Remember when staying home alone was absolutely the coolest thing you could do when you were like, 8? When you broke into the sugary cereals and that stash of Oreos your mom hid for herself and didn't know you had found? Remember when being left home in middle school was awesome because it meant watching all those crappy cartoons that were on while your parents normally watched the news or other adult-y shows? Remember in high school when being left home alone was the best because you could make all the bad decisions you couldn't make when your parents were there?
REMEMBER WHEN BEING HOME ALONE WASN'T THE SCARIEST THING IN THE WORLD?
Here's the story.
I'm in my new apartment in my new town, listening to old punk rock and web surfing for night stands and rugs. The album of old punk rock runs out, which is fine. Quiet is nice, too. It's odd, I usually have my iPod on 'Repeat All' but that's okay. I'll turn it on if the quiet starts bothering me.
Then there's a bump in the hallway. And another. And another right in front of our door. The handle bumps and jiggles. There's shuffling about in the hallway. There's another bump.
"Hello?" I call. Maybe my roommate got back and couldn't get her keys out.
*Mumble grumble* says the hallway in a deep, masculine voice. Not my roommate.
The shuffling in the hallway continues; I become acutely aware of my lack of defense weapons. I'm getting lightheaded from holding my breath. I count to ten and let it out, then go toward the door. The shuffling shuffles away.
There's an Amazon package on the doormat. And one at the door across the hall. I laugh, grab the package, and go back inside, being sure to lock the door.
I get back to my computer, I keep surfing the web, la da da da da.
Then THIS starts playing out of the dead silence with the great acoustics of an empty apartment.
And I'm practically in tears.
Now, I'm blogging about it, and I'm laughing, but still practically in tears. Oi vey. So now I remember what a racing heart feels like.
Somehow, when you're supposed to be the adult, when you don't have the protective figure granting you independence, and you're just the one who's supposed to be in charge, you feel a lot more vulnerable.
Being home alone now is much less fun than when I was 8, 12, or 16. Now it's not about the freedom, it's about the responsibility. Amazing how growing up does that to you.
On a final note before I get back to surfing: Congratulations, New Found Glory. You've successfully pranked me like no one else ever has.
Thursday, August 15, 2013
Friday, July 19, 2013
2:40 am
I am entirely convinced that everything happens for a reason. There is a design to life and each moment is some small piece of that design, like tiles in a mosaic.
So there's got to be a reason I woke up at 2:40.
I wasn't woken up, nothing happened, there were no bumps in the night. I simply dreamed myself out of sleep. I think that's probably a good thing, I was dreaming about a night of waiting tables. How in the world that became the late night solace of my psyche, I will never understand, that job is far from a haven.
I'm quite frankly unhappy with the direction this blog post has turned, I was hoping that maybe I would have some profound thought, some intense realization that would change the course of someone's day, anything to make it worthwhile to be up at this hour (now 3:10). Here comes an abrupt change of topic, I'm sorry, but consider yourself warned.
I love late nights. I love when everything else goes so still, but the air is still buzzing with the heat of the day and all the insect songs. Simple sounds, like footsteps on a stone pathway, make echoes you don't hear in the day. I love the shape of nighttime, how shadows don't show what you know to be there, how suddenly perception can't be trusted. I think there's a metaphor hidden in there somewhere.
Maybe nighttime is more than just a time of day, but entire eras of life. It's that time when you can't see what's around you quite as well as you normally can. It's that time when everything just feels different, you feel like your movements are against the turn of the Earth, like the path you're walking is somehow newer and different, though you've been here time and time again. It's that time when you feel a little scared of what you don't see. It's when you lose sight of what you've been so sure of before, and that scares the Dickens out of you because anything could be waiting for you around the corner. The thing is, if something was waiting around the corner, you wouldn't be able to see it in the light either. That's the point of being around the corner, it sneaks up on you just the same.
So there's got to be a reason I woke up at 2:40.
I wasn't woken up, nothing happened, there were no bumps in the night. I simply dreamed myself out of sleep. I think that's probably a good thing, I was dreaming about a night of waiting tables. How in the world that became the late night solace of my psyche, I will never understand, that job is far from a haven.
I'm quite frankly unhappy with the direction this blog post has turned, I was hoping that maybe I would have some profound thought, some intense realization that would change the course of someone's day, anything to make it worthwhile to be up at this hour (now 3:10). Here comes an abrupt change of topic, I'm sorry, but consider yourself warned.
I love late nights. I love when everything else goes so still, but the air is still buzzing with the heat of the day and all the insect songs. Simple sounds, like footsteps on a stone pathway, make echoes you don't hear in the day. I love the shape of nighttime, how shadows don't show what you know to be there, how suddenly perception can't be trusted. I think there's a metaphor hidden in there somewhere.
Maybe nighttime is more than just a time of day, but entire eras of life. It's that time when you can't see what's around you quite as well as you normally can. It's that time when everything just feels different, you feel like your movements are against the turn of the Earth, like the path you're walking is somehow newer and different, though you've been here time and time again. It's that time when you feel a little scared of what you don't see. It's when you lose sight of what you've been so sure of before, and that scares the Dickens out of you because anything could be waiting for you around the corner. The thing is, if something was waiting around the corner, you wouldn't be able to see it in the light either. That's the point of being around the corner, it sneaks up on you just the same.
Nighttime is exciting, you don't have to look around, you aren't missing anything if you're not looking everywhere at once, you can look dead ahead and see almost everything. You can look up at night and feel incredibly small, but part of something much bigger, like a tiny tile in a massive mosaic. Because everything happens for a reason, like waking up before 3 am, because now I feel calm about the changes coming my way, because it's just a little bit of nighttime. And my world is just in a state of calm around me now, and I just hear my footsteps a little better now. They've always echoed this way, I've never been able to hear it. And sure, maybe there is something big and scary lurking ahead, but maybe not. Maybe the biggest thing heading my way is a sunrise, but if that waits a little longer I don't mind. It's only 3:30 now, plenty of time to fall back asleep if the sun stays away.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
The Beautiful and Damned
"Because I know I'll get nothing accomplished until I can get these thoughts out of my head and out into the world, I'm taking a break from studying for calculus and writing my personal review of Luhrmann's adaptation of The Great Gatsby. Brace yourselves.
I didn't expect to love the movie. Going into it, I knew the anachronistic soundtrack would throw me. I knew what kinds of movies Luhrmann liked to make. I knew the story. I knew the actors. In fact, there isn't much over the course of the movie that actually surprised me (except maybe when Izzo started playing on the bridge). I was neither overwhelmed nor underwhelmed. I was just... whelmed. I was submerged in what Luhrmann presented as the 1920's for 143 minutes and on the other end, I had a lot to say.
Fitzgerald wrote The Great Gatsby with the endgame of an audience disillusioned of the 20's . . ."
I wrote that segment on Friday, having seen the movie the night before. The problem was, I got stuck. I didn't know how to process what I was feeling about the movie. I'm not sure I even knew how to feel about the movie, to be quite honest.
It's been what seems a long time since then, and I've finally come to terms with my reaction to the film. I've refrained from discussing it too much (with the exception of my immediate viewing party), just to make sure the opinions I post here are purely my own. I have not read any other reviews but one, and have glossed over any status update that could even remotely resemble a Gatsby response.
I do not, however, live under a rock; I have opinionated friends who know how I love to spout opinions on such matters as literature and its many adaptations. These friends like to remind me that Gatsby tanked in the box office and that the overall reception has been poor. I know that. I may be socially odd, but I'm not socially incompetent. That being said, I will now ask you to accompany me through the thought process that is my reaction to The Great Gatsby.
In terms of craftsmanship, the movie was excellent. I appreciate the thought that went into every cinematic decision, and for that I applaud Mr. Luhrmann. If you saw this movie without the knowledge that he directed Romeo + Juliet and Moulin Rouge, I think you might be able to guess it. His fingerprints are distinct, his point of view unique, and in some ways well-suited to the great undertaking that is The Great Gatsby. The novel itself is arguably the most widely read and recognizable pieces of American literature, and therein lies Luhrmann's curse.
By and large, people are possessive of Gatsby. It's a story that is easy to interpret and even easier to connect to. But as each reader has a different mindset, each reader has a different interpretation. I know people who interpret Nick to be gay or Gatsby to be black. Even in re-reading it myself, I find that I am interpreting it differently than I did three years ago, and Luhrmann presented an interpretation vastly different from either of mine, and from what I can extrapolate, from everyone else's too.
The movie's theme was clearly altered from that in the book. It was heavy on the visuals and obvious motifs, but much lighter on the nuances and substance that make the novel so interesting. The book is an experience that coaxes scholarly thought out of the hardest of sophomore heads. While the novel was meant to express Fitzgerald's disillusionment of the 1920's, the movie was made to market. It spoon feeds the verbiage that was so intricate and insightful in text, which makes all the profundities inane. To me, it seemed to rely on the obvious, the well known, and the recognizable. I can't be the only one who feels that the screen adapters read the book a la Sparknotes.
With this, the studio's purpose, in mind, I tried to remove myself entirely from my feelings for the novel and focus strictly on my viewing experience, and that lowered my hackles.
The movie as a movie was not terrible. There were some brilliant moments that stuck with me. Tobey Maguire's "I bought cakes!" still makes me smile. Leo's struggle with the clock was painfully relatable (*1). Most significantly, though, Luhrmann's signatures were actually pretty exciting. The grand cinematography of the parties, the eccentric use of cars, the contrasted stylizing of the Valley and the Eggs, the artistic incorporation of music, even the floating words on the screen- it all had appeal to the deepest recess of the artistic portion of my mind. He found a medium that he could use to express his craft well. The fact that he compromised the integrity of the medium itself seems to be all that people can talk about.
The story itself, though, after removing Nick's rectitude as a character and making him solely Gatsby's golden retriever (*2), was relatively vapid. It became a love story that we've seen before. Let's draw parallels, Jeopardy! style.
A: In this movie, Leonardo DiCaprio plays a character who falls in love with someone else's girl and ultimately dies.
Q: What is Titanic?
Maybe a little refinement.
A: In this Baz Luhrmann movie, Leonardo DiCaprio plays a character who falls in love with someone else's girl and ultimately dies.
Q: What is Romeo + Juliet?
Maybe a different approach.
A: In this movie, Leonardo DiCaprio plays the lead role of a man whose lifelong obsession causes him to die alone, except for the one special friend who likes to watch his obsession play out.
Q: What is J. Edgar?
Not quite...
A: In this movie, Leonardo DiCaprio plays a man who makes a lot of money illegitimately in order to bolster his appearance and make up for his tumultuous relationship with wealth (or lack thereof) in is youth. He eventually uses the money to throw some notable parties. Along the way, he falls in love with a girl from the south, but cannot bring himself to marry her because of his financial situation.
Q: What is Catch Me If You Can?
That last one is a stretch, I'll admit, but I get carried away with games like that. It's like 6 Degrees of Bacon, but with DiCaprio movies. Brownie points to whoever can make Gatsby sound like Inception. Double points if you can do it with Shutter Island (*3).
Now that I feel good about giving the movie its dues independent of its inspiration, I would like to say a few words about the compromised integrity of the aforementioned medium.
As I said a while back, this book is incredibly recognizable, but more than that, it is well loved. No matter what the producers did, they were doomed to fail miserably in the eyes of the academic community. If they had played it classically and strictly by the book, everyone would have been bored. "We know," we would have said, "we've read the book, there was nothing all that great about Gatsby." Nothing could incite in us the same thrill as piecing together Fitzgerald's meaning for the first time.
Instead, the movie's purpose became marketability. Jay-Z produced the soundtrack so our ears would be entertained. Baz Luhrmann directed the movie so the grandeur and fantasy of the 1920's would dazzle our eyes. They simplified the story to Daisy and Gatsby in the frame of Nick's therapy journal, with the intent of playing to our emotions. But in the end, even after all this stimulus, our brains were left wanting more: more substance, more of what we felt while reading the novel.
Gatsby is a beautiful story, but the movie itself was damned from the start. Yet despite my very best efforts to remain true to what I feel while reading the story, there's a part of me that can't help but wonder what right I have to criticize their interpretation against mine. Maybe just being exposed to that perspective has me disenchanted of the entire story of Gatsby. Maybe Luhrmann maintained Fitzgerald's theme (perhaps inadvertently) in the end.
Before I leave off, some quick notes.
1) Chrome does not like it when I use the word relatable. Will someone please tell me who is the dummy in this situation, me or the computer?
2) Golden retriever is the perfect analogy for Nick in the movie.
Gatsby: "Let me lure that cute girl over with my new puppy, bitches love puppies."
Gatsby: "I'm stressed out, Imma go vent to my dog."
Nick: "I love my master! He let's me stay in the small house in the yard and feeds me and takes me on walks(drives)!"
Nick: "My master died so I'm gonna sleep on the stairs in his house because I don't know what to do with myself."
3) I couldn't find a way to integrate this into the post, but this will always and forever be my favorite of Baz Luhrmann's works. If you can find a way to play Draw Parallels with this, I will be forever grateful. -> Click Here
I didn't expect to love the movie. Going into it, I knew the anachronistic soundtrack would throw me. I knew what kinds of movies Luhrmann liked to make. I knew the story. I knew the actors. In fact, there isn't much over the course of the movie that actually surprised me (except maybe when Izzo started playing on the bridge). I was neither overwhelmed nor underwhelmed. I was just... whelmed. I was submerged in what Luhrmann presented as the 1920's for 143 minutes and on the other end, I had a lot to say.
Fitzgerald wrote The Great Gatsby with the endgame of an audience disillusioned of the 20's . . ."
I wrote that segment on Friday, having seen the movie the night before. The problem was, I got stuck. I didn't know how to process what I was feeling about the movie. I'm not sure I even knew how to feel about the movie, to be quite honest.
It's been what seems a long time since then, and I've finally come to terms with my reaction to the film. I've refrained from discussing it too much (with the exception of my immediate viewing party), just to make sure the opinions I post here are purely my own. I have not read any other reviews but one, and have glossed over any status update that could even remotely resemble a Gatsby response.
I do not, however, live under a rock; I have opinionated friends who know how I love to spout opinions on such matters as literature and its many adaptations. These friends like to remind me that Gatsby tanked in the box office and that the overall reception has been poor. I know that. I may be socially odd, but I'm not socially incompetent. That being said, I will now ask you to accompany me through the thought process that is my reaction to The Great Gatsby.
In terms of craftsmanship, the movie was excellent. I appreciate the thought that went into every cinematic decision, and for that I applaud Mr. Luhrmann. If you saw this movie without the knowledge that he directed Romeo + Juliet and Moulin Rouge, I think you might be able to guess it. His fingerprints are distinct, his point of view unique, and in some ways well-suited to the great undertaking that is The Great Gatsby. The novel itself is arguably the most widely read and recognizable pieces of American literature, and therein lies Luhrmann's curse.
By and large, people are possessive of Gatsby. It's a story that is easy to interpret and even easier to connect to. But as each reader has a different mindset, each reader has a different interpretation. I know people who interpret Nick to be gay or Gatsby to be black. Even in re-reading it myself, I find that I am interpreting it differently than I did three years ago, and Luhrmann presented an interpretation vastly different from either of mine, and from what I can extrapolate, from everyone else's too.
The movie's theme was clearly altered from that in the book. It was heavy on the visuals and obvious motifs, but much lighter on the nuances and substance that make the novel so interesting. The book is an experience that coaxes scholarly thought out of the hardest of sophomore heads. While the novel was meant to express Fitzgerald's disillusionment of the 1920's, the movie was made to market. It spoon feeds the verbiage that was so intricate and insightful in text, which makes all the profundities inane. To me, it seemed to rely on the obvious, the well known, and the recognizable. I can't be the only one who feels that the screen adapters read the book a la Sparknotes.
With this, the studio's purpose, in mind, I tried to remove myself entirely from my feelings for the novel and focus strictly on my viewing experience, and that lowered my hackles.
The movie as a movie was not terrible. There were some brilliant moments that stuck with me. Tobey Maguire's "I bought cakes!" still makes me smile. Leo's struggle with the clock was painfully relatable (*1). Most significantly, though, Luhrmann's signatures were actually pretty exciting. The grand cinematography of the parties, the eccentric use of cars, the contrasted stylizing of the Valley and the Eggs, the artistic incorporation of music, even the floating words on the screen- it all had appeal to the deepest recess of the artistic portion of my mind. He found a medium that he could use to express his craft well. The fact that he compromised the integrity of the medium itself seems to be all that people can talk about.
The story itself, though, after removing Nick's rectitude as a character and making him solely Gatsby's golden retriever (*2), was relatively vapid. It became a love story that we've seen before. Let's draw parallels, Jeopardy! style.
A: In this movie, Leonardo DiCaprio plays a character who falls in love with someone else's girl and ultimately dies.
Q: What is Titanic?
Maybe a little refinement.
A: In this Baz Luhrmann movie, Leonardo DiCaprio plays a character who falls in love with someone else's girl and ultimately dies.
Q: What is Romeo + Juliet?
Maybe a different approach.
A: In this movie, Leonardo DiCaprio plays the lead role of a man whose lifelong obsession causes him to die alone, except for the one special friend who likes to watch his obsession play out.
Q: What is J. Edgar?
Not quite...
A: In this movie, Leonardo DiCaprio plays a man who makes a lot of money illegitimately in order to bolster his appearance and make up for his tumultuous relationship with wealth (or lack thereof) in is youth. He eventually uses the money to throw some notable parties. Along the way, he falls in love with a girl from the south, but cannot bring himself to marry her because of his financial situation.
Q: What is Catch Me If You Can?
That last one is a stretch, I'll admit, but I get carried away with games like that. It's like 6 Degrees of Bacon, but with DiCaprio movies. Brownie points to whoever can make Gatsby sound like Inception. Double points if you can do it with Shutter Island (*3).
Now that I feel good about giving the movie its dues independent of its inspiration, I would like to say a few words about the compromised integrity of the aforementioned medium.
As I said a while back, this book is incredibly recognizable, but more than that, it is well loved. No matter what the producers did, they were doomed to fail miserably in the eyes of the academic community. If they had played it classically and strictly by the book, everyone would have been bored. "We know," we would have said, "we've read the book, there was nothing all that great about Gatsby." Nothing could incite in us the same thrill as piecing together Fitzgerald's meaning for the first time.
Instead, the movie's purpose became marketability. Jay-Z produced the soundtrack so our ears would be entertained. Baz Luhrmann directed the movie so the grandeur and fantasy of the 1920's would dazzle our eyes. They simplified the story to Daisy and Gatsby in the frame of Nick's therapy journal, with the intent of playing to our emotions. But in the end, even after all this stimulus, our brains were left wanting more: more substance, more of what we felt while reading the novel.
Gatsby is a beautiful story, but the movie itself was damned from the start. Yet despite my very best efforts to remain true to what I feel while reading the story, there's a part of me that can't help but wonder what right I have to criticize their interpretation against mine. Maybe just being exposed to that perspective has me disenchanted of the entire story of Gatsby. Maybe Luhrmann maintained Fitzgerald's theme (perhaps inadvertently) in the end.
Before I leave off, some quick notes.
1) Chrome does not like it when I use the word relatable. Will someone please tell me who is the dummy in this situation, me or the computer?
2) Golden retriever is the perfect analogy for Nick in the movie.
Gatsby: "Let me lure that cute girl over with my new puppy, bitches love puppies."
Gatsby: "I'm stressed out, Imma go vent to my dog."
Nick: "I love my master! He let's me stay in the small house in the yard and feeds me and takes me on walks(drives)!"
Nick: "My master died so I'm gonna sleep on the stairs in his house because I don't know what to do with myself."
3) I couldn't find a way to integrate this into the post, but this will always and forever be my favorite of Baz Luhrmann's works. If you can find a way to play Draw Parallels with this, I will be forever grateful. -> Click Here
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Reminders
This week is a week I'm glad to see the end of. Every day this week has been marked. April now bears an ugly scar for an entire week, right through the middle of the month. Historically, the 14th (Lincoln, the Titanic) and 20th (Hitler's birthday, Columbine) already have negative connotations. The year 2013 just fleshed out the days in between.
Just to recap (for anyone who's been under a rock,) Monday was the Boston Blasts, Tuesday the country let itself slip into a comfortable state of 'slacktivism', Wednesday was the explosion in West, Texas, Thursday was the beginning of the manhunt for the bombers, and Friday was the day they caught the second of the pair.
I think what makes the West Texas event so profound is that we were slipping into the slumber of slacktivism after Boston. We thought "that's enough crisis for now" and paid our respects and posted our statuses and thought we were done. We thought we could be done. Texas may have been more error than terror, but the losses are more numerous than Boston. But can we really qualify one tragedy against another? Is that more or less fair to the victims of either? God forbid there's anyone who suffered from both, I couldn't even begin to fathom.
And then, as a reminder that we are truly never done with this, that some people are inherently bad and merciless, the suspects from Boston reared their ugly heads, and MIT was the setting for the violence. The sound of gun shots and more explosions, even a car crash riddled the air in Cambridge. The whole thing seems like something out of a movie.
Then the entire city of Boston was put on lockdown. One of the biggest cities in the world, one of the most powerful cities in the country was a ghost town yesterday, residents waiting with bated breath behind locked doors for something to happen. At least they finally caught the second bomber. I know I slept more soundly for it.
Meanwhile, the Texas community is still rebuilding itself in the shadow of the bombings. Remember that?
And to end the week from Hell, my immediate community is torn between two very different reasons to note 4/20. On the one hand, the air above 5280 is a little cloudier today, dense with marijuana. On the other, below the cloud, the memory of some reminds us that today is the fourteenth anniversary of the Columbine shootings. Thanks to the program Rachel's Challenge, 4/20 is a day I remember for starting a chain reaction that has positively affected so many lives, but it's a double edged sword. When this day rolls around Littleton, it still marks a day when hatred reigned. There are some days when sunshine just seems out of place.
I hope that when this week rolls around next year, I heed the advice I'm about to spew.
I think we should look at this week, as it gets buried further and further in history, as a reason to be grateful for what we have. We should look at the positives (the outstanding emergency crews in Boston and West, the noteworthy work of the FBI and BPD, the fact that we, unlike Syria, repay terror with justice, the fact that it's over, to name a few).
We should take this week as a reminder as to why we choose to be good people every day. To my knowledge, you, Reader, are not malicious. You don't carry in your heart a germinating seed of hatred. And even if you do, maybe you choose to deny it nutrient, maybe you choose to replace it with hope, hope that whatever you hate will change, will evolve. I hope it brings you understanding and peace.
We as a race must evolve to survive. I as a person must evolve in that I need to learn to honor and respect the magnitude of things without bearing it on my heart, mind, and shoulders. I need to discover a more productive way to react than sitting at my computer and blogging about it. I need to find something active. Every action is incomplete without its equal and opposite reaction, and I need to find that reaction, because Facebook just doesn't cut it.
Meanwhile, take a moment today to respect the victims of the Columbine Shooting, privately or publicly. It will always be a big deal.
Just to recap (for anyone who's been under a rock,) Monday was the Boston Blasts, Tuesday the country let itself slip into a comfortable state of 'slacktivism', Wednesday was the explosion in West, Texas, Thursday was the beginning of the manhunt for the bombers, and Friday was the day they caught the second of the pair.
I think what makes the West Texas event so profound is that we were slipping into the slumber of slacktivism after Boston. We thought "that's enough crisis for now" and paid our respects and posted our statuses and thought we were done. We thought we could be done. Texas may have been more error than terror, but the losses are more numerous than Boston. But can we really qualify one tragedy against another? Is that more or less fair to the victims of either? God forbid there's anyone who suffered from both, I couldn't even begin to fathom.
And then, as a reminder that we are truly never done with this, that some people are inherently bad and merciless, the suspects from Boston reared their ugly heads, and MIT was the setting for the violence. The sound of gun shots and more explosions, even a car crash riddled the air in Cambridge. The whole thing seems like something out of a movie.
Then the entire city of Boston was put on lockdown. One of the biggest cities in the world, one of the most powerful cities in the country was a ghost town yesterday, residents waiting with bated breath behind locked doors for something to happen. At least they finally caught the second bomber. I know I slept more soundly for it.
Meanwhile, the Texas community is still rebuilding itself in the shadow of the bombings. Remember that?
And to end the week from Hell, my immediate community is torn between two very different reasons to note 4/20. On the one hand, the air above 5280 is a little cloudier today, dense with marijuana. On the other, below the cloud, the memory of some reminds us that today is the fourteenth anniversary of the Columbine shootings. Thanks to the program Rachel's Challenge, 4/20 is a day I remember for starting a chain reaction that has positively affected so many lives, but it's a double edged sword. When this day rolls around Littleton, it still marks a day when hatred reigned. There are some days when sunshine just seems out of place.
I hope that when this week rolls around next year, I heed the advice I'm about to spew.
I think we should look at this week, as it gets buried further and further in history, as a reason to be grateful for what we have. We should look at the positives (the outstanding emergency crews in Boston and West, the noteworthy work of the FBI and BPD, the fact that we, unlike Syria, repay terror with justice, the fact that it's over, to name a few).
We should take this week as a reminder as to why we choose to be good people every day. To my knowledge, you, Reader, are not malicious. You don't carry in your heart a germinating seed of hatred. And even if you do, maybe you choose to deny it nutrient, maybe you choose to replace it with hope, hope that whatever you hate will change, will evolve. I hope it brings you understanding and peace.
We as a race must evolve to survive. I as a person must evolve in that I need to learn to honor and respect the magnitude of things without bearing it on my heart, mind, and shoulders. I need to discover a more productive way to react than sitting at my computer and blogging about it. I need to find something active. Every action is incomplete without its equal and opposite reaction, and I need to find that reaction, because Facebook just doesn't cut it.
Meanwhile, take a moment today to respect the victims of the Columbine Shooting, privately or publicly. It will always be a big deal.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
April Showers and May Flowers
I think what we need right now is hope. I'm dedicating this post to the lives lost and affected by the tempestuous April, and to the tenacious will we carry as a community. As a believer in the swing of things, I want nothing more than to promise sunshine and springtime as reward for weathering the storm. I can't promise it, but I can encourage anyone to believe it and work for it. It's what we all deserve.
It's been a hard week in the world, and I know I don't have to say that, because you, Reader, probably feel it. There's nothing I can say that others before haven't said, or even that I haven't said. So here are words of great others before me on which to pin hope for the passing of the storm.
"The robbed that smiles steals something from the thief." - William Shakespeare
"He who has a why to live can bear almost any how." - Friedrich Nietzsche
"Life is a shipwreck, but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats." - Voltaire
"While there is a chance of the world getting through its troubles, I hold that a reasonable man has to behave as though he were sure of it. If at the end your cheerfulness is not justified, at any rate you will have been cheerful." - H. G. Wells
I'll be posting about my developing thoughts on tragedy, but I'm determined to pace myself when it comes to somber thoughts.
It's been a hard week in the world, and I know I don't have to say that, because you, Reader, probably feel it. There's nothing I can say that others before haven't said, or even that I haven't said. So here are words of great others before me on which to pin hope for the passing of the storm.
"The robbed that smiles steals something from the thief." - William Shakespeare
Blackbird
"He who has a why to live can bear almost any how." - Friedrich Nietzsche
Let It Be
"Life is a shipwreck, but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats." - Voltaire
Say
And finally, and in my mind, most importantly:
"While there is a chance of the world getting through its troubles, I hold that a reasonable man has to behave as though he were sure of it. If at the end your cheerfulness is not justified, at any rate you will have been cheerful." - H. G. Wells
I'll be posting about my developing thoughts on tragedy, but I'm determined to pace myself when it comes to somber thoughts.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
I Scream
I've learned a hard lesson about dependence again. This one is going to take some serious effort to recover from. The worst part is, I didn't even realize I was abusing it until I couldn't anymore. Nature hosted an intervention and she was ruthless.
I'm lactose intolerant.
This may not seem like that big of a deal, but there are a few key points that need to be acknowledged.
I'm lactose intolerant.
This may not seem like that big of a deal, but there are a few key points that need to be acknowledged.
1) I've never been 'intolerant' or allergic to anything in my life.
2) 90% of my college diet was based in dairy (cereal, Greek yogurt, lattes, mac n cheese, pizza...)
3) I work at a restaurant where cheese goes on/in EVERYTHING.
3) I work at a restaurant where cheese goes on/in EVERYTHING.
4) Ice cream is my coping mechanism.
I may or may not have had a meltdown in the frozen aisle of King Soopers, and the irony is not lost on me.
Apparently, when I had food poisoning a while back, my body took it as a sign to stop making the enzyme lactase, which means I can no longer process lactose. Thanks, biology, for blatantly labeling things.
I am aware that this is not the end of the world, especially with all things considered. But it's an indicator of change, and those can be hard to take. Change is something that I can manage if it occurs over a period of time, but abruptly encountering it is hard. Assimilation and adaptation occur gradually, ask Darwin.
I guess I'm excited to try new things (maybe?) but I have yet to find a suitable substitute for pizza. Vegan cheese is NASTY. I'm okay with almond and soy milks, the ice cream is... adequate, and apparently soy mac n cheese is a thing, so I won't starve.
If anyone knows of any tricks for lactose avoidance, comment below or get a hold of me somehow, it'd be much appreciated.
And one more fun thing! I've revamped the blog a little bit, you can now subscribe by email by entering your address above and can see the most popular posts on the sidebar.
Meanwhile, I'll sit here studying with my Soy Dream vanilla fudge swirl and ruing the day I ate the chicken salad that triggered this whole debacle.
Apparently, when I had food poisoning a while back, my body took it as a sign to stop making the enzyme lactase, which means I can no longer process lactose. Thanks, biology, for blatantly labeling things.
I am aware that this is not the end of the world, especially with all things considered. But it's an indicator of change, and those can be hard to take. Change is something that I can manage if it occurs over a period of time, but abruptly encountering it is hard. Assimilation and adaptation occur gradually, ask Darwin.
I guess I'm excited to try new things (maybe?) but I have yet to find a suitable substitute for pizza. Vegan cheese is NASTY. I'm okay with almond and soy milks, the ice cream is... adequate, and apparently soy mac n cheese is a thing, so I won't starve.
If anyone knows of any tricks for lactose avoidance, comment below or get a hold of me somehow, it'd be much appreciated.
And one more fun thing! I've revamped the blog a little bit, you can now subscribe by email by entering your address above and can see the most popular posts on the sidebar.
Meanwhile, I'll sit here studying with my Soy Dream vanilla fudge swirl and ruing the day I ate the chicken salad that triggered this whole debacle.
Monday, April 15, 2013
525,600
To begin, I know this won't accomplish anything but provoking thought. It's a prime example of "slacktivism", but it's what I want to do. Here goes.
Today is the closest I've been connected to an act of terror. My brother, Bostonian and marathon runner, passed by the location of the bombing 60 seconds before it went off, but when he passed, it was just a location, no prepositional phrase.
I've been thinking of how drastically things change in just 60 seconds. Actually, that things can change so drastically in 1. Right up until the instant that it became rubble, that sidewalk was just a sidewalk. And to think my brother was 60 seconds ahead of that instant.
This may be because I just saw Jurassic Park for the first time and idolized Jeff Goldblum, but my mind instantly started creating all the possible scenarios that could have stalled him 60 seconds. He could have stopped to relieve himself, he could have had to tie his shoe, he could have had to stretch out a cramp, he could have had a slower pace because he didn't train that one day when it was raining because the butterfly flapped its wings in Peking.
I was 60 seconds away from possibly losing a brother, and didn't even know it. That minute passed the same for me as any other had, and I had no idea that it was the most important minute of my life so far.
Never again will I take for granted a single minute that I'm not dead or in danger, and neither are the ones I love.
That's a lie, I will. But I'll think about how I took it for granted, and feel insurmountably and simultaneously guilty and grateful for it.
And in case you missed my opinion about tragedy, I'd like to direct you to Super, Heroes, Demise of Humanity, and Beauty and Love in Loss, because it makes me sad to have to repeat these things, and I don't want to. Four is enough, sad blog posts suck.
Today is the closest I've been connected to an act of terror. My brother, Bostonian and marathon runner, passed by the location of the bombing 60 seconds before it went off, but when he passed, it was just a location, no prepositional phrase.
I've been thinking of how drastically things change in just 60 seconds. Actually, that things can change so drastically in 1. Right up until the instant that it became rubble, that sidewalk was just a sidewalk. And to think my brother was 60 seconds ahead of that instant.
This may be because I just saw Jurassic Park for the first time and idolized Jeff Goldblum, but my mind instantly started creating all the possible scenarios that could have stalled him 60 seconds. He could have stopped to relieve himself, he could have had to tie his shoe, he could have had to stretch out a cramp, he could have had a slower pace because he didn't train that one day when it was raining because the butterfly flapped its wings in Peking.
I was 60 seconds away from possibly losing a brother, and didn't even know it. That minute passed the same for me as any other had, and I had no idea that it was the most important minute of my life so far.
Never again will I take for granted a single minute that I'm not dead or in danger, and neither are the ones I love.
That's a lie, I will. But I'll think about how I took it for granted, and feel insurmountably and simultaneously guilty and grateful for it.
And in case you missed my opinion about tragedy, I'd like to direct you to Super, Heroes, Demise of Humanity, and Beauty and Love in Loss, because it makes me sad to have to repeat these things, and I don't want to. Four is enough, sad blog posts suck.
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