Musing: Snapshots

Lately, I've come to accept that some things are just disjointed. Events are not always fluid, but more often fragmented. And, sometimes there isn't a bigger picture, a broad theme, a crux, what have you. I wish there always was, though. I'm more of a holistic thinker, so I end up exhausting myself when I try to derive deeper meaning from even the most banal (in hindsight, of course) occurances in my life. I find myself repeating the questions Whydidthishappen, Whatdoesitmean, and Howwillthisshapeme all too often. And the majority of the time, those questions remain unanswered.

Throughout most of my life, I've desired it to be like a finely crafted novel. Rising action, plot development, character foils, me being the protagonist (with as few antagonists as possible), a thrilling climax, and then the subtle and billowy denouement as I tuck myself into bed each night. It rarely works that way, though.

But really, why should it? I've never been a fan of Modern literature (ie Virginia Woolf, not some hack like Stephanie Meyer), but you know, at least it's unpredictable. There is nothing formulaic about it, no particular conventions. And yes, it makes me feel stupid most of the time, but only because I expect a particular sequence of events. I want a plan. But then I think about it, and I realize that, well, there is no plan.

The truth of the matter is that sometimes we can't necessarily connect A to B, and B to A. I know this goes against Hume's theory, but I have trouble finding it believable at this point in time. I'd liken it to a disposable camera. You keep it with you at all times, to capture things you find interesting, or moments you want to save. You have the film developed when it's empty (pardon my lack of photo-terminology), and you get to see everything you've done. In one shot you've captured a family of, say, muskrats, and the next is a picture of your friends at a rave. They follow each other sequentially, but they have nothing in common besides the roll of film they shared. There isn't necessarily some shared meaning, or any meaning, really, behind any of the photos, and that's OK. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. And, lately, I feel like that's what life is really like. A roll of film on a disposable camera. You capture moments through and throughout it, and when you're old and out of film, you try to piece it all together, but you can't. But my, some of the pictures are just so pretty.

So, a few snapshots of the past week:

Picture 1: The Big Eel

My family and I were on vacation, stopping for breakfast before we visited the Wright brothers memorial. Stopped at a kitschy beachcomber's delight. As I was perusing the menu, I looked to my left and saw several snot nosed children running up to a small aquarium, poking and pushing their way to the front. Able to peer over their curly and matted ringlets, I saw a large moray eel lying on the faux-sand floor. I hoped for its sake that it had never actually lived in the ocean, that way it wouldn't have to feel so hopeless and trapped all of its life. Found it ironic that it was living this confined existence so close to the place where two brothers freed us from being bound to the land. I asked my dad if he thought that eel was actually living. Deftly, he defined life as "eating and excreting," so yes. I lost my appetite.

Picture 2: The Yellow Corvette

The other day I was headed home from a volunteer event, and I heard a steady rumbling from behind. It grew louder, finally turning from white noise to a beastly lemon-colored convertible. It was a corvette. A balding man was driving it, top down, music up. His wife was to his right, her hair an auburn and silver streaked ribbon in the sky. The yellow was a bit too bold for my tastes, but they both seemed happy. I then wondered what I had in my life that was a great distraction, but couldn't think of any at the time. I'm still looking for my yellow corvette.

Picture 3: "Love Thy Neighbor"

Same night, at the actual volunteer event. For once, I decided to give back to the community by raising money to help fund art and education classes for prisoners. It was a church related thing, but somehow I saw past that and determined that it was a good cause. Maybe if they'd been educated beforehand and been able to fall in love with knowledge, they wouldn't have chosen the path of crime. I sold pizza and gave out pins at the door. There was another guy volunteering that night, I'd say around 50 years old. We had nothing to talk about, so of course he asked me about school. He seemed OK, he had on a shirt that had an embroidered "Love Thy Neighbor" on the front. Asked me what my major was in school. To keep it short, I just said Spanish. Then he asked me if I wanted to work on a farm. The irony made me want to regurgitate my mozzarella.

Picture 4: "Do You Remember Me?"

The other day I was at work, flustered, frizzy, and feeling a little fat. It was 95 degrees outside and I was wearing long black pants and a dark shirt in a building sans air conditioning. Flies buzzed around me like some ambient-industrial dreck, and my cheeks began to flush. And then he came in. The one who was older, cooler, and smarter. The one who, several years prior, dropped me in an instant, and never spoke to me again. I still cringe remembering the day, on his birthday, calling him and wishing him a happy birthday, and hopinghewashavingagreatdaybecausehereallydeservedit Oh, and a maybeifyou'refreesometimewecanhangoutagain! He hadn't called me for about a week then. Fucking dick. Fucking me. I knew he was sitting around with all of his friends, playing the message some pathetic and head over heels 16 year old girl left him. I wanted to see him again, just so I could say something mean, something cruel, something that would make him regret, something that would make him think, Damn, I chose the wrong girl to make a misandrist. Brought his strawberries to the counter; this was it. I tried to pretend like I didn't know him, and after a few tense moments (my sweaty fingers couldn't manage to open a paper bag), he asked if I remembered him, Savannah. My mind drew a blank, I had no arsenal. My pathetic response? Yes, I remember you, Jack. Smiled, and then left. And I felt like I was 16 again. Embarrassed and pink.

Musing: Disease, Rasputin, and Thom Yorke

I come from a family of optimistic hypochondriacs. We carry more varieties of cough drops in our pockets than we do coins. No, the Halls didn't work, but I sure hope the Ricola does! Sometimes, my family will chew on Tums as candy (it's tasty and helps the heartburn, which they always have). Unfortunately, I can't separate myself too much. When I was younger I always wanted to have hemophilia, that way I could be one step closer to being a Romanov. Hey, I loved fabriche eggs, ornate ball gowns and the Peterhoff Palace. I considered changing my name to Anya or adding a -schka to the end of my name, but, after much perusing of the characters in Russian classics, decided that I should just stick to the hemophilia instead. I already bruised like an overripe peach, and consecutive consonants weren't really my thing. You see, the littlest Romanov, Alexei, had hemophilia and was healed by Rasputin (Alexandra was a carrier of that toilsome disease). And then I realized that internal bleeding isn't cool, and Russian mystics with long beards gave my nine year old mind nightmares. So, I bought the Anastasia soundtrack instead...it quenched my thirst for Rusky heritage, but not my desire to have some kind of health problem, albeit nothing too serious, just things about which I could complain and could continue to do so for the remainder of my long life.

More recently, when I had mono, I was prescribed steroids. I had quite the rash, you see (think hot pink hives covering almost the entirety of my body), and they were supposed to make my skin heal up quicker...But, I didn't fear the potential weight gain. And I didn't fear the word itself, although I must admit steroids come with quite the stigma nowadays. Actually, I didn't fear anything about them...I looked forward to the possible and rare side effect being...mania! This was the point in my life when I was a depressed loon, and Thom Yorke was, at that point, really cool to me. He has mania, and is depressed (bi-polar, actually) and hey...he practically trips out at every one of his performances, his mind being his drug. And fuck, I wanted to be grandiose with excess creative energy. I figured it would be the only excuse I would ever have to write crazy avant-garde shit and actually get away with it. "Now, what inspired you to write this piece of poetry," Ann Curry would ask. "Well," I would say, clearing my throat, and sipping my coffee (black, of course), "it was during one of my manic stages." She would squint her eyes, intrigued. "And what was that like?" Dramatic pause, a casual glance to the ceiling, eyes returning to Ann, though purposely distant. "Well, it's hard for me to say." Always enigmatic, always the literary savant: the hypomanic artiste. Suffice it to say, the rash healed and I was just moody for a month. Oh, and I dyed my hair two shades darker. No grandiosity, just melodrama.

Right now I have three mosquito bites in an odd formation on my left thigh. I'm wondering if I'll contract some rare form of malaria, or if they're a skin manifestation of crop circles, and if I keep scratching eventually some neon green alien will emerge from my bites and kidnap me, and take me to Xrzytlkmn, his space ship. It would take more than an ocean of calamine lotion to get rid of that guy.

Now I'm going to bed. I don't have sleep apnea, but I do sleep talk and walk and throw. I used to think that it was bullshit when guys like Steven Steinberg would say that they couldn't be held responsible for stabbing their wife 26 times and killing her because they were "asleep." And I still do to a large extent, but I'm responsible for throwing objects at people in my sleep. Once this past year I threw my pants across the room at my roommate's face because I complained of the heat. I woke up sans pants and was immediately worried, only to find them splayed across my roommate's face. Then I was more worried. Sometimes I wonder if I didn't have those near me what I would have thrown instead. Eek!

Musing: Lolita, Mexicans, and Won ton Soup

I sit here, poolside, writing this little number, quite enjoying the warm lounge chair I've recently usurped from my little cuss of a cousin. My cussin, if you will. Anyhow, I've finished my first ambitious summer read, that being "Lolita" by Vlad Nabokov. I've already finished the Poe, but that doesn't count, he's more of a soporific bedtime story for me. The book was entertaining, although after reading certain passages I felt the need to wash my hands. Pedophilia can be a rather uncomfortable read, you know. After awhile, you begin to feel like you're the one messing with a child's genitalia. HH admittedly was a pervert, however at times I did laugh at his quite witty and dark social commentary. Moreover, I was pleased to find that there wasn't much sexual symbolism and metaphor in his work (given the time period, I figured the Freudian voodoo would run rampant, but to my delight I found that Nabokov despised Freud and psychoanalytic psychology almost as much as I do, but perhaps I just have penis envy)...so when Humbert fondled Lolita, that's really all he did. Nice.

Anyway, I apologize for the banal review of a stellar piece, but I wanted to seem productive and ambitious before I venture into the bigoted existence of my grandfather. In secret, I fear it being assumed that I am also a bigot by association. I know that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, but I hope that the apple that grew on the tree from the seeds of aforesaid apple falls further. Although, I would be lying if I said that his politically incorrect comments weren't the least bit funny.

Before I continue, I need to inform you of a few things. First of all, I'm vacationing in Nags Head, North Carolina with my family. For a week. My grandfather lives in Raleigh, which is approximately a three hour drive from the beach house. Considering that this past Sunday was Father's Day, my mother thought it best to visit him for the day. Oy. However, given the fact that the man did pay for my car and college tuition, I assumed it would be rather ungrateful and inconsiderate for me to not pay him a visit on this special Day of (grand)Dads. So, we stopped at a nearby inexpensive clothing shop, bought him one of those rather hideous hawaiian t-shirts and a father's day card that was almost as abundant in triteness as it was in metallic and italic lettering.

You see, he's a rather senile man now, his only interests being the Weather Channel and Rush Limbaugh (even though he is a democrat, but only because they did not free the slaves. He still regularly donates money to the GOP and refuses to call Obama his president. I kid you not.) So, unless I want to discuss cumulonimbus cloud formations or conservative media, I dare not open my trap. However, do not merely cast me aside as being ageist. I love my sweet and petite grandmother, Nezzie, to pieces and could spend hours doing crossword puzzles with her and watching TLC's "A Wedding Story." My grandfather, however, is a rather cold man who, for his cancer-ridden son's past birthday, sent him nothing. Funny then, that he was able to completely remodel his home and buy a new candy apple red Cadillac. But that is neither here nor there (I suppose).

So, my mother, the genial woman that she is, decides that we must embark on our journey early in the morning (for me, it was more akin to the Trail of Tears) and engage in "mother-daughter quality time." And, you know, that was nice. We listened to ABBA and discussed big corporations' dominion over the small farm community. We also discussed our favorite Johnny Depp haircuts. Mixing the deep with the vapid is something we do quite well.

And then, we arrived. And there he was, the 6'4" crotchety old man, standing in the middle of the driveway. For description's sake (he is a funny sight), I'll give you a little insight into his appearance. He is thin, and has knees that refuse to lock, so from the side he looks quite similar to a paranthese. His skin is the color of an uncooked turkey and has little to no elasticity. I would never know this otherwise, but he refuses to wear anything other than bermuda shorts. His unmatched socks are pulled up to his knees, only to be partially covered by his vanilla orthopedic shoes. His bald forehead (though, quick aside: a vain man, he decided to get hair plugs once and they were fastened in incorrectly, so the top of his head had an infection and began pussing and bleeding, and he had them removed. Now all that is left are the stubby remnants of vanity gone awry) is covered with a red baseball cap with a conservative group to which he belongs embroidered on the top. The lenses of his thirty year old glasses are about four inches thick, but they are endearing in a geeky and pathetic way. One might call his outfit "cute," actually.

Breathing deeply and dry-swallowing several aspirin, I got out of the car.

"W-we-well, Hi theyuh, Miss....uh...li-little lay-dee." The word salad had grown immensely.

"Hi, Grandpa Bill! How are you?" I winced, but stuck my arms out for a familial embrace. And, to my chagrin, he didn't almost collapse my ribcage in the process.

"I'm doin, doin' well, shoog. And Miss Pam (my mother), how are you?"

To spare you the length, I'll cut out certain dialogue. He quickly invited us inside, but told us that they were remodeling the house and everything was very unkempt. Unbeknownst to us, he has moved back into his home--he was once in an assisted living facility, but decided to return home because their soup was bland and there weren't many women he liked. My dad (who arrived a day earlier, my parents are divorced) sauntered out to the yard and pulled me aside, telling me that while he unpacked several of his bags, he found dozens of pistols, shotguns, and rifles, some dating back to the World War I. In his bag. That he had with him at the Old Folks Home. When we checked him into the place some years ago, we found several oddities in his bag including Magnum (get it?) condoms, KY jelly, a package of unopened "love briefs," and a cologne that was allegedly an aphrodisiac. We also found one shotgun, and swiftly took it home....Dad was shocked when he found all of the other firearms. A firearm is just as dangerous with an old person as it is a blind man, or even a little boy with ADHD. Or really, it's just dangerous period. But that's another story.

We enter, and as promised, the house was a mess. Susan, or as my grandfather calls her, Lil' Susie, hastily (or as hasty as her corpulent legs will permit) greets us with a faux smile, pink lipstick on her front teeth. She is younger than my father, and my grandfather is almost ninety. He has a lot of money, and somehow I doubt they share a mutual interest in cumulonimbus clouds. Fishy, yes. Do not cast me aside as overtly cruel, but I do not trust her at all for obvious reasons. "Oh, dear," she crooned, "if it isn't y'all arriving right now! Look how old you are! Pam, I love your shoes!"

We proceed to engage in the typical introductions and "how nice to see you's," and then commence the tour of the "new and improved" home. We first go into my dad's childhood room, now painted eggshell. Susan explained that she had some trepidation (ha!) about taking down his airplane wallpaper and tossing out his old things, but told the contractor to Go Ahead With It!, assuming that my dad wouldn't mind. Sweet woman. And then, we give Grandpa Bill the gifts. He loves the Hawaiian shirt (Sue remarks how much she loves bamboo) and pretends to read the card (I know he didn't read it for he left his glasses in the kitchen), and says thank you. And then, my dad, slightly resentful toward his oh-so doting father gives him a pair of Crocs. Happy Father's Day, Dad. Sue, obnoxious with her digital camera, captures this Kodak moment of male bonding and suggests that Bill put on the Crocs! With the shirt! Because they will look so nice together, boo-boo. That is her term of endearment for Bill.

And, seeing that it is 4:30, it is approximately time for dinner. Bill has a penchant for won ton soup, says Suze, and that if it was alright with us (how accommodating), we should go to a Japanese Steakhouse for dinner. I wanted to correct her ignorance immediately, and inform her that Japanese people don't do "won tons," that's Chinese, but I figured I would let her learn on her own.

On the way, we go under a recently constructed pedway. As we pass it, Bill so graciously says, "those damned democrats spent five million dollars of our tax payin' money on that damned bridge, and I never see nobody usin' it." My dad rolls down the window and points to a man riding his bicycle across. "What," he sneers, "that looks like some damned indian riding a bike with a feather in his hat. And close that damned winduh, I hate air." Playing along, my dad suggests the "indian" is a communist. My grandfather agrees.

We arrive at the Steakhouse, and don't have to walk very far at all. I must say, handicapped permits are quite incredible. Sit down, and begin perusing the menu. Bill doesn't need a menu though, he's having the won ton soup. While looking at the description of the vegetarian hibachi dish, I smile to myself. Our waitress comes to take our orders, and she gets to Bill. Susan speaks for him. "And he'll have the WON TON SOUP." She says this loudly and slowly, for obviously a foreigner can't comprehend English very well.

The waitress shakes her head. With eloquence, she says "we don't have won tons here, sir. This is a Japanese restaurant."

Bill has her repeat this several times. My pink cheeks begin to metastasize and soon my entire face is red in embarrassment (although I was still somewhat tickled). "Well I'll be damned," he finally mutters. "Then, uh...then uh...hell, just give me some white rice."

After the waitress leaves, Susan shakes her head in disbelief, feigning sympathy for her dear old boo-boo. "I'm sorry, Bill," she simpers, "who would have thought that a Japanese place wouldn't have won tons?"

To that, I wanted to sharply say that arrogantly assuming that since two groups of people are homogeneous in appearance that their food must be identical as well was not only insulting, but also ignorant. Alas, I held my venomous tongue.

Dinner was served, and my grilled and soy sauced veggies were delicious. Conversation was great--Dad and I discussed epistemology as well as Tyra Banks. Again, the juxtaposition is thrilling. Occasionally, Bill would butt in and gripe about the blandness of his white rice (imagine that!), but it's fairly easy to tune him out.

The drive back to the home was a bit different, though. Bill begins discussing the remodeling project. Susan has to stop to clean the front windshield. And then, in true Bill fashion, he begins discussing and denouncing minorities. This time, it's the Mexicans, or as he likes to call them...the Mexis. "Those damned Mexis," he scowls, "they can't speak any English, and they take so god damn long to do anything at the house. I reckon they stole from me, too...damned illegals."

Susan gives her clever quip, "yeah, I know, boo-boo. I can't understand how they have licenses either. They are terrible drivers in their trucks, and they all pile in together, it's a wonder to me."

I chime in, just to see how far I can take this. "Yeah, they probably just steal those, too."

"Damn straight," says Bill, "and them and their damned old crotchrockets (that's what he calls a motorcycle) they park in my yard. Damned tacky Mexi's. I-I say."

"Yeah, Bill," she laughs, "those are some awful vee-hick-ulls. Nothin' like yours."

"You got that damn right," this time, he throws his liver spotted hands into the air, "I drive a damned Cadillac, and they got their crotchrockets."

At this point, the racism and ignorance has lost its horrid sting and has become delightfully absurd and hilarious. I cannot contain my laughter any longer. I cackle and shriek, and then Bill and Susan join in, she so tenderly shaking her round head in reverence, "those damned Mexi's."

Wait, did we just bond?

The evening wound down to long winded conversations about Amelia Earhart and her drunken mechanic (Bill was quick to say that she was not a fine aviator, but an aviaTRESS, and not even that fine in the least, she crashed. Although he conveniently omitted the fact that as a pilot himself, he had crash landed several times in his career), and how he hated the outdoors because mosquitoes with their "damned proboscis" (or as he pronounced, "pro-BASS-uhs) would bite him all the time. Always the scapegoat, my mom said that it was time to go, for I was about to fall asleep. And for once, I didn't mind playing that part. The zucchini was beginning to get to me almost as much as the old raconteur's verbose stories.

The duo bade us adieu from their eggshell home, and we were free at last. Now, please point me in the direction of my 40 acres and a mule.

Nabokov said he was inspired to write Lolita after he read a story about a chimpanzee's first drawing. Said simian creature chose to draw the iron bars in which he was imprisoned. And today, the first access I've had to a computer in days, I chose to write about the encounter with my grandfather. Funny the things we choose to convey to others.

Dream: Air

The waiter placed the black holder on the table. "Split right down the middle?" he asked.

They slowly responded "...yes."

She grabbed the to-go bag, molding the shape of her curved fingers to the container, and then handed it to him, looking to the corners of his almond eyes for some sort of sign. Awkwardly, she raised her now free hand into the air. "I'll see you soon," she sighed. The spaces between her fingers were all too empty.

A dry kiss on the cheek, and then they parted, right down the middle.

Musing: Sylvia, Lightning, Bad Weather in general

I gave you my warning
My white lighted warning
but still you chose to stay

Oh, how sweet! you thought
I expected red but it is not
perhaps she will let me go quietly away
A flash of peace, a sign of surrender
What a kind, genteel lady
Look at these sparkling drops
So refreshing and soft
To Keep me cool and comfortable on my way

I strike my cane at the absurdity of your thought
Long, white, sparking like an eel
You are naive, As if
I would ever grant you some sort of reprieve
For strike I will
Cut your small rosy lip on the jagged edge of your well worn windowsill
that your "soft little drops" did make.

Don't be surprised
If my strike blinds your beady eyes
Don't be surprised
If my shout makes you cry

the storm will eventually go away
but for now my sound billows
wetter than a weeping willow
And you, skinny sir, are no one to save.

I gave you my warning
My white lighted warning
but still you chose to stay

Musing: Clouds

Few things make me happier than seeing two ivory heads peaking out and bobbing back and forth in the rear view window of a Buick. I don't even mind the fact that the driver is going five miles under the speed limit, I'm fascinated by the heads moving in a rhythmic fashion in the backseat, like two doves cooing on a power line. I wonder what they're singing, if it's Frank Sinatra, Waylon Jennings, or maybe even the Big Bopper. It has to be something great, otherwise they wouldn't have curly hair brighter and whiter than the clouds. When I'm older, I hope my head is forever in the clouds.

Musing: The Good, The Bad, and Morgan Freeman

Sometimes, I have difficulty starting these off. My mother thinks that Denzel Washington is a stud. Well, that was a start. Kind of. Personally, I find Denzel OK at best; I much prefer Morgan Freeman. Let's be honest, Denzel doesn't get the phone call to play God, it's Morgan all the way. But again, that's neither here nor there. But it's a start nonetheless. Wow, that word looks strange. In case you couldn't tell, the discussion pieces I have in mind are akin to snow flurries in a fierce blizzard. So, I'll take a deep breath and try to make sense out of my snowglobe mind. Maybe when everything settles to the floor I will be able to see again.

First of all, I was told recently that it makes me "pathetic" to take pride in my appearance, and that I am nothing more than a poseur in my "colorful scarves" and "big sunglasses." And additionally, that wearing said garments along with an occasional skirt make me a "slut." Same person said that my desire to someday live in a larger city is also "pathetic" and said that I'll wind up alone because I value being successful and my "image" more than I do others. And to that I say, I don't even wear big sunglasses!

But I jest. My actual response (Granted, this was all sent to me in text message and internet-message form, so the blow was quite softened by my incredulity that someone would have the gumption to assassinate my character via the web)? Well, I didn't have one. It wasn't worth it to me. I could have dished back several catty and bitchy one liners (I should be good at those because I am one, apparently), but that would have meant having to suffer the throes of even more miserable belligerent bashings. Although, I did want to respond when said person told me that I "ruin peoples lives," but again, not worth it. And to be honest, I don't think I should be given that much credit. I don't actually think that many people should, except for maybe Adolph Hitler, Robert Mugabe, and Kim Jong Il. However, I must admit that I haven't written mein own Kampf (ha), I don't starve others, I don't kill others, and I'm not currently creating my own nukes. So please, spare me the ruination characteristic. While I appreciate honesty, I loathe dramatics. I'm not morally devoid, and I don't have an evil sounding name...it could never work even if I tried.

I could delve into why that subject even arose, but that would mean that I would know why I was subject to the incessant buzzing of my cell phone, and the arsenal of "pops" that were fired on to my facebook page. The most I can muster is that said person was upset with a decision, or series of decisions, I suppose, that I made, and therefore I am a monster. But changing one's mind and making mistakes doesn't make one a monster, it makes one human. Unless you're Frankenstein. Then you're fucked.

Suffice it to say, the buzzing has ceased, and the pops have silenced (I was swiftly and soundly deleted, how gratifying that must have felt), but one thing does linger in the back of my "cold and calculating" mind: what makes someone bad? And for that matter, what makes someone good?

I have a list compiled for your pleasure.

GOOD: Honest, Respectful, Responsible, Kind
BAD: Dis- to everything listed above (to which the prefix is applicable, mind you), then the antonym of the rest.

But, my dilemma is here: in certain instances, any of my "good" attributes can be "bad." For example, I'm generally an honest person, but my "honesty" can be taken as "blunt" and "cruel." If one is respectful to a "bad" person, and allows them to be "bad" and engage in said behavior, how does that make you good? And, you can be a bad person and be responsible. And kindness can involve dishonesty. Well yes, that skintight velour pantsuit looks great on you, Suze. Yeah, go for the rhinestone-monogrammed rear, that's fantastic!

See?

While I'm a bit of a cynic, I don't necessarily agree with Hobbes in his notion that life is nasty, brutish, and short, and that we're all born these wicked individuals. I do think we're given certain circumstances at birth, but we free-thinking individuals are able to make choices. And yes, people make bad ones occasionally. But does that make their person bad, or was it the choice that was bad? There is no such thing as a "universal," dude.

I also find that whenever someone is "bad," it is a reaction to a "bad" act placed upon them. Maybe I wouldn't have received a plethora of harassing messages had I not hurt them, and maybe I wouldn't have hurt them had I not been hurt the same way before. And that makes me wonder if there is such a thing as a bad person, but rather a world of broken people trying to cope and protect their own wounds.

I don't think that we are inherently bad, but I don't necessarily think we are born good either. Blank. Tabula rasa, if you will. Gravity gets us down, things inevitably fall and break, and occasionally scrape us in the process. It's how you mend the scrape that matters.

Musing: The Umbrella

Sometimes I wonder how much rain an umbrella can stand before it just
snaps.
Surely there is some point when the rain just becomes so heavy, and the umbrella so soaked that it finally sighs and says, "I've had enough."
That moment when the final liquid bullet loses its shape and collides into it, and the umbrella knows that it is done stinging for another. For good.
And then it willfully collapses, and all of the dirty water that it has protected from its owner
pours, splashes, cascades upon, drenches, and drowns the greedy owner.
As he chokes on the brown water, he painfully gurgles to the voluntarily broken instrument, "Why?"
The broken umbrella does not respond, and the rain continues to pour.
Oh, how it stings.

...And that is called "revenge."

Musing: "From the great deep to the great deep he goes."

Two points to the person who knows from where my title comes. Maybe even five. Anyway, this is going to be a rather short entry, as my attention span in the summer is shorter than the memory of a flea. And I'm going to be abrupt. No nice segues, transitional paragraphs, nada. It is what it is.

I wonder what it looks like when a whale dies. Do the sea creatures nearby stop and pay their condolences as the 10-ton creature sinks deeper and deeper into the great abyss, like it's the passing of a great king? Or, does the whale fall slowly and steadily like a snowflake in winter, languidly losing its illumination as it creeps closer and closer to the pitch floor, where, when it falls, it is invisible and silent?

Maybe the sea floor isn't of sand and silt, but rather a menagerie of fallen sea kings.

Dream: "Deriving Order from the Chaos that is my Unconscious Self," or "Bullshitting Nonsense."

"You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one." -John Lennon

Well, imagine that. Haha. I hate quoting others, and generally only defer to them when I am not feeling creative enough to create an enticing introductory sentence on my own. And, while reading some of my college papers this afternoon, I realized that I rarely feel creative. At least for school. But, in my defense, why would one ever feel compelled to strenuously use the right side of their brain when in a mind numbingly boring Business Admin 101 class?

However, I digress. Hopefully, from my casual quote from the ultimate sunglasses wearing male artist (sorry, Bono, you are undeserving of such esteemed title, why don't you grow up and finally get a last name) you may wonder, why, why, why am I mentioning him, and that quote so specifically? And, I'm not going to bother being cryptic. This entry is about my dreams. And not my long-term goals, mind you. I'm talking about the images and dialogue that occur in my mind when I'm asleep. Whether you believe them to be random neural firings or the surfacing of the illusive and elusive Id, or neither, they are rather fascinating, aren't they? And, being the overly analytical young woman I am, I want to know what they mean; their significance. Are they poignant, foretelling, or nothing? Well, not "nothing." I won't accept that as an answer; that's too easy.

So, for the past three days, I have been keeping a dream journal. I set my alarm to wake me up at 5:30 AM, and my leather bound journal is the first thing to which my hand reaches; my left grabs the pen. I write down immediately what occured in my dream, or dreams, if I am so lucky to remember them all. Sloppily, I scribble down various phrases and images, thrust the book and pen aside, and then retreat into my sheeted nest. When I wake up (usually around noon!), I try to make sense of them. And now I'm writing them on here, because I think they are quite interesting when you really try to analyze them (sans Freud, thank you), and I encourage you all to do the same!

5/30/09. Double Helix.

Parts: Chain links over my body, swingsets, pink tiled bathtub, sore throat, bunsen burners, large academic hall, purple fox in a forest

Analysis: Actually, I don't know what the fuck this means. I wrote a poem describing it, but reading it now it really pisses me off (the pretension reeks even more than the shitty meter), so I'm going to spare you the groans. The literal link between the chains on my body and the swingset was that the links were identical. Which made me think, OK, this is representative of me feeling confined to my body, and how sad it is that I think I am really free to do whatever I want. Ambition is a swing seat, and reality is a chain that keeps it from flying off into the sky. Reality can eventually break, though. But then you don't even have a swing.

5/31/09. Sandy Vinegar Cake.

Parts: stormy beach in Nebraska, lemonade container filled with vinegar, birthday cake made of sand and vinegar, a kiss while discussing feeling uncomfortable, iron chairs.

Analysis: For the whole sandcake deal (sounds like a sandwich with icing and...cake...), the obvious interpretation is that even "sweet" things (both literal and figurative) crumble. To expound upon that, since this cake was a birthday one, I could also venture to say that (and this gets tricky, and I apologize for my excessive parantheticals, I abuse the privelege far too frequently) even age and time are worn away by age and time.

Now, to spice things up a bit. The vinegar aspect. According to my notes, the cake was delicious (in my dream, my mother told me to use only the finest Nebraska vinegar, so I caught it in a lemonade glass), so clearly it didn't make things too bitter. The saying goes that you catch more flies with honey than you do vinegar, right? And to that, I say I dislike flies and would rather be cruel and therefore fly-free.

But anyway, with what do we catch vinegar? And for that matter, I caught it with a container of something sweet. Which makes me wonder, then, is it possible that something bad can derive from something initially good? And my answer is yes, look at the Evangelicals.

6/1/09. clouds.

Parts: OK, so I hit snooze this morning. I woke up at 11 AM and all I could recall were clouds. So here is a creative little ditty that describes the death of my faith these past few years!

Little Ditty: They always looked soft from below(where I stood)below seemed harsh and dark. I lived hoping they'd be my eventual eternal pillow, along with an endless cornflower blue blanket. And then I read in a book one day that clouds are just air. Where do we sleep when we die? I don't know, I've stopped believing in the sky.




OK, so now my glands are even more swollen and I am sufficiently more miserable. I'm downing my sorrows in NyQuil and hopefully having some more colorful dreams without interruptions. Or I hope so. Those bastards who advertise it better not be lying to me.

Dream away!