world.
So, why haven't other well written stories made this much of a bang into our culture? Writing, itself, is easy. Being imaginative, not that unique. Having virtues such as discipline, humility, confidence, being commited, and understanding the wisdom of love, humor, and having a keen perception of human character, all play their role in story telling. There are just some things that books and colleges cannot teach you about writing. It comes from a much, much deeper place. You either got it or you don't.
My piano teacher always said, "Simplicity is beauty, simplicity that is well done." The simplicity in Rowling's writing is demonstrated by the fact that she can paint a universally viewed picture in three sentences or less. World wide, everyone shares her vision. Her ability to communicate universally is an extremely rare trait (for any human being). Not only that, but the magic behind the hero Harry lies in nothing more or less than his creator. The books have a soul. Her soul. Everything in the tale illustrates an extraoridary person of virtue, wisdom, humor, wit, cleverness, love, commitment, discipline, and passion. Most writers can, sure, string together some clever metaphores, or come up with a good one-liner, or even invent some unique, clever plot, but what most writers fail to do, where Rowling did not, is deliver a plothole-less, seamless, consistantly charming, character driven masterpiece.
Dialog is key. Never has a story come to page with such vivid, bio plotted, three dimensional characters such as Rowling's magical descendants. Each character speaks in their own manner, giving them an individuality that readers can relate to. The only other author that has ever mastered character development this profoundly (and possibly more so, in my own personal opinion) was the King of Fantasy, JRR Tolkien himself.
Good vs. Evil. Age old no doubt, but nothing is more powerful than the absolute darkness battling the absolute light. And when you churn in the love values, and friendships, and the tragedies and the triumphs, and then put it all together with characters that feel so real to you that you become completely, entirely, utterly engrossed in the destiny of their fate, you have the components of something extremely, terrifically awe-inspiring.
Humor and comic relief is an absolute necessity, no matter what story one is trying to tell. And truth be told, not all writers have this gift. In fact, a majority don't. Being quippy and abstractly silly can only take you so far. Being over the top clever, using your humor as your only compensation for your lack of story-telling talent isn't going to do the trick either. Gimmicks. Stay away from gimmicks! Rowling has an imbeded gift for laughs in her own person, and it's a natural part of a human being that can't be formulated or re-created or borrowed.
Passion. For me, this is where it gets personal. Not all writers are passionate. Just because one may be published, does not mean that one eats, drinks, and breathes their craft. There is something almost (dare I say it?) supernatural about true passion and its driving force. Some people plough through college, turn in A+ papers, have people telling them how good their writing is and that they should, "Hey! Write a book!". Some people pick up a pen during mid-life year and decide, "I should write a memoir." And then there's those of us who have been writing, in a sense, before we even knew our letters. Storytelling comes in all shapes and forms, through make-believe, playtime, acting (giving personalities to dolls and stuffed animals....). All of that is important to honing the craft of writing, of storytelling. I, myself, have known nothing else all my life other than creating, inventing, and producing stories in some shape or form. (Told you this was where it got personal...) The written form came to me young, age seven. And as I grew older, it became clear that it was my purpose. By seventh grade, I was working on my first novel. It was horrible, no doubt, but that's how serious I was. And ever since, I couldn't live without it. When I picked up Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone for the first time and read that first line, something completely unexplainable moved within me. I felt connected. I don't mean this in an arrogant way; please, please don't misread me! I am in no shape or form putting myself up to par with the great JK Rowling, but there was something there in her writing that I related to. I could sense and feel and know her passion. I knew instantly that she had a deep, personal relationship with her writing, and because of it, because of that driving force, she dedicated nearly her entire life to her pen and ink hero. She commited to the story. No plot holes, no loose ends, notebooks upon notebooks of bios, a plethera of details that never even made it into the books. But it was because of all those details, those backstories, that breathed life into the entire thing and made all of us, ALL of us believe that it all could, very possibly, just maybe, be real. That was the magic that sucked us all in to her world.
So, why haven't other well written stories made this much of a bang into our culture? Writing, itself, is easy. Being imaginative, not that unique. Having virtues such as discipline, humility, confidence, being commited, and understanding the wisdom of love, humor, and having a keen perception of human character, all play their role in story telling. There are just some things that books and colleges cannot teach you about writing. It comes from a much, much deeper place. You either got it or you don't.
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