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!