Mountaintop Architecture

2011-03-05T10:24:00.002-05:00

What is the folly of youth?

There comes a stage in a young person’s life where he becomes convinced that he knows and understands everything. Life appears in black and white as concepts like morality, right versus wrong, are very clear. It is easy to cast judgment upon others while oozing a sort of smug superiority. Some never venture beyond this surety (clinging to the warmth and comfort) to consider a broader perspective. Others start to loosen their grasp. When they do, humanity and all of its unifying energy may then filter in through their fingers.

More, give me more, give me more

Day one, impossibly condensed

A tiny ellipse, ripe with matter

The center of all, and all at the center

Creamy yolk of sweet egg, ready to birth

On day two, expansion to white
Milky, opaque, binding

Day three, a shell forms

Theobroma cacao lends meat

From deep jungles where pyramids connect ancient man to the stars

So does this tree bind us to the beginning of time

And the fourth day quivers and shakes and ejaculates into chaos

More, there is more, there is more

Zooming outward, visions blur

A chocolate mountain spews white and golden lava

Ancient crustaceans behead chickens with eggs in utero

Armadillos with little armored hearts wrung in the exquisite agony of love

Dark and light marble as stars trade places

Idols wrapped in colored foil accept consciousness as sacrifice

And zombies starve

As it was the light, not the flesh that sated their hunger

More, what is more, what is more

From the periphery through a wide-angle lens, perfect order dissolves

bluegreen bruises and browns

Lights extinguish and relinquish their pull

Arcs turn to tangents and earthly residents are catapulted abroad

Into the freedom of the vacuum, where crusts crack and expose nectarous centers

Sight is restored to those wanting more, just before…

No more, no more, no more

Shakespearean sonnets: Creme egg style

2010-01-24T13:34:00.003-05:00

It would seem that all I ever post about anymore is the delightful creme egg. One of these days Cadbury will send me that gift basket I've been dreaming about. Until then:

Sonnet #1 - "Dust"

In a world plagued with fear, malice and discontent,
Suffering may seem the dominant state,
As the condition in which a body’s life is spent.
Nothing more than a shell sealing its fate,
Nor fighting against loneliness as its mate,
Human carcasses bound in the illusion,
That this moment is naught but confusion.

The only escape from the shackles of time,
The only way out from what clouds our vision,
Is to see each experience in itself as divine,
To feel joy in the now must be one’s decision,
To see art in mundane, random chance, collision,
Each animal and plant living on the earth’s crust,
Comes from one source, the exact same dust.

As we all are connected to ev’ry grain of sand,
Ev’ry bird, ev’ry fish, and on ev’ry planet each swell,
And to this choc’late egg in the palm of my hand,
Its composition the same as my body’s smallest cell,
No telling ‘tween us at the atomic level,
A cosmos within its sweet choc’late case,
As vast as existence, unknown as deep space,

To souls on a world in that crème dulcet ellipse,
My mouth gaped as dark as a black hole,
Treach’rous as our blue planet’s deepest oceans’ abyss,
The end inevitable and quite out of their control,
The hand of time stopp’d to collect its ultimate toll,
At that moment the taste, the sheer joy stopped my breath,
Now became forever and cut into the dance of death.

My body contained the egg, which in turn contained a universe,
In each universe countless eggs hatched and eaten,
Everything the exact same dust, not a thing better or worse,
Each instant a choice to despair or to sweeten,
Perspective joins all as one, our demise therefore beaten,
This revelation is the circular nature of life explained,
Manifested as an egg in my mouth, enlightenment attained.

The Republicans are rebranding - They're more out of touch than I realized.

2009-05-05T00:12:00.004-04:00

Oh my goodness. Having come from corporate America, I am all too familiar with the term "rebranding." It's a term that is thrown around when a company decides to refresh its image, all in the hopes of tricking more consumers into buying something they clearly didn't need (or they would already be buying it, right?).

I have a background in marketing. I studied it at the undergraduate level and also earned my MBA. After this, I found myself disgusted with, well, myself...and what I was doing. I've since realized that marketing is a career that I can no longer bring myself to pursue.

That said - yes, I fall very far onto the left side of the political spectrum. I am proud to say I make my political decisions (and place my votes) on principles and duties in favor of emotions and selfishness. I try very hard to see through the political banter (yes, from both sides) to see the truth so that I can make what I consider to be the right decision.

This is why I am so disappointed that the republican party is rebranding itself. How appropriate that during a time where we are seeing an economic upheaval, the party that cherishes sameness is latching onto the very system that has failed us: corporate America. Who wants to bet they hired tons of private sector consultants to help with their rebranding? And to do what exactly? Instead of re-examining the ideals of the party in order to ensure that the party still represents America (and not just some elite group of fat-cats), they've just decided to re-vamp their image? If only the problem were simply the surface.

A party that no longer holds the trust of the voting public has bigger problems than its image. A party that has its voting base in the ignorant and closed-minded has bigger problems than branding. A party that bases its persuasion tactics on the same shameless tactics used to coerce people into killing one another - fear, threats, promises of fruits in the afterlife - rather than telling the voters the truth...that is a party with a problem....And this problem is one that rebranding can't solve.

Rebranding is a band-aid. The republican party should show not only the voters, but also itself the respect of actually fixing the root of its problems. It is out of touch. It does not represent all of America - only an elite set interested in pushing their judgements onto others instead of living and letting live.

Rather than rebranding - I suggest the republican party consider creating a product that people actually want to buy instead.

The Talk - What is the big deal?

2009-04-09T16:34:00.002-04:00

I'm just going to lay it all out here. I'm so tired of people acting like we can't be honest with our kids. I don't have children and I haven't given the talk personally (unless you count the knowledge I passed on when I was 7), but I think we're building sex up to be some big evil act when we can't even talk openly about it.

Here's my story:

I was 7 years old. I had a 1 year old little sister, and I was starting to put things together in my mind. Mom had her in her belly for a while, then she came out. What made the baby grow in the first place? How did it all happen? What if I had a baby someday?

With no big plan in mind, I went to my Dad (who happened to be nearest at the moment) and said, "Where did my sister come from?"

Without hesitation, he sat down and started talking. He started by telling me about the seed and the egg. I asked him how the seed got into mommy, "Does she eat it?"

He then explained about the penis going into the vagina. Being a little girl, I had no idea that the vagina could open up so big. I asked him, "Doesn't that hurt?" He said, "Actually, it feels really good."

Now, I had been masturbating (without knowing what it was) for years. I'm sure my parents had probably seen me at it (again, I had NO idea what I was doing - or that there might be something wrong with it). He said, "You know when you touch your vagina and it feels kind of good?" I replied in the affirmative. "It feels like that...but even better."

There was a little more logistical talk after that, but was about it. I felt totally satisfied with the answers I had received. I didn't feel bad about myself. I went on with life.

What is it that is in other parents' heads that makes this so hard for them? While I was watching Oprah today, the audience gasped at the idea of encouraging girls to masturbate. What the fuck? I've always been incredibly responsible about sex. I've never had an STD. I've never been pregnant. I don't have any regrets about my sexual history. Anything I've done with a boy, I've done because I wanted to. I am totally comfortable with my body and my sexuality. I have to wonder how many girls can honestly say all of that.

I just don't get what the big deal is. Why can't we admit to young people that sex feels good? Why on earth wouldn't we empower young girls to pleasure themselves? All I know is that I've been empowered since I was a VERY young girl (think pre-school) and I couldn't be happier about it!

A Midwinter Night's Dream

2009-02-17T08:11:00.001-05:00

Last night, a vision came to me
Of choc’late sweet confection’ry,
Of swirling colors, purple, red,
Golden yellow, splash’d through my head.

Through fields of green t’were rabbits hopping,
Candies from their bottoms plopping,
Clucking from their mouths did come,
To beats played on a bongo drum.

Though not a rabbit-hole in sight,
Nor any of the rabbits white,
Still, I felt compelled to follow,
Perhaps to treasure hid in hollow.

I tiptoed quietly so’s not to scare,
The timid, frightful little hare,
To a clearing in forest deep,
At bottom of an incline steep.

My mouth dropped open, what a sight,
Oh joy within my soul ignite!
Better than the fabled youth’s fountain,
I’d been lead to a chocolate mountain.

Inhibition nowhere found,
Into the clearing I did bound,
My naked body poised and ready,
The thought alone had got me heady.

My arms tossed back as if to fly,
I jumped and arched into the sky,
And as my flight began descent,
Into the mound, by body went.

At the pivotal point I gaped,
My mouth wide open, no drop escaped,
Of chocolate filled with heaven’s milk,
Flavour divine and texture silk.

I woke, the taste still on my tongue,
And joyful noise, issued from my lung,
From winter’s prison, finally sprung,
Eggs to delight both old and young.

Now get out there and eat those creme eggs! Happy Chocolate!

Bad Porn

2008-12-10T09:31:00.002-05:00

I suppose I'm probably years late on this observation, but I must point out that I am not an avid porn watcher. As a general rule, I've always found it kind of disturbing. Now, more than ever though, I'm concerned that the porn industry is taking things way too far, and moral and ethical lines have not only been crossed, but trampled and then shat upon.

I suppose I should start by pointing out that some people probably do watch porn for "wholesome" reasons. They just want something to jerk off to, or to spice up the old love life. Overall, I'm cool with that. I have started to notice a difference though between how men and women view porn.

Men are clearly the primary audience for traditional porn. Men want to watch a clean shaven (or waxed) woman with giant fake boobs getting nailed by a dude with a 12 inch penis. As far as I can tell, most women do not prefer this type of film. Women, generally will read a little Danielle Steele (or Laurel K. Hamilton and her vampire sluts), or at most, watch some soft core porn. The difference, as far as I can tell, is that in either case, the woman is not completely dominated or violently railed in these softer versions. These types of sexual media are also more along the lines of what a woman would like to see in her love life.

What I find disturbing is that men seem to want a woman to be completely submissive, non-opinionated, and apparently made of rubber in the sack. Even more disturbing is the huge amount of porn where men are not only violent towards their "lovers," they actually beat them, spit on them, and verbally abuse them throughout the act. There are countless videos on the internet with titles like, "I rape my 18 year old daughter's best friend in her sleep," or, "Old dude gets 16 year old drunk and she doesn't know what hit her." I'm disturbed by the fact that this porn exists (often in the amateur variety), but also by the fact that someone gets off on it.

Can someone please explain to me how this has happened? How is our society - supposedly enlightened - still producing this filth? I'm ashamed to live in a world where some females are still desperate enough to sell themselves on street corners. I'm saddened by the fact that some women will allow themselves to be beaten, humiliated and then filmed in the act. More so though, I am devastated that there are buyers for this crap. Who are these sick fucks?

And what happened to all of the knights in shining armor?

Is anyone else tired of Scarlett Johannson?

2008-05-11T12:44:00.000-04:00

Scarlett Johansson is undoubtedly a physically beautiful woman. I've always been somewhat aware of the effect that female beauty can have on men. For some reason, intelligent, rational men, become totally incapable of unbiased thought in the presence of such beauty. In everyday conversation, this is not a major issue (well, unless a beautiful woman desires intelligent conversation with a man...but let's not be silly). When a journalist is tasked with conducting an interview that he will then attempt to translate into an article for the public consumption though, one would hope that said journalist would set out to maintain as much clarity and emotional detachment as possible. It is therefore very surprising to see the "My Five Dads" article written by Jason Killingsworth in issue number 43 of Paste magazine.

Rather than maintain the journalistic integrity that is the duty of a magazine writer, Killingsworth has taken the approach that he is Ms. Jo's publicist and he is promoting anything and everything that she produces. He exorbitantly details her every breath, movement and word as he catalogs her accomplishments (which, as far as I can tell, include acting, being pretty, and over-indulging her own whims). He sets up a ridiculous premise that she is influenced by these five men, who, she admits, she doesn't really know very well - or at all ("'It wasn't like Bill and I had so much in common that we could have this great personal relationship,'...the actors' personal relationship didn't stretch far beyond the word 'cut.'"). He has also, conveniently, neglected to comment on the quality of her album of Tom Waits covers altogether. Probably because it sucks. I can only assume that Killingsworth has written this article with hopes that ScarJo will read it and, as a result, want to sleep with him.

Perhaps this was meant as a social experiment of some sort. Perhaps Killingsworth has some sort of monetary stake in the album? Perhaps Paste has become one of those mindless publications that blindly kisses the ass of any celebrity it features. Perhaps this is application of reverse psychology. If so, it's working on me. After reading an article filled with this sort of gushing, unconditional and shameless praise, my overwhelming gut response is to ask, "Who the hell does Scarlett Jo think she is?"

I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt and I checked out snippets of her songs on itunes (only "Falling Down" is available at the moment, but I'm eagerly awaiting the full album release). Are we so blinded by her celebrity that we don't notice the glaring reality? I feel like the little boy in The Emperor's New Clothes. Please, come on a little journey with me:

Once upon a time, in a faraway land (let's call it "Hollywood"), there lived a princess named Scarlett. All of the people loved princess Scarlett because she was so beautiful. One day Scarlett noticed that some of the other princes and princesses were making CDs in studios and selling them to the commoners. She thought to herself, "Oh, how wonderful it would be if I could sing some songs and have people give me their money!" Then, one magical day, a wizard (he called himself a "producer") visited princess Scarlett and told her that she could do just that.

When the album was done, she built it up for weeks and weeks, telling everyone how wonderful it would be. Finally, the commoners were allowed to listen to the CD. They all gathered for the great unveiling. When the album was played, the dull, flat sounds of Princess Scarlett's voice filled the square. The people all wondered if they were the only ones who didn't like what they heard. Instead of voicing this though, they all pretended that what they heard was wonderful and applauded the princess wildly.

Then, one small child spoke up, "But Tom Waits already sang all of these songs - and Scarlett sounds terrible!"

The audience was shocked, but slowly they realized that the little boy was right. The started to laugh and laugh, but Scarlett took no notice.

The child piped in again, "Oh, and Scarlett has nothing on!" - but wait, maybe that's the problem...

My Abusive Lover

2008-03-05T15:27:00.005-05:00

As is the custom during most infatuations, each moment we had together was perfect. My lover had not one single flaw. I would finger each delicate detail of his smooth form in complete adoration. As my teeth playfully nibbled away at him, he would eventually open his mouth to mine so my tongue could probe within. I thought I had found heaven. I spent nearly every conscious moment daydreaming about how wonderful it would be once we were together again. We had an unusually long courtship. Looking back, it lasted for the better part of 26 years.

I never questioned that he was only around for 3 months out of an entire year. Those three months, filled with a lustful gluttony in which we were completely consumed with one another, more than made up for his long sabbaticals. Besides, the absence only made my heart yearn for him all the more.

It was in the 26th year, that I started to notice a change. He was there, but not in the same capacity. It seemed as if his intensity was shrinking. Was it that his desire for me was waning?

Other alarming behavior soon followed. He started making large, impulsive purchases without even mentioning them to me. The last straw was when I caught him dressing up in disguises and running around in the time during which he claimed to be “so busy” with other stuff.

I must confess that even during this strange experimentation, I embraced him and took advantage of the increased opportunity to be near him…to have him inside me.

I know that it’s wrong. I know that I shouldn’t accept this type of treatment, but I can’t stop. I’m addicted.

Breast Cancer 3-day

2008-02-29T16:25:00.002-05:00

As anyone who reads my blog on the regular knows, I am not above shameless plugging. The following confirms that.

I am participating in the Breast Cancer 3-day walk. I am working on raising some significant money for the Susan G. Komen for the Cure and National Philanthropic Trust, funding important breast cancer research, education, screening, and treatment. If you would like to make a donation in support of these very worthy causes, please follow this link:

My personal Page

Thank you so much for your help.

Screw John Galt

2008-02-12T16:00:00.001-05:00

I know, I know…he invented the most efficient engine or motor (or whatever) in the whole history of motors. Amazing. I guess I should be clamoring to figure out who the hell he is and how I can have his babies.

You know what though? I think I’ve worked for people who idolize John Galt. I think I live in a country that has completely distorted the ideals that John Galt stands for. And you know what he’s come to stand for in today’s workplace? Backs are stabbed in the name of John Galt. Families are ruined. Integrity is sacrificed. Rather than understand that John Galt represents a system that values good work over everything else, people have come to cite his legacy as one that excuses cruelty and promotes politics.

And perhaps I should give credit where credit is due. Ayn Rand wrote a beautiful and exciting story about a man who had so much integrity that he would sacrifice his own life in this world in order to maintain the purity of his perfect invention. This is a person who does not compromise his ideals. He will not play politics. He believes that a job well done stands on its own and does not require any social approval. He believes that any person who requires coddling in order to accept a new idea (assuming it is a brilliant idea such as John Galt’s) is a weaker, lesser being and should not be catered to.

These are attractive ideas on many levels. They simplify economics to the point where the theory is without variables and the equations work without fail to prove her point. Without interference, she argues, the market would run perfectly and we would all prosper. Government intervention is evil. Personal relationships have no place in business interaction and agreement.

We see, in John Galt’s utopia, that when an entire society enters into this social contract, perfect harmony ensues.

The question that naturally arises is, “Why do we not live in this type of society when we know it is available to us?”

I’d like to introduce a second economic principle also generally accepted by economists that contradicts Ayn Rand’s assertion that this utopia is possible. The Prisoner’s Dilemma (aka “Game Theory) shows us that given the chance, a person will maximize his own individual welfare even to the detriment of the greater good. In the case where all parties in a system must cooperate in order for the whole to benefit to the fullest extent, most often one person can betray the others to further his own position. He will gain more than everyone else if they choose to cooperate while he does not. Ayn Rand’s utopia assumes that people will see reason and cooperate. Most reasonable people can agree that trust does not run rampant in today’s marketplace, particularly not after companies like Enron are exposed.

Rand does not stop here. In her Theory of Art, she attempts to author her own definition of art:

“Art, according to Objectivism, serves a human cognitive need: it allows human beings to grasp concepts as though they were percepts.” (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Objectivism_(Ayn_Rand))

In addition to the infeasibility of her utopia, Rand has essentially stated that art must have some discernable purpose. Without this purpose, art should not be government commissioned or sponsored. As we already know, human beings can be short-sighted. Genius is often misunderstood. In this vein, an artist may be exploring some new idea that is not easily comprehended. In this case, should it not be considered art? In its most basic nature, art is something that cannot readily be defined. And certainly according to this definition, music has no real purpose whatsoever.

Rand’s theories are often misinterpreted to support a profit-driven, ruthless marketplace. Even at their essence, they neglect the things that make life beautiful. I must admit that I see ideas and theories in Rand’s work that I fully endorse, but none of these ideas should be taken as absolutes. Her utopia could only come to be in a world where one’s own emotion is regularly ignored and art is quantified. This is a world where everything that makes one human ceases to exist.

So, screw John Galt.

Finance My Whims

2008-02-07T13:19:00.000-05:00

Have you ever felt like you were destined for greatness?

I have. For my entire life I’ve felt like if I only had the time to pursue my interests, I’d ultimately produce some form of greatness. Unfortunately, what with school, then work, then school, now work again, my time is totally taken by responsibilities such as “paying the bills,” and “being a contributing member of society.”

Now I’m not saying that these are wasted pursuits. Lots of people go to a 9-5 job every day of their adult lives and are completely fulfilled by that. I’m certainly not claiming that I’m above anyone, but each person has different strengths. Mine lay outside the realm of the 9 to 5.

My proposition is simple. I want to be freed from the constraints of my current job. I want the financial burdens I presently carry to be lifted. I want to know what it is to truly be free. To wake in the morning and know that there is absolutely nothing that I MUST do.

In this condition, I will instead be able to do what it is that I SHOULD do. As a leaf floats on the surface of a pond, flowing with the water towards her ultimate destination; as a snowflake is swept by the wind to land on a woman’s nose; I will be that leaf. I will be the snowflake. And in my unfettered state, I will be free to pursue my ultimate goal: greatness.

I do not know what form this will take. I do not know at what moment it will occur. I do, however, understand that without the chance to be this free, I can never fulfill my final purpose.
What can you do? Put simply: I need someone who will – with no strings attached – finance my whims.

What do you get in return? You get the knowledge that you are freeing a woman who has a strong will to do positive things for this world. You are giving a woman the resources to pursue her ideas. You are, in short, investing in the betterment of humanity.

What Matters Most?

2007-10-08T16:00:00.000-04:00

When I want to tell people what I believe without getting into it, I just tell them I'm an atheist. When I want to get more in depth I explain that there may or may not be something out there (probably there is), but it's something that I can't possibly understand so I don't attempt to please it or assume that it has any involvement in my life. Whether or not there is some higher power, I would live my life in the exact same way that I do now.

I find that most religious systems distract people with promises of the afterlife and attempt to bribe them with said promises. I'm more concerned with the way I live my life and the effects it will have on those around me in the here and now. I try to have a positive impact in a way where I can be at peace with myself and my environment. I suppose I'm more Buddhist than anything, but really, I'm just what I am. I'm less concerned with faith, and more concerned with truth. I could care less if my beliefs have a name or if other people choose to believe the same thing. I expect other people to have their own beliefs and I can respect that our spiritual needs are all different (as we are all different people).

One thing I can't take though, are the people who go through the prescribed motions, "Just in case." If you don't believe, then you don't believe, but I'm pretty sure you're not going to trick god, or whoever just by going to church on occasion. This is the highest form of hypocrisy.

As soon as you trust yourself, you will know how to live

2007-05-03T20:48:00.000-04:00

(Above Title is a quote by Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe)

I once knew a man who had all of the potential in the world. He was brilliant. He was focused. He was talented, charismatic, beautiful. He wanted to be a savior to everyone. I had never met anyone like him in my whole life. Nor had I ever met anyone so conflicted.

In the midst of his brilliance and ability to inspire, he hated himself. Perhaps not his entire self, but pieces. Essential pieces. Dare I say, God given pieces. It pained me to watch him torment himself with ideas about what he should be. Ideas based on other people's doctrines. Doctrines that no one - no human - had ever lived completely.

He held himself to an impossible standard. On some level I speculated that he thought it was romantic. The idea that he would aspire to something that seemed impossible, and in achieving it, it would be the most romantic thing he'd ever done. It was a painfully beautiful idea. One to which I could relate. Beating the odds, whether it be through winning the lottery or finding love with an unexpected partner, is always romantic.

The internal conflict was heartbreaking to watch. I knew I could do almost nothing. I had never felt that conflict between what my instincts and heart urged versus my chosen social contract. My beliefs had always been my own. I was very lucky that way. This beautiful man, who hated parts of himself, was so influenced by a man-made ideal that he fought the instincts that God had given to him.

He was one of the most devout believers that I had ever known, so it was shocking to me to see that the very place which was meant to be his refuge, caused him the most guilt and torment. The place which was supposed to bring peace, brought turmoil and judgment - not upon others - upon himself.

I wanted so badly to save him. I wanted so badly to save everyone who had ever struggled with this sort of thing. But the part that broke my heart more than anything was knowing that I couldn't do anything to guide these well-intentioned souls. These beautiful people, fighting to do the "right" thing and in essence, creating their own hell through their righteous intentions. (Perhaps that's what the old saying really meant?) Ultimately, I had to accept that I could not save anyone who fought with himself. Because this man constantly battled himself, he would never trust himself to do the right thing...to know how to live.

Lucky

2007-04-22T15:20:00.000-04:00

Her friends had always said she was lucky.

"Things always seem to fall into place for you."

"That's not luck," she would explain.

Imagine a can sitting on a fence post, centered perfectly. Completely balanced. As long as nothing comes along to disrupt its peace, it will remain at rest with gravity as its anchor. But what if a curious animal takes interest? What if a child and his father decide to practice their shooting? What if the wind blows? Only random chance or dumb luck would allow the can to find its home in the bucket, placed next to the fence, meant to catch it.

If the wind blows in the wrong direction, or the bullet is shot from the wrong angle, or the squirrel's tail swishes back instead of forth - what happens to the can? Gravity becomes enemy instead of friend and pulls the can towards the earth. The bucket remains empty. One in ten times the can hits its mark. Luck.

Now imagine the can sits off center. It is still balanced, but part of the base hangs off of the post. Underneath the overhanging edge waits the bucket. Again, without disruption, the can will rest atop the post, but this time when one of the outside forces begins its meddling there is a change. The can, due to its careful placement, now hits its target nine out of ten times - or perhaps does not fall at all. In these special cases the disruption - the unexpected variable - actually serves to further center our imperfectly, but purposefully placed can. This doesn't much seem like luck.

"Things always seem to fall into place for you."

"That's not luck. I just made sure to set things up so that they'd fall into the right direction."

When one understands the forces at play, it is easier to ensure one's own fate. Gravity, perfectly consistent and faithful friend, can be used to control an outcome that would otherwise rely entirely on flighty and haphazard luck - who should not be counted on for anything.

Open Letter to Cell Phone Companies

2007-02-05T18:38:00.000-05:00

To Whom it May Concern:

Cell phones are great. I'm virtually attached to mine. I love all of the bells and whistles. My phone has a camera, it plays songs (Rock Lobster is the best ring-tone ever), it serves as my alarm clock, my calendar, my lover and my friend.

I have but one complaint. There is only one thing that would make cell phones even more spectacular. Before I buy a cell phone that plays mp3s or wipes my ass for me - I just want one, simple improvement. Can we please do something about the screen that displays who's calling and other graphic information, but unfortunately also prominently showcases my ear-goop?

And may I ask: Does anyone else seem to be slowly wearing away, layer by layer, from their ears? I lose so much ear-goop on a daily basis that I truly cannot comprehend how I still have ears affixed to my head. I'm also appalled by the idea that my preferred method of cleaning said ear-goop from the screen is to wipe vigorously and in a circular motion onto my pant leg. It's disgusting. I'm disgusting. Most others seem to be equally disgusting (as I observe the same pant-rubbing behavior on a very regular basis).

Rather than address my cleanliness (or lack thereof), I would prefer that the cell phone companies invent a screen that does not reveal my ear-goop so blatantly. It can't be that hard. A new texture of plastic (perhaps not quite so reflective) should do it. This would be far better than me having to face my own bodily output on an hourly basis.

I appreciate your consideration of this grave matter. Blissful ignorance on how much nastiness I produce is much better I'm quite sure.

Thank you very sincerely,
Kara

So Good

2007-01-25T18:42:00.000-05:00

I love Cadbury's Creme Eggs. I love writing poems about them almost as much. Enjoy:

Oh sweet safe haven of chocolate and creme
Oh perfectly proportioned, perpetual courier of pleasure
'Tis only mid-January!
'Tis too early to tempt me!

Twinkling foil catches my unsuspecting - my ill-prepared - eye
To turn away - impossible
To resist - ridiculous
The simple thought of Vibrant, Viscous
Smooth, Sensual
Milky, Melting
...Tempting my tongue

Can't, won't, shouldn't deny what joy can only be had from now until that fateful Sunday.

(Thank you)

Don't Love be Because I'm Beautiful

2006-12-27T13:43:00.000-05:00

It had been a shock – the first time she realized that she too, might be beautiful.

She had spent her entire life, up until that point, in a blissful cloud of ignorance. She may never have realized if someone hadn’t informed her. She continued to wonder whether or not it had really been a favor.

She had been about 12 years old. It was the middle of summer and she was at a lake with two girlfriends. As is the custom at this age, her friends started a flirtation with two boys swimming nearby. After some giggling and hushed conversation, the two girlfriends sent her over to the boys with some instructions.

“My friends would like to know if you like them.” The question was bluntly worded and delivered with unwavering eye contact. The boys seemed relatively indifferent, but responded that they might.

She brought the message back to her friends. More giggling. More hushed conversation. Finally, the next course of action was determined.

Another trek through the 5 yards separating the two groups and she confronted the boys again. “My friends want to know if you think they’re pretty.” Again, relative indifference and some exchanged glances prefaced the response, “Yeah, sure.”

The stakes had been raised. The girls’ instinct to compete kicked in. “Ask them which one of us they think is prettier.”

With a cautious approach, she conveyed the question. Her concern was for the friend who would end up the loser.

She hadn’t even considered a third option.

“We think you’re beautiful.”

“What?” Her response was not vanity, rather, complete disbelief.

“We think you’re beautiful. More than your friends.”

She instantly felt a wave of shock, guilt, confusion and worst – euphoria. A grin replaced her gaping mouth. It was her first taste of a drug that would consume the rest of her life. Before, she had been a girl: confident that her friends loved her because of who she was. Now, she was never again to possess this sort of certainty.

It would be years before she took another hit, but later in life, she blossomed beyond her own ability to comprehend. In some cases, she would literally be stopped by strangers who wished to commend her appearance. She would be told she was completely irresistible. Even women – heterosexual women – would approach her with this admiration.

She would never regain the innocence she had once had. Even as the compliments continued to flow, all she could wish was that she had never taken that first drag. That first, delicious drag.

An Idea

2006-11-24T13:21:00.000-05:00

There are two types of men who might kill you. The ones who mean to do it and the ones who do it - almost by mistake - in a fit of some emotion. The first man will look you in the eye with a self righteous stare and tell you he's innocent. The second man will tell you his story and search your soul for his redemption.

If I should meet my fate in some violent and untimely manner, I sincerely hope my executioner is the second man. In a world where justice is no guarantee, I take comfort in the fact that the punishment he will exact upon himself is far worse than any consequence the first man could ever face.

Thoughts on Committment

2006-11-06T07:07:00.000-05:00

I recently got my second tattoo. I waited the "obligatory" three years that I felt it would take to adequately reduce the possibility that I was getting the tattoo simply because I was addicted to the sensation (Which - for the record - I am). I the came up with a design I loved and got it permanently inked onto my back.

As I've shown it off to friends people are very positive about it. "How did I come up with the design?" is a common question. Most people want to know because they are hesitant to committ to something that will someday lose it's meaning for them. They want something that will last - something that will always be significant.

That was when one friend said something unsettling:

"I'm just going to wait until they come up with an ink that can be removed without scarring and then I'll get my tattoo."

What?? Is it wrong that I'm slightly offended by the notion that one would only get a tattoo if they're assured that there is an out? This misses the point of tattooing altogether. I have to say, it almost cheapens what I'll call "legitimate" tattooing because removable tattoos will look just like the traditional type. This is the same sort of thing as signing a pre-nup before getting married. Like marriage, if a tattoo is something that a person only committs to knowing that it is something permanent (pending disaster), then it will be taken more seriously.

This got me thinking even more. Now that divorce is so commonplace and socially acceptable do people think less before they committ to marriage. Economically speaking, the negative incentive to divorce has been somewhat removed. There is less of a bad consequence to those who jumped into marriage without thinking it through. The answer to the question, "What if he's the wrong guy?" has turned from, "You find a way to make it work." to "There's always divorce!"

Have we created a self-perpetuating cycle by allowing divorce so freely?

Now, this is not a black and white world. I realize that there are exceptions. Some marriages must be dissolved. Some tattoos must be modified (who knew that tweety bird was going to lose his "cool" factor?). On a whole though, the care and thought that goes into a tattoo are a significant part of the process. You wouldn't marry someone you met yesterday simply because you have the option to divorce and you wouldn't tattoo on a whim simply because it's now easy to remove. (would you?)

My question is this: Is the guy who would only get a removable tattoo also more likely divorce? If so, if you can't tell the difference between a real tattoo and a removable one then how do you know which guys to avoid?

P&M Ladies - P&M

2006-10-11T18:20:00.000-04:00

I believe in equal rights for women. I also believe in equal responsibility. This means that if men have to sign up for a draft, women should too. Women get to vote, women are protected in the workplace, women can live our lives completely independently should we so choose and we need to take the bad with the good. Something though is holding us back. Something unexpected is keeping women from being on completely equal footing with men. It's not what you think. It's not that we're weaker or needier. It's that we don't admit to two of our most important (and, let's face it, enjoyable) bodily functions.

Boys - you heard it here first: I POOP, I MASTURBATE AND I'M DAMN PROUD OF IT.

I know far too many men who do not want to think that women shit. They want to think that every odor and product of the female body is as beautiful as the body from which it issues. Not true! Men, when I take a dump, it smells like shit. It IS shit. That's how it works. Our bodies wouldn't be nearly as beautiful if we didn't excrete that shit. Honestly...women not shitting...that's as ridiculous as women not breathing or eating (...ok, don't get me started).

On the flip side, I know FAR too many women who either won't admit to or just flat out DON'T masturbate. This is a travesty. I don't depend on men for my income, my protection or my happiness and I CERTAINLY don't want to count on them for my orgasms! Not to say that men aren't capable of providing these things, but for the time being, I want to know that the one girl who's always been here for me will do the job...and she does.

Personally, I think that most women would be much more secure in themselves and their position in the world if they'd just be proud to do these two things. Men would also have a much more realistic picture of what a woman is (A HUMAN BEING) if they'd just accept that our bodily function is just as gross (or pleasurable) as theirs.

We masturbate and we shit - and we won't quit!

(I'd apologize to my mom for writing this, but I'm pretty sure she shits and masturbates too.)

Screw What I Learned in Kindergarten

2006-10-01T23:15:00.000-04:00

Today I learned that people want to see me cry.
I learned that people don't believe that you're human until you prove it through suffering.

A month ago I learned that to survive in this world, you have to play games.
Being honest, candid, upfront, sincere - these things will only be twisted into weapons.

When I was in kindergarten I learned about sharing and coloring. I learned how to eat pudding from a little paper cup. I learned how to get the best carpet square for sing-alongs.

Last night I learned that you can't always count on a friend.

Dirty Microphone

2006-09-17T23:18:00.000-04:00

I know what it feels like to sing my guts out. I know what it feels like to leave a piece of myself on that microphone. My actual intestines left hanging on the black wire...to be picked up and swept away by the cleaning crew.

So impassioned - so raw. The bubbling and gurgling that led to absolute fury. The fury that led to the most beautiful creation of her life. Someone asked her what had happened. What had made her sing that way? She had always sounded good, but something new was happening.

She smiled. She realized that she now understood what it was to sing what she was feeling and force the audience to feel it with her. She felt anguish. She felt loss. She felt rage.

She left her guts on the mike...and it felt so good.

Not Sure if this is Ironic

2006-08-28T17:53:00.000-04:00

When it comes to our environment
It is the liberals
Who are most conservative

Found a Job

2006-08-10T10:55:00.000-04:00

Since everyone was clearly hanging on the edge of their seats, I wanted to (finally) ease the tension.

I have a job! After months of interviewing and horn-tooting and hand shaking and pantyhose wearing I have been offered the job I want. I'm thrilled to be the Marketing person for a construction company that has recently opened its first office in Atlanta. The office is running a lot like a start-up, so it's perfect for me. I'll get to write, design and learn all kinds of new things. The whole thing starts out with a trip to St. Louis to meet the team.

Yeah, I'm excited. OK, I'm also a little bit nervous. I have a good feeling about this though.

Oh, and no, I don't have to wear pantyhose...thank god (or whatever).

Do I Smell [the] Roses?

2006-07-15T10:42:00.000-04:00

Like the clock's pendulum
I swing back
and forth
between
too much time - take my time - all the time in the world
and
life is short, and then...

Wanted

2006-07-11T18:06:00.000-04:00

I'm a recent MBA graduate. Now, I could do the "traditional" thing and go for a fancy corporate gig. I could work my brains out (in a fairly inefficient way that does not fully utilize my talents). I could wear suits every day and chuckle with the guys around the water cooler (do they still do that?). Honestly, I'd probably be good at it! I'm smart, skilled, quick-witted and charming. I just can't help but think that this isn't the ideal path though.

I've decided the best thing for me to do is to instead seek a sponsor.

Now I don't mean that I want a sugar daddy. I certainly have no interest in trading sexual favors for a weekly allowance. My promise is a much bigger one.

I promise to produce greatness. Can I tell you how? Can I specify the form? Can I even point to the path? Well...no. But isn't that just how greatness happens? I have all of the necessary tools: Drive, ambition, intelligence, charisma and a desire to make a mark on the world. I'm seeking the famous and all too elusive truth.

That said, I want a person who already has abundant financial resources. A person who will not miss the investment I require at all. A person who's not afraid to take a risk (and a rather small one at that)! The return: I'm going to improve the state of the world. Granted, this improvement may not take place overnight. We probably won't be able to measure it in any exact way. We probably will not witness the hurricane that results from my wing flapping in our lifetimes. We will simply have to be content with the fact that we have not accepted the world as it is. We have instead embraced the idea that one person can make a difference. She just has to try.

So, given my guarantee (that can not be traced, measured or proven - a little faith is necessary here), it seems like the return will far outweigh any montary investment. Please note, this IS an investment - not a donation. My sponsor will get something back. Something awesome (in the originally intended definition of the word).

Me: A very determined and capable woman who wants to put in the effort
You: The means to make it happen

What a deal!

I'm currently accepting applications.

William's Promise

2006-07-05T02:07:00.000-04:00

Nothing had ever made her happier, more content, than the feeling of being in his arms. Nothing had ever fulfilled her more than putting her arms around him. Wrapping him in the embodiment of her love.

When the two connected, physically and metaphorically, she knew that this was the closest to heaven that she might ever know. It was more than enough.

"'Tis better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all." She understood what William had meant. She agreed...adamently.

She thought of her father. He would step in front of a train for her. He would drive hundreds (thousands) of miles if she needed him. If anything should cause her pain, he would feel it - ten-fold. They never spoke of it, but she knew that he cared more than any other man ever would.

Upon entering womanhood, the relationship had strained. She did not want him to see her as a sexual being. She did not trust him to see it positively. She made it awkward and uncomfortable.

Then, she realized that she had been a fool. This was the closest thing to unconditional love that she would ever know. This man, who would lay down his life for her, would be overjoyed to know that she was so happy. Her success in the quest to find a deeper connection was his ultimate goal.

Fathers: It is difficult to let your daughters go, but imagine their lives if they had not stepped outside of your protection. They would never experience the joy that you have felt in creating new lives of their own. They would never know the love that passes between you and their mothers.

It is hard to think of our babies growing up and having mature relationships, but embrace this idea. The alternative is a much harsher reality.

(Thanks to a friend for making a comment that inspired this post. I'm glad to have thought about this in a new way.)

Just a Plain Old White Chick

2006-06-29T14:27:00.000-04:00

All she had wanted was an oil change.

She went to the gas station on a recommendation from a friend. "It's the cheapest one you're going to find." Alright, then that's where she was going. When she got there, she handed the man her keys and took a seat next to the slurpee machine (At $13, guess you get what you pay for).

After about 15 minutes the man came and asked her to come to the garage with him. He pointed out that her fluids needed topping off and he'd be happy to take care of it for a few extra dollars. She knew she was getting ripped off, but laziness can sometimes be worth the money. "Go for it," she said.

She paid for the service and walked back around to reclaim her car. The same man was standing there and looked like he wanted to say something.

"Do you speak Spanish?"

"Nope," she answered, "But I get that question all of the time."

He insisted that she looked Puerto Rican (he appeared to be so himself). She explained that she was "just a plain old white chick." Russian Jew to be exact (by heritage), but caucasian nonetheless.

The interrogation continued with the following call and response:

"Are you married?" - "No."
"Do you have a boyfriend?" - "No."
"Really?" - "Really."
"Can I have your number?" - (look of amusement) "No."

...he had already gotten her warmed up and into the habit of saying no.

Of course, with hindsight being 20/20, she began to ruminate later on.

"Plain old white chick?" What does that mean? Lately she had been asked so often where she was from. Puerto Rico, Cuba, Mexico, Spain, Italy, Greece, Egypt and very occasionally "Oh, you're a Jew." What the hell did it matter? Why did she feel like apologizing for being white? Why was that such a dissapointment?

Next time (and there was no doubt that there would be a next time) she wasn't apologizing for anything.

American Men: Put away the scissors!

2006-06-20T20:13:00.000-04:00

For most Americans, I'm about to get pretty controversial. For everyone else, this post isn't going to be a big deal.

It has come to my attention that most American men are circumsized, while most men around the rest of the world are not. Has anyone ever wondered why that is?

Americans insist that the circumsized penis is cleaner. An uncircumsized penis is ugly and unsanitary. That's the theory. I think the theory is bullshit.

A European friend and I were discussing the origin of circumcision in the United States. It turns out that this was a Puritan practice meant to discourage young boys from masturbating. By removing some of the sensitive tissue (and tissue that allows masturbation to occur without chafing), masturbation will be less pleasurable.

This practice has continued because, like most long-held beliefs, it is very difficult to get people to admit that they are wrong about something to which they have physically committed themselves. How many men that you know would like to admit that their penis has not been circumsized, rather, it had been mutilated?

African women are circumsized, but we generally recognize this practice as barbaric. Why then is male circumsizion both allowed and encouraged? Although not all pleasurable sensation is removed, glands that protect the penis as well as the protective foreskin are literally cut off exposing the penis to infection and cuts.

I realize that this concept leaves most American men feeling less than adequate. Accepting this argument means accepting that they are indeed mutilated. That's a tough pill to swallow. The only thing that would make it worse would be continuing the practice. Let's just try to think about this before we continue to snip our little boys without even giving them the choice.

Approval at an All-Time Low – Thinking for oneself at an All Time High

2006-05-08T00:43:00.000-04:00

A lot of people hate George W. Bush. Hell, most days I hate him too.

I’m a liberal American. Over the past 5.5 years I’ve gone from scared to terrified as I’ve watched my country deteriorate. I’ve watched human rights being violated. I’ve watched as basic freedoms are stolen. I’ve watched as religion has taken on a role in government that it has no right to play. I’ve watched our system as it is restructured to motivate people through fear (and other basic emotions) rather than logic and integrity.

This is a tragedy on the grandest scale, yet I cannot help but see the glimmer of a silver lining. The growing majority of Americans no longer see the government as some far off intangible that has no real bearing on their daily lives. The government now is perceived as a very real and very powerful force. This increased level of awareness has caused many Americans to step back and take another look at what were formerly their blissfully ignorant views.

This might be a bit of a stretch, but maybe George W was planted by the democrats (or any group seeking to shake our current system for that matter). Does this sound ridiculous? Hear me out: We were collectively voting on party lines and allowing those in power to do the thinking for us. I can fault no one for this and I am certainly guilty myself. I am pleased to observe though that Americans seem to be questioning and reevaluating their current government.

The bottom line is that although in my ideal world everyone will share my convictions; my true hope is that people will think for themselves, regardless of whether or not we agree. I want people to step back from whatever heuristics have helped them to comprehend their environments and start to process information more carefully when making important decisions. We certainly don’t need to pull out the statistical tools when deciding which t-shirt to throw on in the morning. However, as the long term impacts of our decisions increase in ramifications, our thought process should be based less on our whims and much more on said impact.

Of course, it is up to the individual to decide which aspect of long term impact is most important. If a person truly values money over all other things, then let him cast his vote in such a way that he believes he will maximize his monetary wealth. So long the system of incentives encourages full disclosure of pertinent information, voters can make informed decisions. Voters should be encouraged to know what issues matter for them and then be given the tools to vote accordingly.

Normally, the political system of the United States (and its figureheads) seems focused much more heavily on staying in power than on truth or accountability, but George W has pushed us back into the right direction. I can’t theorize as to whether or not this was his goal (or the goal of some secret mastermind), but I suppose his ill begotten intentions have put him onto the path to his own personal hell which will fortunately correlate with the United States’ redemption (metaphorically speaking, of course).

People are thinking. People have seen what voting purely on party lines has done to our country. Some people are starting to see that a vote, cast without thought, can lead to disaster; the impact of this carelessness will be felt immediately, but its effects will last for years. People are vowing that they will not let this happen again.

I have personally witnessed several historically conservative voters, of all ages, voicing their displeasure with George W. He has hurt the United States, badly and on many levels. Blind support of this particular leader is losing popularity. This is no longer the patriotic mindset. Blind faith in the president is not a good thing anymore. This is progress.

On many days I hate George W Bush. Today, I sort of want to give him a hug.

Random Acts of Emotional Violence

2006-04-30T11:06:00.000-04:00

It's a college town. The type where the population doubles when classes are in session. Kids flood the streets of the downtown area that boasts 90-plus bars within a 1/2 mile radius. Friends gather to drink, talk and engage in all varieties of debauchery.

A pair of friends decide that a change of venue is in order. Girl hops onto boy’s back and they start their journey. Along the way they encounter several obstacles; a man wailing on his guitar under the awning of a store (guitar case strategically positioned and open), hot dog stands wafting their addictive scents, a row of local bums negotiating for small cash donations, a slew of frat boys who seem unaware that anyone besides themselves might exist.

The pair dodges in and out of the crowds. They pause to wait for the next open space to appear. A boy, who seems engaged in his own live drama, turns his gaze upon them and yells to his friends (grouped nearby), “Watch out for this guy, he’s got something really heavy on his back!” The group erupts into jeering laughter.

“Keep walking,” she says. He complies, but offers to go back and kick their asses. She lowers her head in shame (and also to hide the redness appearing in her eyes). “No, just keep walking…please.”

She inches off of his back and tries to walk it off…Literally…

After receiving a clean bill of health from the doctor not a week ago, she heads home and makes her first voluntary attempt at throwing up. Perhaps an empty stomach will distract from the pain in her head.

Living the Dream

2006-04-24T19:24:00.000-04:00

You know that dream you have where you show up to class on the last day of the semester and you realize that you have a huge exam and a paper due and a presentation and you won’t graduate if you don’t finish this course and your grandmother just died and you don’t have any pencils with erasers on them and that really sad song that reminds you of your ex is playing and you’re wearing two different socks and you have indigestion and your professor hates you and the kid behind you won’t stop clicking his pen and your favorite seat is taken and there’s a bee that keeps threatening to sting you and you’re naked and wait, you don’t even remember signing up for this course…

Yeah.

Justice

2006-04-11T17:20:00.000-04:00

A girl, aged eight years, cackled as her best friend grabbed the back of her head and shoved a snowball in her face. Triumphant, she pointed across the lawn to the front door where her friend’s mother was standing. Caught red handed! And for the ultimate crime!

The girl had marched across the lawn not five minutes earlier to a frozen fortress. Hours of her own efforts has yielded this strategic pile and frostbitten fingers. She sat, without hesitation, upon her own handiwork, destroying the fruits of her labor.

Ten minutes ago she had slammed the red front door on the otherwise gray house. (The same house which was now gaping, open mouthed, at her.) Running, she collided with her enemy’s barrier of ice. Her mouth issued a guttural shout as its walls collapsed under her weight. Widening eyes revealed the realization that a chain reaction had been started. The satisfaction of retaliation must be denied! She must take action to prevent such vengeance.

One hour prior the friends rushed through the garage door. Stripping hats, gloves and snowsuits they surrounded the kitchen table. Hands encircled mugs and chocolate warmth engulfed. A bag of marshmallows spurred a frenzy until only one remained. Before the other could, one girl grabbed for the remaining treat. She eyed her friend and popped the entire thing into her mouth just as her friend began to protest: Share!

Amelia

2006-03-28T13:22:00.000-05:00

(This post is inspired by Jason Evans of "The Clarity of Night." I hope he likes it!)

In Havana, Cuba there is a giant graveyard that existed prior to the revolution. This cemetary is filled with extravagant homages to the dead. Along with these monuments go many stories. Here is one:

Amelia was buried with her child after they both died in childbirth. 15 years later, the bodies were dug up. The contents of her casket revealed a surprise. The infant, which had been buried on her mother's leg (as this was the tradition) was now being held in her mother's arms. This movement was dubbed "a miracle" and Amelia began to be regarded similarly to a saint.

Now, people visit her grave and ask for aid in sickness and other trials. These believers walk forward, knock on the gravestones to "wake" Amelia and then kiss, hug, give donations or flowers in exchange for their requests. No one ever turns and walks away though. It is said that one should never turn his back on a woman he loves, thus people are seen backing away instead.

Old Havana

2006-03-21T08:29:00.000-05:00

In the arched doorway a man sits behind a crate covered in shoes. His sign reads “Just Do Me.” I ask if I can have a picture and he asks me where I’m from. “Soy de Los Estados Unidos.”

In perfect English the man replies, “I have been reading about the history of the United States. Have you heard of Helen Keller?” Si. “Is it true that she was deaf, blind and mute?” Es la verdad.

As the man begins to resole the shoes stacked on his in-bin he marvels at such talent. “Such amazing people!”

Having won his approval he commands me to take the picture. I pull out my camera and frame the scene. A man, his work and all of his potential boxed into a single square. One step backwards and it all fits. Smile and say “Queso!”

Smile and say Castro.

Going to Cuba!

2006-03-09T08:21:00.000-05:00

I'm off to Cuba tomorrow (at the ass crack of dawn). I will therefore not be posting for the next ten days. I will, however, be learning a great deal about the Cuban economy as this is a school based research trip. I also hope to spend at least a little time enjoying the beautiful weather, scenery and culture. Have a happy spring everyone!

I'm actually not trying to be controversial

2006-03-04T10:05:00.000-05:00

(My goal, rather, is to point out a interesting observation I made a couple of weeks ago.)

We were reading Le Spleen de Paris (The Parisian Prowler) by Charles Baudelaire. Our class discussion led us to the fact that he had a mistress. This work was first published in the early 1860s. This affair would thus have been all the more gossip worthy because his mistress was a woman of color.

In itself, I find this information to be not all that shocking. What became interesting was what my professor said to describe the woman. As the discussion turned to poems such as Beautiful Dorothy he explained who this "Dorothy" might have been.

"At the time, it was commonly known that Baudelaire had an African-American mistress."

Excuse me?!? Did anyone else catch that? Baudelaire was French. He lived in France (as the French tend to). One dead give-away is the reference to the city Paris right in the title!

So what am I getting at? Well, "Dorothy" couldn't exactly have been African-American if she was French. African-French maybe, but I somehow doubt that's what the common phrasing was there, particularly at that time.

This brings me to my main point: I think we've gone well beyond the original intention of "Politically Correct." Personally, if I ever feel the need to discuss a person's skin color, I would generally call people who appear to be of African descent "black." I'm not trying to cling to the status quo. I use the more general term for accuracy really. Now if I were to ever be corrected, I'd absolutely change the terminology I used for the person requesting the change, but I prefer not to assume too much before I know that is the proper term for a person.

I think the civil rights movement took the United States a long way in the right direction. People know that to judge a person's "content" and "character" based on his or her skin color is wrong. Why then, do we accept that we can know a person's ancestry or native country based on this same criteria?

I discussed, recently, with a friend from Nigeria how he would feel if someone referred to him as "African-American." His response indicated that he would not be too pleased. And what about the many people living in the Carribean, or in Central and South America (or all over the world for that matter)? They are neither African nor American. We need to be careful how we use such terms. Perhaps they have gone from used to abused?

I have no problem with these politically correct terms. I will use them when I know they are accurate. I simply refuse to assume that much about a person when all I know for sure is that their skin indicates a heritage different from my own.

Countdown to Ecstasy!!!

2006-02-26T15:18:00.000-05:00

I know you were all waiting for the report. The verdict is in and the show was a HUGE success. We had a great turnout (around 300, which for a first show is a pretty big deal) and we sounded AWESOME. I couldn't be any prouder to be a part of this band!

The first photo is a shot taken by our Conga-dude from on stage. You can get a pretty good idea of how the crowd looked. The second shot is from the crowd. This is before the horns got on stage, so you can imagine that it got a little bit more crowded up there.

Woo! I'm still buzzin' actually. What a great night!

Training

2006-02-22T10:26:00.000-05:00

I so desperately wish that I liked tomatoes. Maybe if they felt a little bit more like avocados. Smooth, green - (instead of) – gooey, seeds.

Outside in a coat. No hat, no scarf. Fingers stinging and wind biting – howling – slapping. It’s not so bad. Re-frame the pain. Delicious cold! Relishing. Gasp deep – blue fingers finding a belly. Grasping for green.

Contents reveal something red. Unwelcome. Knuckle deep – stirring – upsetting. Plunging to wrists, pulling a way. Liquefied. Retreating stumps chased by fiery bile.

Sparkling blades awash in the steaming pink pile (green finally found). The tomatoes and I still couldn’t agree.

Happy Poem

2006-02-19T15:43:00.000-05:00

If I had one wish it would be that all of the children would have enough puppies, flowers and lollipops to last the whole winter. We could all hold hands and buy cokes for each other. When we looked up there would always be a rainbow or a twinkling star or snowflakes (landing on my nose and eyelashes) or bunnies in the clouds (or maybe monkeys cause they make me laugh with ther banana stealing antics).

Yellow is a very happy color. Daffodils and sunshine are yellow. So is a certain kind of snow. One time I threw a certain kind of snowball at my best friend's face. That made me laugh. That made me happy.

You know what else is happy? Listen and I'll tell you: Songs are happy. Songs about puppies, flowers and lollipops are especially happy. They can be accompanied by a little dance if you're into that sort of thing.

Cotton candy in the shape of a bunny (or monkey) cloud would be so cute. Oh, and don't forget world peace!

Countdown to Ecstasy

2006-02-15T09:58:00.000-05:00

Shameless plug time:

On the off-chance that anyone who reads my blog also lives in Athens, GA and likes Steely Dan, I have to annouce the following. My newest band, "Countdown to Ecstasy" has our first gig coming up. We're playing at The Ritz (on Broad St.) on Friday, Feb 24th.

We've been working on getting our show together for about 4 months now. We have an eleven piece band including horns. I can't even tell you how excited I am to break out my sequined dress/shoes and shake my ass off until I can't shake anymore.

So just in case anyone is wondering what songs we do, we pretty much have the big ones covered (and some more obscure but equally awesome stuff). Bodhisattva, Reelin in the years, Rikki Don't Lose that Number, Peg, Dirty Work, King of the World, Do It Again, Babylon Sisters, Deacon Blues, Hey Nineteen, etc...

That's all for now. I just had to put that out there.

Stupid and Proud

2006-02-13T08:27:00.000-05:00

Every CEO she had ever met told her that she was smarter than he.

"You know how I got into this position? A lot of hard work and determination, that's how."

She wondered if this was really a good thing. In her work she had seen drinking and socializing called "networking". She had seen hours upon hours of time wasted by others (giggling over pictures) while she had been reprimanded for leaving work too early even though she had gotten in before most people were even awake. Worst of all, she had been held back because her boss was threatened by her. Her intelligence seemed to be a cross to bear unlike her co-worker's incompetence and long hours which were worn like stripes on their chests.

She tried to make sense of it all. When she went to a doctor's office, their credentials were posted loudly on the walls. Anyone could see that this person was trained and qualified. Good grades were a badge of honor. The same applied to lawyers. A lawyer could boast about graduating at the top of his class and leverage that into a job with the firm of his choice. No one wants to go to a doctor or a lawyer with no schooling, but "a great attitude".

It was a prisoner's dilemma of sorts. If the big guys in charge were all to admit that being smart and well educated was an advantage, then businesses would begin to use that as their hiring criteria. The whole system would be arranged by people with efficiency and logic in mind. The problem though was that if only one CEO were to admit to his deficiency and more importantly, the deficiency in the system (in a public forum), then only that CEO would feel the effects of his admission. The other CEOs would simlpy smile, shut their mouths and keep on truckin'.

Syd

2006-02-05T17:05:00.000-05:00

A visit to Howard Beach meant a visit to Aunt Syd. From grandmother’s house to Brooklyn. Up to the eleventh floor. Hugs and kisses, tea and cookies. Run to the back window to check if it’s still there. Green spikes and an eternal flame are just a speck on the jagged horizon. Which one is the empire state building? Twins tower in the distance. Are you still hungry? Have some more cookies. Hugs and kisses, food coma and naps.

On our way home - To the home. Syd waits in her wheelchair. No tea and cookies. Just waiting. Conversation - obligation. You like the sweet stuff don’t you Aunt Syd? Have some of your pudding. Not hungry anymore? Just a couple more bites.

A skeleton covered in skin. I wish I’d die in my sleep tonight. Another bite.

Sleep tight Aunt Syd.

Cadbury’s Crack: My lover, my friend, my ultimate downfall

2006-02-03T14:31:00.000-05:00

Cadbury’s Crème Eggs are my best guess at what Nirvana feels like. As I bite the top off and the inner creamy goodness is revealed, my surroundings cease to exist. I take each bite with my sole purpose being that I will maintain the perfect proportion of crème to chocolate from start to finish.

The process takes about five minutes. During those five minutes, one could defile a puppy with my precious flute, and I would not take note. That, and various otherwise objectionable behavior might take place directly under my nose, and I would simply sigh and take my next bite.

I would like to express my love for Cadbury’s Crème Eggs in the form of Haiku. (Please note, I have taken liberties with the number of syllables in the word chocolate.)

Summer’s heat denies
Fall and winter without fruit
Spring returns my love

Fat Tuesday cometh
But what delights does it bring?
Crème filled chocolate joy!

A cloak of chocolate
Golden rays within the core
Palm’s heat yields treasure

Can't mmm speak mmm now
busy mmm eating mmm eggs
mmmm. What did I miss?

Mmmmmmmmm.

Bliss

2006-01-29T03:41:00.000-05:00

(again, I'm experimenting...thoughts are appreciated)

Blessed art thou, for thou knowst not what thou creates. Seven days and thou brushes thine hands-ist off-ist and leave-ist thine children with only questions.

Why do we have that “hangy-ball” in the back of our throats? How do we know when to accept and when to question? What is the dewey decimal for life’s manual?

When do I accept it on faith? Where is it made clear? Who can identify truth and grant deliverance? Who’s your daddy?

Forty years, a fortnight and an eternity. Scroll to scroll, cover to cover, palm to palm and cheek to cheek. God bless us, someone.

None of us

2006-01-20T17:09:00.000-05:00

He said, “None of us is smarter than all of us.” He meant, “No individual is wiser than the people as a whole.” Or maybe, “The absence of an opinion is truer than the collective decision.”

What then? Black is fuller than white. Dark is brighter than light. Wrong is better than right.

The decision of the collective none – an ethical big bang – chaos holding power as the sea holds a bottled message.

Or maybe, “I am stupider than all of you.”

2006-01-14T16:15:00.000-05:00

Blink. Breathe. Hold on.

Light reflects off of sequins into a black mass which roars for its offering. Hands reaching, seeking. Give it something.

Bound by wire and electric tape and addiction on a four foot pedestal. Perception dulled in the pounding. Felt through head, feet, chest, soul. Inhale.

Invisible hands tug forward. Peering down over a sea of grinning chaos. Open wide. Thighs sore from pumping in a savage dance. High heels first out of place and then kicked aside. The sacrifice is made.

The beast is satiated, yet the victim, panting and slippery with salty fluid, needs more.

First Encounter

2006-01-10T14:30:00.000-05:00

The first death a child has to deal with can be confusing and terrifying. Every moment that follows will be forever altered.

Malebeka was her real name, but all of the kids called her Sonu. She lived across the street from me. She was a sweet person with a bright smile. She still had some of her baby fat. Sometimes she really got on my nerves.

Sonu about a year younger than me, but we were in that phase of life where all of the kids on the block would play together. When it snowed we alternated houses to pile into for hot chocolate. We'd happily gulp and chat while we waited for our snowsuits to come out of the dryer.

I remember one time it snowed and then rained so that a layre of ice formed. Our neighborhood turned into a giant ice-skating rink. We spent hours skating, falling and laughing. I can't remember if that was before or after Sonu died.

Sonu went to a private school so she rode home on a different bus. She was the only kid at her stop and she had to cross the street to get to her house. One day she was hit by a van. I remember hearing how she was propelled across the street from the strength of the impact. The man driving the van didn't stop for the school bus. He didn't even slow down. He was in one of those work vans that had the bumper sticker that said, "How's my driving?" and provided a phone number.

I was furious. I wanted to call that number. Sonu was being flown to the hospital in a helicopter. She was in critical condition.

I didn't know what to do that night. She had to live. Kids my age just didn't die so suddenly. I supposed I should just go to bed.

My mom woke me up. I have no idea what time it was. She told me that Sonu had died. I still didn't know what to do. How was I supposed to feel? Nothing seemed different. I figured that my world would turn up-side-down when I heard news like that. Nothing. I was just shocked.

Stunned silence eventually turned into tears. It was never the way they portray it in the movies...at least not for me. I didn't beat my fists on the floor and scream to the heavens. I just cried. Quietly. I felt bad. I didn't like Sonu all of the time. Was I allowed to be upset that she had died? I felt sad and I felt guilty.

The next day at school, the guidance counselor took my group of friends into her office to help us handle the grief. I felt guilty for getting out of class when she wasn't even my best friend. I was so upset though. What was going on? What was the right way to feel? How could I have ever thought anything bad about a girl who was dead?

We went to her wake. I went up to see the body. A lot of people were there and some were touching her. I wanted to touch her hand. It felt like a hand. She looked like Sonu. I found it hard to cry. Her parents were so nice. Why were they standing there talking with people? Shouldn't they be screaming and crying? They were crying, but it was so polite. Again, my image of the movies was shattered. They weren't hysterical. Such kind people they were to hold it together like that. How could I be more upset than they seemed? I wasn't. Not right then.

A few months later the neighborhood got together to plant a memorial garden. Her parents and baby sister moved away. I guessed that the memory was too hard for them. Maybe it was something else. I'll never forget it. And I'll never forget that damn bumper sticker.

Mother's Lament

2006-01-01T15:43:00.000-05:00

I promise that I will write more after I have returned to school for the spring semester. Until that time, please enjoy some lyrics that have had me chuckling for years.

Mother's Lament as performed by Cream in Disraeli Gears

"A mother was washing her baby one night;
The youngest of ten and a delicate mite.
The mother was poor and the baby was thin;
'Twas naught but a skeleton covered with skin.

The mother turned 'round for a soap off the rack.
She was only a moment but when she turned back
Her baby had gone, and in anguish she cried,
"Oh, where has my baby gone?" The angels replied:

Oh, your baby has gone down the plug hole.
Oh, your baby has gone down the plug.
The poor little thing was so skinny and thin,
He should have been washed in a jug, in a jug.

Your baby is perfectly happy;
He won't need a bath anymore.
He's a-muckin' about with the angels above,
Not lost but gone before."

I love this band. I have no idea where this came from. The only writing credit listed on the album is "traditional." Anyone know?

An Open Letter to Hollywood Celebrities and their Cohorts

2005-12-23T19:43:00.000-05:00

Credit for the format on this post goes to my friend at Superbee's Philosophy (link to the right). The open letter is the perfect way for me to communicate my feelings on this serious matter.

Dear Famous People,

It is my opinion (which, let the record show, is a highly informed and well thought out one) that you take your "jobs" and your "lives" far too seriously. I therefore consider it my duty to put you back into your places.

Let's start with the profession of acting. Acting, as far as I can tell, is the career choice of people who wish to do one (or more) of these three things: Make assloads of money, Get assloads of "action," or play make-believe for the rest of their lives. Now I'm not saying I wouldn't jump at the chance to make that kind of cash for being a live action puppet (well...who knows), but I don't think I'd try to convince myself that I was bettering the state of humanity in so doing. Hell, actors never have to grow up. Most of us only do that because we feel we have to. I wanna be an actor and have a big pool with a slide too! Then MTV can come to my house and I can show them where the magic happens!

I do have to admit, even though you annoy me when you make your public statements about whatever the issue du jour is, I can sympathize with your motives. You think you're helping. You want to make the world a better place and you think that since you have all of that money and influence you should speak out! Awww....that is so cute. I just want to pat you on the head and give you a cookie. I'll tell you what: You contribute money to whatever you like, but please don't associate your name or face with any cause. Your celebrity does not add credibility to anyone's plight.

Here's what I know. I've seen you doing interviews. I've heard your attempts at being articulate. Aside from a few (and that is VERY few) exceptions, you are not smart. You don't seem to comprehend the definitions of a lot of big words and your grammar is appalling (that means "surprising in a bad way," for anyone who didn't know). I've actually read that more vacant minded (read: stupid) people are better at acting. This is because they don't have all of those pesky thoughts clouding their ability to assume the role of whichever character they are playing. To you I say: Great! If you're not so bright, then you fit the qualifications for the job. Just don't think now that you've won the popularity contest you should start spouting wisdom. Those great lines you've been reading were written by people with some brains. Their job is to make you sound interesting. If you could do it yourself, you wouldn't need them.

So we've established that you are immature and less than brilliant. I suppose there's nothing really objectionable about that. You can't help it, right? So what I am writing this letter for? Good question! I'm so glad you asked.

I'm sick and tired of hearing about your lives. I will try to explain this simply: When I turn on the news, I want to hear about the world and the important events that will affect my life. I'm talking world hunger, sickness, economic/trade policy...you get the idea (I hope). I do not care who you are dating or which designer made your dress. I especially don't care when you start congratulating each other on how great you've been in this or that film. You're wasting my time. I don't want to sift through your inflated vision of yourself to get to reality. I do not want to know anything about you personally.

Here's how I see you and your industry. You are like old time street performers. The directors turn the crank on the music box. You actors are the cute little monkeys wearing vests and fezzes. I am the hard working citizen who walks by, chuckles, and decides whether to toss a quarter into the up-turned hat at your director's feet. You are a dancing monkey. You dance for me. Your job is to be cute and amuse me.

All I ask is that you keep a little perspective. You're already getting paid in mass quantities to do a job that a lot of people would do for free. Could you try to remember who the boss really is?

Yours Truly,
Kara

Panic at Midnight

2005-12-19T10:33:00.000-05:00

In the middle of the night, she woke. She looked around, still groggy from her heavy slumber. As consciousness crept in, her mind began to whirl. Where was she? How had she gotten there? What was she doing sleeping in unfamiliar surroundings?

She felt her arms and legs. There were no ropes or chains holding her. Her hands flew to her face. She felt no bumps or bruises. Nothing to indicate any struggle. Why couldn't she remember anything? Had she been drugged?

She was laying on her stomach. She slowly began to turn over. Inch by inch, so as to not make any noise. But wait! She felt something else in the bed with her. Something warm, something solid, something breathing...it was alive!

As her eyes began to adjust to the darkness, she began to make out shapes. A large rectangle across the room, illuminated around the edges...a window. Other dark shapes indicated furniture of some sort. At least she hoped it was furniture. She slowly continued her turn and dared to rotate her head towards the thing that lay with her. In the darkness, two glowing specs peered back at her. Whatever it was, it was also awake.

Her heart pounded and she struggled to control her breathing. We'd have no hyperventilation now. Was there a lamp? Why was she suddenly sure that there was? Her hand flew to the bedside table that she was equally sure existed and just like that, click! Light filled her room and her eyes.

All she could do was laugh. She immediately recognized the formerly unfamiliar surroundings. Her sweet puppy had nestled beside her during the night. Wasn't it lovely to be home for the holidays?

Comfort and Deception

2005-12-08T12:17:00.000-05:00

In her warm apartment she thought of going North. The weather was too kind here, too gentle. She was comfortable and happy, but she had no impetus, no reason to move forward. This fact, in itself, was enough to unsettle her. She had always told herself that she would never be satisfied; that there would always be something more to strive for and to seek. Once she had done, seen, learned and experienced everything, then she could die. Until then, her purpose was to keep on finding what she had not found before. What she had found now was a warm and blissful oasis that threatened to suck her in. She had never been so happy. The heat was nowhere near stifling, yet she found herself oppressed.

Why could she not be content? Why was this not enough? Were some people destined to move forever? Was this the plight of the nomad? She did not move for lack of food and shelter, but for lack of inspiration and for lack of…well…to put it bluntly, for lack of suffering. What would happen to the starving artist when he was fed? She wasn’t ready to answer this riddle just yet. First there was something more.

In her head she pictured swirling snow. She pictured a lake covered in ice. The life teeming underneath the surface sparked an interest, a curiosity. It was frozen in time in a sort of half-life for the winter months. When it awoke it would renew its constant search for food and its constant battle for survival.

She glanced across her living room to the goldfish circling its bowl. It smacked at the top of the bowl, begging to be fed. What if she decided not to respond? The fish would be helpless and defenseless against death. She held that power in her hand. In the grand scheme of the universe, the death of “Spot” would mean nothing, but in the minor scheme of Spot, it was everything. She wondered if Spot would even notice the difference.

She couldn’t help but giggle as she though of her daily trek through campus. At a low of 40 degrees Fahrenheit the population would be wailing about the cold. She was right there with them. She knew that Spot would make it more than a day without food, just as she knew that she would survive at temperatures below freezing. She was stuck swimming in her bowl though, helpless to adapt to the changing environment.

A biting wind, the sting of sleet, cold that doesn’t leave for hours after you come inside – that’s what she craved. It would entail suffering, yes, but it would yield the comfort found only in such a state.

15 Things

2005-12-07T23:09:00.000-05:00

Jason Evans (The Clarity of Night - link to the right), of the recent AWESOME musical theory post, has tagged me once again. For this meme, I must list 15 preferences/quirks I have regarding books. This has taken me a few days to come up with. It's really quite difficult. Try it yourself!

I take notes in the margins of any thought provoking books.
I tend to be reading about 5 books at any given time.
Based on item number one, I strongly prefer to own books rather than borrow.
If a book is good enough, my life halts until I’ve finished it (yes, I have that luxury).
I actually have a lender copy of my favorite book: Cat’s Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut. This way, if anything happens to it, I always have my copy on hand for personal reference/emergencies.
If someone makes the effort to recommend and lend a book to me, I will find a way to finish it, no matter what.
I’ve always loved reading for English class. I read Beowulf about 20 times as a kid before I even realized it would be required reading in the 7^th grade. Imagine my excitement!
When asked for the plot of a book, I always recite it in excruciating detail. I feel like the author included each word for a reason, so I want to communicate the feel along with the major plot points.
I have never listened to a book on tape. I like to let my imagination do everything and the reader will inevitably add his or her interpretation. Along the same lines, I prefer books without any illustrations. Maps are acceptable…that’s about it.
I believe the sign of a good book is that it’s worn like a favorite pair of jeans. If I wear it out, I’ll get another, but I’m not going to be dainty with a book I love.
I think I’d react like a 12 year old Backstreet Boys fan if I met an author I liked. (Although, I can pretty much guarantee that no other celebrity would get that reaction.)
Even when I have 500 other things going on, I always find time to read.
I’ve actually called work with the “sick” excuse to finish a book. (It was Harry Potter - The Order of the Phoenix, OK???)
I have a list of book topics that I keep for when I finally get the time to write them.
After a scary book, I still have to sleep with my head under the covers. I’m very brave.

Thanks Jason. To anyone else who feels like trying this: I dare you!

Who's Standard?

2005-12-03T15:51:00.000-05:00

I’m about to go a little bit feminist on y’all. Please bear with me. I was discussing the frustrating and inefficient nature of corporate America with a friend yesterday. We digressed somewhat into a discussion of the social pressure for people, more specifically women, to live up to an unrealistic and unhealthy physical standard. What follows is the resulting email I sent to her after we were conveniently cut off (cell phones…lovely).

I suppose the best way to go about understanding and addressing the problem is to start with the "enemy". In this case, I would say that the enemy is actually social pressure, societal norms, the media.

Let’s look at the common response people have to their perceived failures. Often people feel guilty for not living up to these norms. Others may even feel like failures because of the implied social judgment that results from this inability (or refusal) to conform. My usual response to these perceived failures is that, "One should never use someone else's criteria to judge one's own success." This means that the world imposes a lot of ideas on us. These ideas, as they gain popularity, begin to be interpreted as fact, as truth. The only real fact though, is that these social norms and pressures are just an opinion. They're public opinion. What is an opinion? A subjective assessment of reality. Not fact, rather preference. You wouldn't tell someone that they're wrong to prefer chocolate ice cream would you? We're beginning to understand that certain social norms are just flat out wrong (the vilification of homosexuality being a glaring example of a past norm that has been identified as wrong, if there is such a thing as right/wrong, but that’s another issue for another day). So when will we realize that these norms are only that? They're not facts. They're not laws. They're just someone's idea of what's right.

I'd like to attempt a reference to Kant’s categorical imperative. The idea is to come up with a universal maxim or law that can be extracted from any single action. Let's say I decide to not pay my taxes. If this is applied as a universal law, then no one will pay taxes, and the ultimate manifestations of those tax dollars will deteriorate (roads, public health, defense, etc.). We can then say that it would be wrong to not pay taxes, because if everyone chose to do this, then we would all consequently suffer.

So now, let's try to come up with a universal maxim for the pressure from social norms. Let's say that we all decided to determine our own measures of success. Then we would all pursue our own destinies in our own ways. No one would be hurt. Most likely, we'd all be much happier. Now, let's say we all decide to adopt the criteria of "society". Everyone would be striving to look and act in ways that are contrary to our biological natures. People would be unhappy and feel like failures. On an economic level, business would suffer because no one would be eating. The restaurant industry would fizzle....you get the idea. So basically, if we were all gorgeous, waify model types, then we'd all be addicted to pills and champagne and have no time for our own pursuits (and contributions). No new research would occur and the improvement of the overall state of the world would come to a stand-still. But hey, we'd all look great and plastic surgeons would be raking it in!

In addition, if we all looked to someone else to determine what the criteria for success are, then no one would have the answer. We'd all be waiting, eagerly, for someone else to say what they thought. But remember, everyone is waiting for someone else to take the first step. The result: complete paralysis. Obviously someone had to come up with their own idea of success. This person was probably from a group that was historically in power and wished to preserve that power. So we've just decided to accept and adopt the very norms that have put us in a subordinate role? This is a mistake.

The solution, on an individual level, is then to set out to reach success in one’s own way. Admittedly it is difficult to tune out society, but when you feel like a success until the social verdict comes in, perhaps it is society, and not you who is wrong.

Spectator Sports

2005-11-28T14:18:00.000-05:00

Living in a college town with a huge football following has led to some interesting observations lately.

I’ve never been a big sports fan myself. This lack of interest and inability to connect with a team has always left me wondering why others so eagerly rally around these events. In particular, I’ve noticed that men, and often the most emotionally inaccessible ones, become inflamed and loose all rational ability when the team doesn’t play well.

The place I’ll start is probably the most obvious. Again and again I hear people describing their team’s performance, “We played a great game today…our defense was really on…”…etc. The choice of wording here is clearly not accurate. To use the word “we” implies that the speaker had some part in the success (or poor performance) of the team playing. The spectator feels an emotional connection to the team and the outcome of the event. The reality, of course, is that the person speaking simply observed other people as they played a game that had nothing to do with anything outside of the people on the field.

I’ll accept the idea that one might object to my last statement. Perhaps the spectators’ support (or heckling) had some impact on the psyche of the players. Maybe a well timed hiss caused that last free-throw to miss the basket. While this is all possible, it seems a little bit like manually flapping the wing of a butterfly in hopes of causing a hurricane on the other side of the world. In most cases cheering and booing have little effect because athletes are trained to tune out this noise. Even if there was a measurable change in the outcome of the game, one would think that spectators wouldn’t really want their actions to influence the game because this would be unsportsmanlike. If we could change the outcome of a game with how loud we yell, then why in the world would we pay athletes as much as we do? We want the best team to win, right?

So, for sake of argument, we want the best team to win and we want “our” team to be the best team. In fact, we truly believe that our team is the best team in a lot of cases (even though they can’t possibly all be the best). We’re back to the original question then: Why do we use the word “we” and why do people get so involved in these uncontrollable events?

I have a theory. I believe that sporting events (and mad spectators) are an outlet for people’s pent up emotions. In addition, I think these events are perceived by sports fans as a very safe way to express their emotions. The idea is that a guy can get all riled up, have a few beers (maybe a brawl in the stands) and then go home. No one got hurt. No harm, no foul.

I disagree though. I think that dealing with emotions in such a way is actually quite detrimental to the emotional development of the rabid spectator. Imagine you are a huge fan of your local football team. The team is on a winning streak and with each subsequent game your spirits are lifted higher and higher. What happens when your team finally loses? You are on the edge of your seat for the duration of the game. Standing and gesturing wildly at all of the appropriate moments cursing all of the while. When the game ends you are truly angry and upset. It may have ruined your whole afternoon! The bottom line though, is that you don’t have to deal with anything. You can spit and curse, but eventually you have to accept what has happened. You do so, and you move on (until the next season).

What have we learned? That there is nothing we can do about our problems. When we are emotional it is okay to lose control completely. Rational process does not have a place. In fact, it is more appropriate to lose one’s head and then later shrug one’s shoulders and hope the team pulls it together next time. There’s not a thing that a fan can actually do to influence the future outcome. The spectator may claim to have all of the solutions, but in the end, they step aside, allow someone else to take responsibility and watch the chips fall. There is no point where personal accountability plays any role. It is literally a way to kill time.

I’m certainly not saying that people shouldn’t watch sports. One pastime is as good as the next so long as no one is being hurt. All I’m suggesting is that the emotional involvement is not healthy. Perhaps it’s time we start teaching children to take responsibility and understand the consequences of their actions rather than emphasizing that emotions are not to be controlled or made productive.

I can't even ride a horse.

2005-11-23T09:51:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I started this blog with the sole intent of saying something meaningful. I wanted to spout my wisdom (from mountaintops, if you will) so that others might benefit from it. From my high and mighty perch atop my high horse on the top of a mountain I had forgotten one, very important thing. Fun socks.

The other day I was in Old Navy checking out the little girls section for XXL clothing at low low prices and I happened upon the the fabled wall of socks. They had fun winter socks in every holiday and secular design that a little girl could ever want. I was "sew heppy!"

I've always loved wearing silly socks. They're my protest against matching. I figure the more hideous my socks are, the less possibility there is that I might coordinate. Some may see this as a bad thing (or a "faux pas"). Personally, I see it as freedom. Even if I wanted to, I could not match my blue and red and pink "smiling and frolicking dogs" socks to any outfit in my wardrobe. Obviously I'm going to wear said socks, therefore I have to free myself of the illusion that matching is important.

How is it possible for the world to require that we coordinate "pieces," yet fun socks also exist? The simultaneous existance of these two things is virtually impossible. I therefore would claim that perfectly coordinated outfits are the fallacy (because the fun socks are a constant).

Really, there's not a lot that makes me happier than wearing a lovely outfit, taking a seat, and seeing that little candy cane stripe peeking out from between my pant leg and my shoe. It screams, "There is individuality! We may dress as we please! Social norms exist only in our minds! We are free!"

Yup...that's what I get out of wearing my fun socks.

In conclusion: I'm generally pretty level headed, but from time to time I can get a bit wrapped up in myself. When that happens, feel free to knock me down from up here.

Willingness

2005-11-15T09:25:00.000-05:00

For my whole life, over and over again, I've been told that people don't change. People are as they are and there's not a thing that will change that. In old age, this amplifies. A person who was slightly rigid in youth will become completely stiff as they mature.

This may be true, but I'd like to examine the root causes and the implications of this chosen behavior pattern. First, it is important to consider that change is difficult. It requires that a person make an effort to examine his/her own behavior and reflect with a level of criticism. Basically, one must admit to imperfection. One must admit to being wrong. How many people are really able to do this without suffering a blow to the ego? So, we've established that change is not instinctual. Change requires a great deal of effort.

Why then, would someone want to change? We can agree that our environment changes constantly. We can also agree that the people within our environment change along with it. As most people view human interaction as an important component of their daily existence, it is therefore important to be able to adjust to these different types of people. One must flex and bend in order to function.

Imagine the following analogy: A child’s bones are flexible. The child will run and play and bump and bruise. Occasionally the child will break a bone, but in most cases, the bones are able to take a good stretch. As this child ages and moves into adulthood, the bones become less flexible and more brittle. A bump that would have yielded a little bruise in childhood now requires a hip replacement. The difference? Brittle, inflexible bones. The bones are unable to adjust properly to the corner into which they bumped. The lack of adjustment is a detriment to the one unwilling to flex rather than the environment. The point here is that even a predictable environment will not remain static. Adjustment and flexibility are necessary to function normally.

I would also argue that a person who asks "Can people change?" is really asking, "Can one person make another change?" The answer to this question is, "No." But this only extends so far as the other person is unwilling to adjust. A person who is willing to adjust can do so up until the last day of their life.

So the question really becomes: Can a person change? With those who would insist that the answer is no, I would adamantly disagree.

Change is a matter of choice. One can always choose to make him/herself a better person. One would always benefit from such a choice. People who are unwilling and stubborn are hurting themselves. We are not bones. We are minds with the ability to use rational thought in order to train and retrain ourselves to move throughout our existence. I only recently learned how to cook a great risotto. Just a month ago was the first time I tried to play guitar. My age was not a hindrance. In fact, my ability to discipline myself and engage willpower (through the callus-forming stage) increased the speed with which I picked up these new skills.

My father would always have said, “Mind over matter.” What he meant was that one can do anything he/she chooses (aside from breaking physical law). He’s right.

Can't Stop

2005-11-11T16:37:00.000-05:00

She pulled out Poem by Charles T. Griffes. Tentatively she slid the interlocking pieces together. She filled her lungs and breathed life and warmth into the instrument she hadn't picked up in what seemed like forever. The keys felt stiff and clicked when they moved. Had it been too long? A two octave chromatic scale proved that her fingers still knew their places. It was time. She began the piece.

In her mind she heard the orchestra come in. The theme lamented in a swelling song that had no clear beginning or end. Over the orchestra she entered with her own line. The clear and silver sound of the flute drowned the rest of the world in its wave of movement. Each note stretched slightly longer than dictated by the black symbols on the pages. A sudden flitting here and there reminded her of past moments - In a rich blanket of sound as she swayed and ached with each note.

A sudden change in tempo and in tone set her heart to racing. It felt as if her fingers would not be able to keep up with her mental accompaniment. Runs of sixteenths filled with accidentals. The pace becoming increasingly frantic and then suddenly shifting to an iteration of the main theme. The flute practically whispered in its lowest range. The tone had a sharpness that mourned some indescribable loss. Just as she had a chance to become comfortable another run took her to a set of shrill trills that led to the syncopated and most melodious portion of the piece. It was a deceivingly simple rhythm that mingled subtle complexities and a juxtaposition of contrasting ideas.

Jumping octaves, soaring high above the staff, tumbling up and down the scale to end as abruptly as it had started. Again. Staccato double-tounging followed with a meandering transition that led her finally to the climax. She was now wrapped entirely in the piece in what seemed like a passive involvement in complete brilliance. The descent back into the final theme was a screaming animal finally giving in and allowing itself to be tamed. It ended as it began. The long, slow, biting siren of the final phrase echoed in her mind for days.

My Quirks, eh?

2005-11-04T11:45:00.000-05:00

I’ve been tagged by Jason Evans at The Clarity of Night once again. This meme encourages that I list and discuss my quirks. Wish me luck.

I have a feeling that there are a lot more quirky things about me that I’m unable to recognize simply because I’ve always thought they were normal. I will do my best to expose what I believe to be my oddities though.

I thoroughly enjoy a good obsession. I like to find something that really gets me excited and then take it one step too far. For example, I write poetry each year singing the praises of Cadbury’s Crème Eggs. I also read and re-read (and re-read…) certain children’s books about a boy with a scar on his forehead. Oh, and beef jerky. Did I mention I love beef jerky?
I believe in my ability to train myself. This means that with the right level of discipline combined with an open mind, I have gone from world’s pickiest eater to the girl who will eat anything. My only remaining dislike is whole, raw tomatoes. After that, who knows? Maybe world domination?
I am completely obsessed (please note the theme) with music. I harmonize in the shower, wail in the car and join every band I have access to. I’m really not complete without it.
I do standup for my friends. What’s odd is that they don’t know it. I’ll make my clever observation privately and then, when the moment is right, do my routine for the group. It’s all in the timing people!
I am generally enraged by the concept (or at least the common definition) of humility. I know that the preferred attitude is to downplay one’s accomplishments and act as if they were no big deal. I feel that this is detrimental to one’s motivation and as a result, I embrace my awesomeness.
ColdStone Creamery, Marble Slab, Maggie Moos. What do I say? How about, if I want ice cream with toppings in it, I’ll ask you for rocky road? Why would I want to stand in line and then wait for you to mix them in, effectively taking more of my time and money to do so? I’ll go to Ben and Jerry’s, thanks. I like my toppings already in my ice cream.
Vegetarians and stupid people frighten me.

That’s what I’ve got. Again, the big quirks are probably the ones I don’t even know about. I hope this has been interesting.

Desire

2005-11-03T09:20:00.000-05:00

This was a man who had held the fate of thousands in his hands. This was a man who wined and dined with world leaders. This was a man who had accomplished mental and physical feats that most would only dream of. He had seen the world, found love, attained the highest levels of success in his chosen career and was financially able to do “whatever the hell he wanted” for the rest of his life.

This was a man who stood at the front of a classroom of students. A room full of minds thirsty for knowledge and innocent enough not to question a source so outwardly sure of itself. He lectured and they listened. They scrambled for every bit of advice. He had been so successful. He was so rich! He must have all of the answers.

Other men came in to speak each session. Some cited good luck as the source of their success. Some cited hard work. Most stated that the classroom inhabitants were smarter and more able than the speakers. All were filthy stinking rich enough to admit to something like that.

Of course the implication was that each of these men had done something extraordinary to be in such a position even without the mental capacity of these bright young minds.

“I’ll open the floor to questions.”

This was the signal to which the students responded with hands shooting upwards. Hands, attached to arms, attached to shoulders that tugged in their sockets from the jolt. Questions ranged from, “How did you get to be so great?” to “How can I be great too?”

From a corner she sat back, somewhat stunned the first time, but thoroughly amused by the third session and on. The questions stated “How do I become great?” but the subtext was clearly, “How can I get others to acknowledge my greatness?”

No one tries to gain recognition without first assuming they have something to be recognized for. Was power really about recognition? Were the people most prominently in the public eye simply the ones who needed the most validation? What undiscovered greatness existed that the world would never see because the owner desired no such thing? One had to wonder what the real motivation behind these huge successes was.

This man, who had done great things, scrambled each week for the attention, affection and approval of 19 year old students.

Someone Like Me

2005-11-01T08:37:00.000-05:00

She should have been studying. Instead she spent the evening watching a romantic movie. She had sighed and cried, just as any hopeless romantic would. Then, she started thinking - her philosophical side taking over.

She had convinced herself that these love stories were pure fiction. That people were unable to feel and act so freely. Why? Why, when behavioral patterns over the ages show that love and security are exactly what we want? The reason was that she also had observed so many wonderful people punishing themselves and hardening themselves to the world.

She scribbled in her journal, furiously:

I want to meet someone who is not afraid. I want to be madly in love without fear of hurt. I want to simultaneously know that the person to whom I have devoted my life is the one who makes it worth living and could completely wreck me. I want to have enough trust between us to know that he wouldn’t do that.

I want someone who will work when things are hard. I want someone who will commit the same amount of heart that I will.

I am so tired of not caring. I want to care. I want to feel. I want someone to feel with me. I don’t want a coat of armor. I want nerves and skin and heart. I want to touch someone and be touched in return.

I don’t want someone who is keeping his options open. I don’t want someone who is playing it safe. I want someone to dive in with me and risk it all. I want to make that risk the biggest payoff of his life.

I will find this. I will continue to live and feel, even when it hurts. I will not numb myself like so many I see. I will be so happy. I will settle for nothing less.

Now she understood what she wanted. The philosopher and the romantic were not intrinsically opposed. Human desire and rational process could actually work together. She would find what she was looking for.

Miracle Spring Water

2005-10-31T13:04:00.000-05:00

I seem to see the most interesting programs from my elliptical machine in the ungodly hours of the morning at the gym. Normally, I amuse myself by watching the guys walk around and lift heavy things. It's generally enough to observe the feather fluffing/mating rituals of the meathead (not that I'm opposed to sweaty muscled men...). Today though, I was in for a treat.

Somehow, someone had tuned the center television to the miracle network. For some reason I was under the impression that miracles were harder to come by, but apparently one can just turn on the tube and there are thousands (LITERALLY thousands) of miracles each day.

"How can I get a miracle for myself," you ask? Why the answer is simple: Miracle spring water. As I understand it, there's some sort of spring "out there" with fountain-of-youth-esque qualities. The people at the miracle network are bottling the water and sending it to you, free of charge!

Did I miss something here? Isn's salvation something that is supposed to be had after a lifetime of pious acts, doing unto others and various "other" whatnot? Admittedly, I'm a skeptic. "Not religious" is a giant understatement. Still, I try to respect the beliefs of others even when I disagree. Miracle spring water is a bit insulting, right? I mean, all you have to do is get a bottle, "add faith" and you're cured of cancer, debt, unhappiness...you name it! Doesn't Christianity preach personal accountability? How does drinking a bottle of water and getting a get out of jail free card enforce any of the values touted so heavily?

I suspect that there aren’t too many people who fall for this sort of thing, but I would argue that the few who do are the ones who are the furthest down on their luck. Aren’t these the people who need REAL help? Isn’t false hope ultimately even more damaging? If drinking a bottle of water was the solution, we’d all be doing it. I hate to watch people who could take real action to better their lives lured by the easy solution…the false solution.

You know what tends to be a good plan for solving one's problems? Discipline, logic and a supportive environment. Perhaps we should bottle that.

Busy-ness

2005-10-26T07:39:00.000-04:00

It's so obvious that I'm kicking myself for not seeing this sooner. Now, I'm not a linguist, but I'm going to submit a little theory.

Usually we can break words down into their roots and their inflectional endings to derive their meaning. Today, as I was describing how busy my yesterday had been, I wanted to literally say that I was compounding my "busy-ness." I then realized that the correct spelling for this word would be "business."

Correct me if I'm wrong, but that word means something slightly different from what I was attempting to say. Business is the word that we use to describe and define most of our capitalist units. Business describes the place in which the free market gears grind.

But where did the word come from? Is the root of business, busy? Does this mean that when I head to work, my selected career path is literally keeping my plate full, regardless of efficiency or added value? Does anyone have a sledgehammer that I can borrow to hit myself over the head with? (Aack...my grammar is going too!)

Why wouldn't we call it something more descriptive of our ideals? Efficiness. Qualiness. Integriness?

Is it possible that whoever named our free market functional units knew exactly what he was doing? It seems likely that in the face of all our insistence on "working to better the world," and "giving back," and "putting out a quality product for the smart consumer" stares the reality that we're just keeping ourselves occupied. The outcry of "I'm swamped!" is simply the proclamation that things are running exactly as they should.

My crazy head

2005-10-26T07:23:00.000-04:00

Well, I've just survived another one of my crazy Tuesdays. I'm starting to think that I'm going to lose it. What's funny is how much I love life right now. At the same time, I'm spreading myself just a little bit thin. Allow me to elaborate.

My Tuesdays go a little something like this:

Wake up. Head to Marketing department to grade/collate/key various assignments for the three classes for which I T.A. (yes, T.A. is a verb). Go to class. Go to lunch. Go to class. Go to mandatory career services meeting in which I am the one voice protesting, "There's another way to do this! Business does not have to work this way!" Head home for dinner/practicing guitar for the one free hour of my day. Trapeze class. Practice for band number one. Practice for band number two. Home and bed.

Yesterday's schedule was made worse by my self-imposed quest to get into an undergrad honors creative writing class. I was trekking all over campus trying to figure out who could sign what form to bend the rules and get me into the class. It'll be worth it if I can do it.

So yeah, that's what I'm up to on just about any given Tuesday. I love being in school.

Would anyone like to hire a marketing student who doesn't like to conform, secretly wants to be a rockstar (OK, not so secretly) and indulges herself through writing?

I'm it.

2005-10-23T22:08:00.000-04:00

My assignment (Thank you Jason Evans, author of The Clarity of Night - check him out):

1. Take first five novels from your bookshelf.
2. Book 1 -- first sentence.
3. Book 2 -- last sentence on page 50.
4. Book 3 -- second sentence on page 100.
5. Book 4 -- next to the last sentence on page 150.
6. Book 5 -- final sentence of the book.
7. Make the five sentences into a paragraph.
8. Feel free to "cheat" to make it a better paragraph.
9. Name your sources.
10.Post to your blog.

My result:

(and admittedly, I've cheated and picked 5 books I thought would be interesting. In fairness, they were readily accessible as I've read all of them fairly recently. Also, please, if you don’t want the ending of Cat’s Cradle ruined, please do not read this. The last sentence is probably one of the best, and most revealing, ever.)

Maman died today. It pleased him to set himself outside it, with his little vices and extravagances, as a queer fellow or a genius, but he never had his domicile in those provinces of life where the bourgeoisie had ceased to exist. They were targeted – first by Libyan terrorists, and then by liberal Democrats. Pittman experienced a number of problems, however, and reached only 24,000 feet before turning around. If I were a younger man, I would write a history of human stupidity; and I would climb to the top of Mount McCabe and lie down on my back with my history for a pillow; and I would take from the ground some of the blue-white poison that makes statues of men; and I would make a statue of myself, lying on my back, grinning horribly, and thumbing my nose at You Know Who.

I’ve left the sentences as I found them. The paragraph lacks some basic grammatical elements, but I couldn’t bear to change it. It has a rather comical and surprisingly fitting effect.

Sources:

Albert Camus, The Stranger
Hermann Hesse, Steppenwolf
Al Franken, Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them
Jon Krakauer, Into Thin Air
Kurt Vonnegut, Cat’s Cradle

I hope you’ve enjoyed!

For anyone who feels like joining, the more the merrier. I'm not one for tagging, but I'd be thrilled to hear about your results. It's an open invitation.

Should

2005-10-21T17:23:00.000-04:00

The water had been growing colder and colder as she cut through its black depths. She could see that she was approaching a strange light. It was almost as if she was sensing the light rather than seeing it. Some previously unknown sixth sense revealed itself to her. Now, as she began her final approach, the water started to warm. The pressure of the depth released and she could visualize that the light was actually coming from a very specific point. She reached out with both of her hands and tried to grasp it. Her hand passed through and she found that nothing was there.

That morning she woke with the knowledge that life was her choice. She wasn't like the birds because she had no set path - no pre-destination. She could act as she wished and become as great as she determined. She could change her mind. There was no "should," no "supposed to." She realized that searching for this elusive should would only lead her on a desperate journey through illusion.

She leaned back and inhaled a long, slow breath. She closed her eyes and cleared her mind. This was what freedom felt like.

...

2005-10-17T12:53:00.000-04:00

She opened her eyes into a sea of blue. She realized that she was neutrally buoyant. A few moments and she had adjusted herself. Her breathing was slow and calm. What was strange was that she didn’t float or sink with each respiration. She remained at neutral. A quick look at her hands revealed that she was still human. Her hands went to her face – no mask, no regulator. She was naked and streamlined. Her hair, normally uncontrollable, was a mass of clean ringlets. It was a writhing black fire that screamed what her otherwise reserved demeanor hid.

She felt completely lost, but she knew she had to swim. As she began a slow variation on the breast-stroke she found that her arms and legs were more powerful than ever before. Another quick check yielded no discernable change in her anatomy, yet her strokes moved her at the same pace as the surrounding life. Exhilaration spread through her like a slow heat. She couldn’t intake enough. She glided through coral beds and tailed schools of rays. Their bodies waved like the arms of a bird. In their wake she was a member of their flying “V”. She felt the instinct that she had envied so deeply of the birds overhead. She knew exactly where she was going. She couldn’t understand why or how, but she knew that she had to swim forward.

Her journey took her into the night. She swam deeper and deeper until the sun’s rays no longer lent any color to her environment. She started to register the phosphorescent glow of the bottom dwellers. Plankton swarmed around her head creating a glow that swam with her. From a distance she was a comet with her own tail of light. From even further away, her comet seemed to be speeding towards a light that pulsed from the greatest depths.

Search for North

2005-10-14T17:31:00.000-04:00

She often dreamt of rivers.

She wondered how birds knew which way to fly. With the beginning of fall millions of birds soared overhead. No maps, no compasses, no real goal besides warm. It was as if an internal magnet had turned itself and gone from pushing to pulling. Did the polarity of the earth shift? What was this instinct and where did it come from? How could she find hers?

In the spring the same ritual occurred in reverse. Pull turned to push again and the flock filled the air with cries that sounded like laughter. A perfect "V" injecting the lowest clouds with its movement. The swells of the earth went unnoticed in the hypnotic migration.

She wanted to know if they thought. Did they know where they were going before they got there? Did they simply arrive at a place and know that it was home? Maybe they knew where they were going because they lacked any real goal. Was it possible that her need for purpose was actually limiting her movement? She had learned to fly, but sat grounded for fear of choosing the wrong direction.

That night the river emptied her into an ocean. The current abandoned logic and ceased to choose for her.

Breaking Ground

2005-10-12T23:17:00.000-04:00

Alright, this is my first try at writing something legitimately (and directly) about me. I've been pondering whether or not it's a good idea for a little while now and I ended up deciding that it couldn't hurt to provide the reader with some insight on this self-proclaimed architect. Of course, the second I assume that there is a reader, I feel like I've been presumptuous. I can't say I'm sure if anyone really reads all of this. I just felt an urge to share and I tend to follow my urges, so here goes.

I started this blog with the purpose of staying creative. I am a graduate business student. I've worked for big corporate America and to put it mildly, it's not a "fit." Being in school has been great, but has also left me stifled on many levels. I've found that large corporations (and B-schools) proclaim thinking outside of the box, but adhere very closely to it in reality (see "Without any regard to the box, whatsoever" for my take on that). I have set out on a path where I will find risk averse, financially driven, game-playing people. I am none of these things. I realize that this will create something of a tough path. I'm up to the challenge, but I realize that changing things from the inside out will require my constant dedication.

True creativity is my goal. Writing is my passion (or maybe more generally - creative arts). I'm seeking to combine the two and by extension say something with purpose...something inspiring. I must confess that this type of writing is rather new to me. I've loved doing it, but you're watching a newborn take her first steps. I'm very pleased to have people along for the ride with me and I sincerely hope I do not disappoint. I aspire to create great buildings. Today, I'm breaking ground.

Taking Liberty

2005-10-09T21:22:00.000-04:00

There was something she loved about writing in the third person. The words were somehow more electric, more romantic without the, "I thinks, I dids, I ams." There was a certain anonymity and a distance placed between herself and her actions.

The liked the idea of being narrator to her own life. It added poetry [and a level of literary freedom] to otherwise mundane events. Now she was a character on a page. She might play the part of herione with the world as her damsel in distress. Perhaps she would need saving, but her tragedy could become beautiful.

She could place the perspective of observing herself through the eyes of another into each situation she had experienced. What was left out though, was the agonizing and the obsessing. What blazed true was her action. The internal struggle that led to eventual action dropped away entirely. It was her choice to include some mental process or eliminate any tug of war that she deemed unworthy of sharing. She no longer had to be human. She could elevate herself to goddess or paint herself as a pitiful creature.

Suddenly her experiences seemed newer, brighter, sharper, more exciting and the grass was effectively greener on her own side.

Just a little push

2005-10-05T23:27:00.000-04:00

She sat down across from a man old enough to be her father – probably older. There was a static of slight awkwardness to her movements. She had asked him here, not even sure why. It had been pure compulsion…instinct.

He smiled and folded up his paper. They began to talk. She knew that under his demeanor of smooth arrogance (a delicate mix) he was astonished. There was the mutual understanding that they were on to each other.

He told her that she was unapproachable, intimidating and often too powerful for most people to take. She told him that until a certain exchange a week ago, she had all but written him off. The proud admiration of two forces wise enough to recognize one another seemed to pulsate from their corner.

Twenty minutes later she strolled out of the diner. Her head tilted back as she inhaled the moist warm air. Others passed and saw a girl with a lazy smile and a sharp glimmer in her eyes. Her senses were heightened. She could feel her skin tighten as the sun baked it. Moving along, saturated with expectation, she knew that she was on the brink of something great.

Pablo's Eyes

2005-10-02T14:59:00.000-04:00

He painted eyes.

Yes, there were other parts, but that was what she saw. The eyes suggested such an intensity and connection that one had to wonder about each and every subject. Had he known them? What past had existed?

These eyes suggested inner torment, longing, the awareness of genius combined with the knowledge that it would be fully recognized by few. These eyes pled with the artist, "See me."

She felt that there had to be some intimate connection to capture a soul so accurately. Pablo's eyes seemed to beg the painter to express for them. Deep colors, exaggerated features balancing despite and because of each other, careful and strong strokes.

Was it possible for two men to have known each other so perfectly? How could he have known Picasso?

Fewer bad actors and more integrity...please!

2005-09-30T15:55:00.000-04:00

Amadeus. I watched this film last night. (Please note the use of the word film rather than "movie." This implies film snobbishness and therefore a greater credibility level on my part. Now that we've established that...) The timing was rather appropriate given my recent musical experiences. I've seen it a few times, and with each viewing, another layre is added. Mozart's music is absolutely beautiful. It makes you want to shut everything else out in order to experience its fullness. Unfortunately, with this viewing the new layre was less than beneficial.

Elizabeth Berridge. Where do I begin? How do I even attempt to describe her performance? It was horrible. Rumor has it that she was sleeping with the director. Honestly, there's no other sufficient explanation. Okay, maybe I can come up with one or two other possiblities. Back in 1984 it wasn't nearly as popular for actresses to artificially "enhance." The actress playing Costanza (Mozart's wife) needed to have a rather large rack for the role (see photo above). Given the small talent pool, Berridge got the part. Other possibilities...well, I'll stop there to avoid cruelty.

The point is that she was so terrible in the role that I grew to loathe her and each scene in which she had a part by the end of the movie. There we are, in Vienna, and "Stanzie" has bits of her upstate, NY accent peeking through. Her lines are delivered in a near monotone and her mannerisms are stiff and unconvincing.

Dear Hollywood "film" Directors,

I am concerned about the choices you are making. I understand that many of you are physically unattractive, but you must have some alternative means to getting laid. Here are some suggestions:

1. Buy sports car. The flashier and louder, the better.

2. Start rumor about the size of your member. Remember, size does matter. Any woman who tells you otherwise is simply trying to boost your confidence and is probably laughing with her friends about you.

3. Get into the porn industry. This way your criteria for choosing an actress is actually appropriate and appreciated.

4. Mail order brides.

5. Alcohol. Go out, get 'em liquored up and strap some beer goggles on her!

I appreciate your consideration of these options. I fully understand your urges, but I think we can turn this into a "win-win" if you simply pick one (or two! Double your poontang!) method and use that. This way, you will not deter from innocent movie-goers' (such as myself) entertainment experiences.

Yours Truly,
Kara

Mandolins from Jefferson, GA

2005-09-28T20:36:00.000-04:00

I am a musician. I can't even comprehend life without music. If anyone asks me when I started singing, the answer is "always." I played the piano, had a short stint in violin and switched to flute in the fourth grade. I loved it. I was dedicated. I haven't played my flute for months (and not regularly for years).

A few months ago I decided that I was going to learn to play the guitar. This would support my secret aspirations (brought on by too many roaring and writhing crowds) of becoming a rock star. My dad was eager to donate his first "real" guitar, a Guild D55 from about 1982. When it got to Athens, the action was way off and I was directed to "Tony in Jefferson" who could reset the neck for me.

Jefferson is not physically far from Athens, but it's a different world entirely. Athens is a liberal college town (go dawgs) with a population that waxes and wanes with the school year. Students have an array of bars to choose from on any given night and there's almost always some sort of special available for those who like beer, but don't have a ton of cash. I believe that one could eat wings on special every night of the week.

Jefferson is 20 minutes down a two lane road. A railroad runs parallel for a good part of the way. When your car passes through a cloud of dust, you almost expect to see a tumbleweed on the other side. Downtown is the crossing of two main roads. One left turn later, is Tony's street. I drive around back to a shed, otherwise known as "the shop." Tony welcomes me with a smile and a beard that belongs on a certain Christmas favorite. He immediately clamps the neck of my guitar onto his cluttered workbench, removes the strings and tells me what a nice instrument I have. Tony is a man who loves what he does. He goes on and on about fixing up instruments and how it was supposed to be more like a hobby, but he has more customers than time. He was featured in the Atlanta Journal Constitution and his work has been displayed at the Smithsonian in Washington D.C. He's more excited about the time that a bluegrass legend (don't ask me what his name was) played one of his mandolins. He then hands me one, not completely finished, and tells me to play it. I don't even play guitar yet, but this thing is beautiful. I tell him so, and he croons like a proud father. He then shows me "the" mandolin played by our hero who's name I cannot recall. Tony is passionate. Tony is sort of my hero at the moment.

As I drive home, without guitar for at least a week, I'm buzzing. I'm completely inspired. I've got Air in the CD player and my song comes on. This is the kind of song that makes me shudder it's so good. There have always been some chords that do that to me. I used to cry in choir. Barber's Adagio for Strings has the same effect. It's impossible to describe, but it's something so beautiful that you can only hope others might experience that same kind of feeling. The combination of the perfect chord and the slight buzz of a great expectation have me closing my eyes and rolling down the windows. The air is at about 90 degrees and my hair is standing completely on end. The smell is a subtle combination of dirt, grass and construction. This is wonderful. I am so happy.

Thanks Tony.

Katrina: First to Market

2005-09-27T09:21:00.000-04:00

I don't mean for this to sound like an "I told you so," but I suspect my intention isn't going to make the difference.

As I was watching the news (in subtitles) from my eliptical machine at the gym this morning, I was struck by a funny thought: Katrina has the first mover advantage. Rita isn't going to get the same attention or helpful response simply because of the timing. It seems that Rita has caused her fair share of damage yet people are still focused on Katrina. As a current marketing student, I couldn't help but compare this situation to free market competition between two businesses. The first to market with a new product often is the one who gains the largest market share. They simply beat the competition to the punch and therefore are able to seize the bulk of existing demand. When the second mover enters often consumers are already loyal to the intial company/product and do not wish to switch.

Now imagine that consumers (in this case, those who responded to Katrina and tried to help) have invested resources into the first product when the second mover enters. Not only do they hesitate to switch because of loyalty, they also do not have the resources remaining to invest in another product that is minimally different from the one they already possess. As discussed in an earlier entry, those who have donated to Katrina victims now have less with which to help the victims of Rita.

Does mother nature understand economics?

Goldfish

2005-09-25T13:46:00.000-04:00

one mississippi, two mississippi, three mississippi...

A moment's despair seems like an entire lifetime.

Bounty is endless. Famine is forever.

Einstein said that everything is relative. How can one interpret a single moment without understanding the relation of surrounding moments? What meaning does one piece have without the rest of the puzzle? Where does one step next when there is no discernable purpose behind forward momentum? Without reason do we become masses of kinetic and stored energy?

Eventually we won't get up that next hill. Slumped in a dip of the tracks. Taken by inertia. Awareness only reaching as far as a single breath.

A gust of wind. A wave of cool water. The flip of a fin towards the top of a mountain. All I can remember is motion. All can feel is now one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand...

now.

Paris vs Jessica

2005-09-23T09:26:00.000-04:00

Hmmmm, how can I put this gently and subtly....

I HATE JESSICA SIMPSON

I really do. At first I thought these feelings would fade. My knee jerk reaction to her name/image would cease to be. My intensity was simply a reverse infatuation and could not sustain itself. It turns out though, that my feelings are the same today as they were a year ago (and even further back).

As I share my feelings in conversation, the comment that I invariably hear is, "You must really hate Paris Hilton too." Not at all. I have no problem with Paris or any of her little posse. I do not care for her, and would not wish to befriend her. However, she does not embody the evil with which I associate Jessica. "But both Paris and Jessica profit from their stupidity!" They exclaim. I agree, but the problem is more complex than this.

A series of questions should suffice to explain what I see as a glaring difference:

Does Paris claim that she is wholesome?
Do little girls buy Paris' album?
Do little girls look at Paris' life on TV with her Barbie dream house and Ken-doll husband and think how they'd love to live that fairy tale as well?
Does Paris EVER say she's a role model?

It is not even relevant to further argue about Paris' shortcomings because we see that Paris is honest. Is she a little bit skanky? Absolutely. Does she try to pretend that she is not? Never. She goes out, drinks a bunch, gets "some" and all this while fielding an onslaught of phone calls regarding the cuteness of various accessories. Never has she tried to be an example for our girls. Never has she implied that she should be emulated in any way. She's just doing her thing.

Now let's talk about Jessica. There are two possibilities which might explain her mental process. First, perhaps she really is that stupid. If this is the case, then I simply feel sorry for her. The responsiblity is in the hands of the producers etc.

The second (and more likely) possibility is that she is actually playing a part. It has been suggested to me as if this actually excuses her behavior. I would argue that this makes her all the more vile. She has placed herself in a position where little girls and boys want to be like her (or be with a girl like her). She is sending the message to children that it is cute to be stupid. That boys will like you if you act stupid. Helplessness is virtuous.

Jessica was once asked in an interview whether or not it was an act. Her response was, "When I was growing up, boys always liked it when I acted this way." This is the clincher. She knows what she's doing. She's making money off of it. She's damaging impressionable little girls. Jessica Simpson is evil. She is decieving people for her own profit. She is without integrity.

I protest. Stupid is not cute.

The Effects of Friction

2005-09-19T22:57:00.000-04:00

It felt like popping a blister. She placed pen to paper and her insides gushed out. She didn't even know she had so much to say. She wrote until the callus that had finally healed formed anew [The callus was caused by too many A-B-Cs in elementary school]. What she found though, was not relief. Instead, a new drug. The rush that came from creating something so clean and honest fed another, guiltier pleasure.

Page after page she began. One or two sentences at the most and she found herself without another word left to say. The blister had been drained and what remained was an empty pocket that stung her. To apply any pressure to the wound yielded nothing but dissatisfaction and a cruel reminder of past pleasure.

She vowed that she would treat it in the morning. Neosporin and some comfortable shoes for a week should just about do the trick. After that, she'd climb the monkey bars and see if she could rub enough inspiration from the cold metal into a new bubble on the palm of her hand.

Trash and other heroes

2005-09-18T11:53:00.000-04:00

When my grandmother died, the only thing that kept be going was the fact that the garbage still had to be taken out.

Grandma had a heart attack. Test on Monday - better study.

The doctor should have had her on blood thinners. Do some dishes.

I'll never see her or speak to her again. Laundry needs to be folded.

Those little nuisances...those daily annoyances became the only things that could make me feel normal. I was consumed with grief, but the garbage reminded me that life would continue. I'd better keep going too.

The Labor of Man

2005-09-13T21:35:00.000-04:00

My father was a painter.

I once asked him why he painted. He told me that he had never really enjoyed it. Each painting was an excruciating process. He would close himself into a room and paint, almost continuously, until he had completed his work. He would eat little and sleep little. Hunched over a canvas and palette he would bear great physical pain. Tired muscles, cramped from holding the same [unnatural] pose for hours on end, were only moments [mixed with ounces of will] away from giving completely. Each painting was a challenge. Him against the impossibility of perfection. Each stroke would take him closer, but like the graph of f(x)=1/x desperately outstretched towards an axis, perfection (seeming decievingly within reach) was a cruel goal. The painting would eventually take its final shape and he would emerge from his prision, tired and hungry.

I once told him that I thought that men tortured themselves because they couldn't create life. I told him that men subconciously wished that they could construct something as perfect as another human being. To substitute, they would find these alternate creative outlets; outlets which in some ways simulated the pain of labor. In my father's case, he would create works of art, but the process of doing so was often nearly unbearable. He accepted that he would experience pain so that he could create this near perfect "life." In fact, he seemed to relish the pain. He laughed at me when I told him this.

I later asked him how he felt watching my mother go through labor. Was it hard? He told me he was glad it wasn't him.

My father was kind of an ass.

The psychology of a heartless bitch

2005-09-12T02:03:00.000-04:00

How do I feel about Katrina?

Do I care? Of course, but I'm just not that upset. What kind of ass doesn't care that thousands of people have died and are currently dying? A psychologist friend told me that this is normal. Apparently there are two kinds of people:

1. Those who are vulnerable to anxiety
2. Those who are not

It turns out that I'm not. The thought process goes a little something like this:

Event occurs. Person observes event and experiences emotional reaction. Person then responds to emotion with attempt at action (action is intended to right the situation). In the case where person finds that no action will have a real impact, person then resolves to accept the situation and move on.

In contrast, the person who is vulnerable would diverge at the point where he/she finds that no action can help. this person would be distraught and wracked by guilt.

The common perception is that person number one (our heartless bitch) is without sensitivity or compassion and is therefore a selfish person. The reality though is that both people are equally compassionate. The first person will only expend efforts where those efforts will actually reap a benefit for the victim. The person posessing said vulnerability would expend efforts regardless of result. One might argue that more efficient efforts will be made if one is selective with one's efforts. In addition, more resources (time, money, strength of will) are available with which to help. Imagine a person has $100. She can help 50 people for $2 a pop or she can help 2 people for $50 a pop. Which of these contributions will make a difference? By being selective and rational, resources will become more abundant. Now our rational person has achieved the ability to help out more often and with more impact.

Rational does not mean without heart. Rational is the controlled response to one's heart which resuilts in positive contributions. What help can one give if she is a pile of nerves?

Without any regard to the box - whatsoever

2005-09-11T15:48:00.000-04:00

BUSINESS SCHOOL:

The best decision of my life.
The best decision of my life?

What have I learned? How to calculate the time value of money. How to shake a hand. How to measure a human being. How to stay "outside of the box" (and in so doing, remain safely within the confines of groupthink).

I came here to do something more. I came here to find (or sharpen or use--whatever) the tools that would help me to improve the state of the world. Let's start though with the understanding that I already percieve the world as an amazing place. I don't mean amazing as in, "Halle, your dress is absolutely amazing!" or "Where did you get that fabulous pink handbag? It's amazing!" I mean amazing in the perfect science and order of it. When I think about evolution and the near perfection of the human body - That is amazing. When I think of all the little things we take for granted (like gravity or any sensation...touch, taste, love)--amazing. So amazing and so wonderful that the mind reels.

PREMISE: The world is already amazing.
CONCLUSION: It would therefore take something pretty spectacular to improve it.

And I thought that business school would be the right path?

Perhaps my heightened awareness will allow me to work within the confines of the [broken] system. I will shove my crowbar (or dynamite) into the cracks and watch it crumble. What will remain? Ideas and people...and now they will have no boudaries or red tape (or good ol' boys) to stop them. Of course I'll do all of this in my skirt and pumps...

...content to wear my secret tattoo and ready to ask anyone who'll listen if they'd call their sick newborn an "opportunity."