Thursday, December 3, 2009
Antebellum, Post-bellum and Cerebellum, Too
SO, I'm taking a break from constructing my American Literature essay about Whitman... the title? "Antebellum, Post-bellum and Cerebellum, Too." I disagree with the last 600 words, but it's creative and praises the "universal ejaculation" of Whitman or... whatever. I don't really listen to professors who go off on illogical, immoral or cultural relativistic tangents. I intend to wear my "I survived college without becoming a liberal" shirt with pride. I digress.
I was in the library earlier, looking up quotes for my essay to juxtapose between creative vomit, when I noticed this guy join a group of what appear to be his female study pals. He asked a lot of questions for someone who is 5 days away from their final... actually he talked a lot. And very loudly, too. I was also listening to my ipod at the time. What, did you regress to kinder-garten? Inside voices, please.
In other news, today I was reminded about how I should focus on the blessings of my life instead of the possibility that I could be in hell. I'm going to try this. Starting with...I'm half-way done with the second to last paper I will ever have to write. OK. I have my basic necessities, loving family, check. Health, check. Car, check. Job, check. iMac, check. Talent, check. I'm fighting the urge to think, what is the usefulness of all of this if I don't have anyone to share it with. Nope. Just typed the thought. I guess, I'm lonely. I'm thankful for the ability to recognize what is wrong with me. Another essay update soon.
I was in the library earlier, looking up quotes for my essay to juxtapose between creative vomit, when I noticed this guy join a group of what appear to be his female study pals. He asked a lot of questions for someone who is 5 days away from their final... actually he talked a lot. And very loudly, too. I was also listening to my ipod at the time. What, did you regress to kinder-garten? Inside voices, please.
In other news, today I was reminded about how I should focus on the blessings of my life instead of the possibility that I could be in hell. I'm going to try this. Starting with...I'm half-way done with the second to last paper I will ever have to write. OK. I have my basic necessities, loving family, check. Health, check. Car, check. Job, check. iMac, check. Talent, check. I'm fighting the urge to think, what is the usefulness of all of this if I don't have anyone to share it with. Nope. Just typed the thought. I guess, I'm lonely. I'm thankful for the ability to recognize what is wrong with me. Another essay update soon.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
(How to) Create Your Own Hell
Once again the world has lulled me into a false sense of security and pulled the rug out from beneath me. It was short-lived, though, my sense of security, too short to forget what falling on my ass was like.
I seriously just considered the possibility that I could be in Hell. This is not just because it is "Dead Week." This morning I was reading Sarte's No Exit, an Existentialist play in which the characters make for an interesting & creepy case study.
They create their own hell, at least that is what I've interpreted thus far after, you know, the first 10 pages. Then I began having creepy thoughts. The characters seemed to demand hell. They ask about torture chambers etc.
But, the tricky thing about Hell is in the anticipation. A slow Hell is far more torturous than the expected. Which is probably why i've grown so accustomed to expecting the worse. No surprises that way. No deceivingly pleasant pink embers inevitably turning red. Like my wine and meat, I say give it to me red!
In the play, the characters torture each other and themselves (Man v. self much?). This is mostly accomplished by fixating on comforts that have been denied such as a toothbrush, mirror, or a means of suicide like the statue on the mantle. One character, Garcin, notices that he cannot blink and is forced to endure daylight at all hours, he never gets a break, though, I think that if he hadn't been so concerned with figuring out his torture, he might not have realized this.
Once the characters realize that all they can do is interact and endure their self-torture, the become stagnant. They are void of Hope. The absence of Hope is despair. By this, I suspect at least, that one cannot find Hope in Hell.
Fortunately, I still have Hope, though it is fading. The world—perpetually—lulls me into a false sense of security. I grow comfortable and hopeful. I walk through a peaceful field only to realize that as I stop to inhale the sweet air, that I stand not on grass, but on snakes. What an unstable surface! Nasty, too.
Then again, maybe this is my Hell after all.
Back in my St. Thomas days, I had a delightful Psych 101 professor interject "you can't trust anyone or anything in life. You must go on thinking that your heart will be broken," during his lecture about emotion.
The scariest realization of the day is that I've grown so used to Hell and torture that the goodness, happiness and joy in the world are now my new torture. Mostly because they can be stripped from me. And I'd rather expect their removal, than fear it. So my soul remains cold.
I seriously just considered the possibility that I could be in Hell. This is not just because it is "Dead Week." This morning I was reading Sarte's No Exit, an Existentialist play in which the characters make for an interesting & creepy case study.
They create their own hell, at least that is what I've interpreted thus far after, you know, the first 10 pages. Then I began having creepy thoughts. The characters seemed to demand hell. They ask about torture chambers etc.
But, the tricky thing about Hell is in the anticipation. A slow Hell is far more torturous than the expected. Which is probably why i've grown so accustomed to expecting the worse. No surprises that way. No deceivingly pleasant pink embers inevitably turning red. Like my wine and meat, I say give it to me red!
In the play, the characters torture each other and themselves (Man v. self much?). This is mostly accomplished by fixating on comforts that have been denied such as a toothbrush, mirror, or a means of suicide like the statue on the mantle. One character, Garcin, notices that he cannot blink and is forced to endure daylight at all hours, he never gets a break, though, I think that if he hadn't been so concerned with figuring out his torture, he might not have realized this.
Once the characters realize that all they can do is interact and endure their self-torture, the become stagnant. They are void of Hope. The absence of Hope is despair. By this, I suspect at least, that one cannot find Hope in Hell.
Fortunately, I still have Hope, though it is fading. The world—perpetually—lulls me into a false sense of security. I grow comfortable and hopeful. I walk through a peaceful field only to realize that as I stop to inhale the sweet air, that I stand not on grass, but on snakes. What an unstable surface! Nasty, too.
Then again, maybe this is my Hell after all.
Back in my St. Thomas days, I had a delightful Psych 101 professor interject "you can't trust anyone or anything in life. You must go on thinking that your heart will be broken," during his lecture about emotion.
The scariest realization of the day is that I've grown so used to Hell and torture that the goodness, happiness and joy in the world are now my new torture. Mostly because they can be stripped from me. And I'd rather expect their removal, than fear it. So my soul remains cold.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Gee, that's not supremacy
"I thought the point was to hate white women, like ourselves?" Said Anne, after we analyzed yet another black supremacy play in our 400 level Studies in Drama class.
After 30 minutes of discussing, For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow Is Enuf is a 1975, which is a, in my mind beyond controversial, stage play/series of poems by Ntozake Shange, we began taking notes on Ms. Shanges' colorful (wait, is that racist?) people who "influenced" her writings. Included in this list are such famous black supremacists/marxists as Toussaint L'ouverture.
"That's all I'm taking away from this class. After all, only African American sympathetic plays can use the isms effectively, because they were oppressed..." I snarkily replied.
"And in my African American Literature class, we'll study more of Ntozake Shange... and her cohort who once said, 'culture is a weapon used to make ourselves stronger and keep the white man down... " Began the professor.
"I though this WAS African American literature. This class should be cross-listed under, "how to hate yo white-self." I mumbled. And then it happened. In my mind I saw the las straw sink into murky blue and something snapped. That's when I said, all too loudly, "gee that's not supremacy." This was followed by an uncomfortably long moment of awkward silence in which I died a little as knew I was about to embark in a one-man debate with a professor about the evils of considering a black supremacist as a role model.
"We all choose our role models, Naomi."
"Right. Sure. But choosing a 'role model' who advocates for more violence and the oppression of a culture is reprehensible."
"Some people find inspiration in different things."
"Right, but the essence of a role model is someone to whom one looks for guidance and considers an ethical entity in one's life. Black supremacy is just as dangerous as White supremacy the racism of the 1960s or slavery. I do not consider people like this to be good examples, or any examples of role models."
Anne mouthed "I agree." And the proff changed the subject. My analysis, which will be reflected in my essay portion of the final, is that this play can be summed up as the snaky author offering you a drink saying, "I'm a thrice suicidal black supremacist, but you can trust me. Indulge in my teachings."
No, thank you.
After 30 minutes of discussing, For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow Is Enuf is a 1975, which is a, in my mind beyond controversial, stage play/series of poems by Ntozake Shange, we began taking notes on Ms. Shanges' colorful (wait, is that racist?) people who "influenced" her writings. Included in this list are such famous black supremacists/marxists as Toussaint L'ouverture.
"That's all I'm taking away from this class. After all, only African American sympathetic plays can use the isms effectively, because they were oppressed..." I snarkily replied.
"And in my African American Literature class, we'll study more of Ntozake Shange... and her cohort who once said, 'culture is a weapon used to make ourselves stronger and keep the white man down... " Began the professor.
"I though this WAS African American literature. This class should be cross-listed under, "how to hate yo white-self." I mumbled. And then it happened. In my mind I saw the las straw sink into murky blue and something snapped. That's when I said, all too loudly, "gee that's not supremacy." This was followed by an uncomfortably long moment of awkward silence in which I died a little as knew I was about to embark in a one-man debate with a professor about the evils of considering a black supremacist as a role model.
"We all choose our role models, Naomi."
"Right. Sure. But choosing a 'role model' who advocates for more violence and the oppression of a culture is reprehensible."
"Some people find inspiration in different things."
"Right, but the essence of a role model is someone to whom one looks for guidance and considers an ethical entity in one's life. Black supremacy is just as dangerous as White supremacy the racism of the 1960s or slavery. I do not consider people like this to be good examples, or any examples of role models."
Anne mouthed "I agree." And the proff changed the subject. My analysis, which will be reflected in my essay portion of the final, is that this play can be summed up as the snaky author offering you a drink saying, "I'm a thrice suicidal black supremacist, but you can trust me. Indulge in my teachings."
No, thank you.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
From the Bull's Ass to Legal Realism
Yesterday, I did some grade AA Large bullshitting about a play that I never read. I even helped a friend bullshit during the discussion—and she'd actually read the damn thing! Moments like these make me cocky, and my mentor Luke Skywalker warns against this in Return of the Jedi, "your overconfidence is your weakness," he says to the Emperor. Random thought: 'Jedi' is not in spell check. C'mon Microsoft, it's a cultural thing. But, thats how our country is now in the age of ethnic fetishization.
Though I may have bullshitted my way through an hour long discussion, I've read so many minority sympathetic literature lately, that it didn't take me or my zippo lighter very long to brighten up and grasp the concept of "social justice." In fact, I find myself coming to the same conclusions wether or not I do read the blasphemous Surrealism of Adrienne Kennedy, or simply listen to the liberal sponge classmates discuss it and observe their somber saunter out of the room. The conclusion to which I reach is that: there is a sickening gloomy glorification of minority struggles and it needs to effing stop.
Society teaches us that to be ethnic, is to be cool. Even if some of the"ethnic" sit on their bums smoking weed, collecting our tax money. I've known a few successful stoners in my life, but that's not the point. I've also known many successful ethnic people, but, to whom, I felt an unfair advantage was granted. What I mean is that the epitome of self-hate and reverse discrimination has been manifesting itself in media & entertainment for the last century and has now come full about.
The idea that an ethnic minority person can slide by and still receive credit in life—albeit undue—simply because of their ancestry, is sickening. In The American Crises, Thomas Paine wrote, "Those who expect to reap the blessings of freedom, must, like men, undergo the fatigues of supporting it." We need to start supporting each other, not taking from each other. And no, in my mind, support does not equal well-fare. Paine also wrote that, "what we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly."
I know this topic has been blogged to death by now, but let's get to why I, Naomi Joy, am blogging about it. It all goes back to the play that I didn't read. Most of the recent readings in all of my English courses have had to do with blacks or indians. And if one presents a differing world view about these historical atrocities, they are shunned. (SHUUUNNED).
This is not to say that I'd argue in favor of slavery, or usurping the Black Hills for gold, but rather it is to say that perpetually punishing ourselves about it now, and giving into that seedy-noxious-Satan distributed guilt, isn't doing much for the complexion of America. To think, that the same evil which once aided in the justification of these historical atrocities, still holds water now, but in a different and more psychologically tiring way.
I once wrote that, "we must replace the divots of our lives," in a psychological prose piece about Golf and sanity. I wholeheartedly—vehemently—believe this to be true. I believe that we must keep fighting the good fight, because there are things worth fighting for, and NOT because we need to mend everything that has been done in the past. Would you, for example, mend the tattered gown your great grandmother was buried in? How? Or more importantly why? Why dig up these things we cannot now mend? I consider my self a legal-realist, that is to say, that the law is the law, but must be applied on a case by case basis. Tell me, in what case, where grievances must be doled out, would monetary compensation replace the life of, say, your brother? Unless he was a robot, none. Grievances do not mend. Money won't replace a loved one.
But stop, don't even go there, I'm not proposing that we "bury the past" either. This metaphor is concerned with grieving, or in so far as this social justice is concerned, grievances. We need to stop mourning, and start living.
The focus should be shifted to the celebration of cultures, not the slaughter of them. That being said, if I have to read one more isms play about the trials and tribulations of blacks or indians, I am going to start bringing whisky to class. New drinking game! Every-time a minority is oppressed or a surrealist author mocks Christianity, take a shot. I'm an empathetic and sympathetic person, but the gloomy glorification of minority/ethnic struggle has embittered me.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
I Have A Theory
OK. I have a theory that in the next decade all of the men my age will be somehow involved and probably breed with the ever popular, perky, passive, moronic women, thus throwing the world as we know it into total tumult.
Don’t worry though, strong, ambitious, intelligent, Godly women like myself will be very well off and still control most of the civilized world. Though, let’s face it, those touristy-spring-break spots will be overrun with overly-tan-fake-blonde multiple divorcee reject soccer moms and their bastard children. We’ll let them have Vail, too. Inbreeding will ensue, then a plague, then World War... no, wait, I think the plague will be enough. Besides Syphilis makes people go blind, and sharks live in the ocean... I digress.
Why will me and my—albeit limited—kind be well off, you ask? Well, we’ll marry men twice or thrice our age. They’ll teach us investing skills, and leave us their estates, vineyards, orchards etc. In recent experiences, older men out-class and out-charm any guy my own age. Example: tonight at Jazz two kindly older gentlemen asked my friend and I if we would be, “obliged to let them buy us an after dinner drink.” We accepted. Then they asked us to join them. A Glenlivet and soda for me, and an Absolute cranberry for my friend and we were well into conversation.
This interaction was eons more civilized and productive than the creeper who ambled up to me at * insert dive bar here * last night.
EXIT FRIEND TO POWDER ROOM. ENTER CREEPER IN BARET’.
“So, umm, can I ask you how much you purses cost? Cause you know, like, some women will pay $1,000 for a purse.”
“No. I wouldn’t spend that much money on a purse.”
“That’s really all I have to say.”
“Ok.”
EXIT CREEPER.
Not only did he not offer to buy me a drink, but he also had nothing to say. It’s really difficult to tell someone off, and/or be witty when the guy can’t even formulate a conversational topic. Thus, I have a new policy, if a guy wants to talk to me, he can at least buy me a freaking well drink first. C’mon at least TRY to be charming, Neanderthal.
I’ve always liked old people and that is because of the stories and experiences they have, thus making them good, well-rounded and interesting people. They also still retain the class of the (gulp) 1940s. So what? Men my age think that they don’t have to try with women, much less charm them. They even go so far as to not get married, because of the commitment. Wouldn’t a childless marriage be less of a commitment than having several beach-bum-bastard children swarming around, pleading from their hick-toothed gins for another Shasta?
By the way, my successful female friends and I will control the alcohol flow in this country, well at least the beer and wine flow—vineyards and breweries. So remember that all of you 20 something jerks, when you roll over in the morning and tell your strange Chlamydia infested lover to get movin’ cause your second wife is on her way home from the tanning salon. Because wouldn't a beer be nice about now?
So 20 something guys, please take note and give more than your usual minimal effort to improve yourselves: 60 yr old men are more apt and able to have a conversation with me than any of you. This might be because I drink premium scotch and like jazz, but I also believe it’s because I have the mentality of the 1940s woman; to work hard and look good while doing it and above all to be strong. I wear my class in my eyes and keep my chin up. So look me in the eyes and keep YOUR chin up.
The End.
Damn you Judging preference
Well I had a good weekend but yet another weekend of this dialogue:
"I want to go dancing, but I'm effing tired." FF
"Well, effing go to bed and stop saying you wan to go out." Me
"Yeah we'll go tomorrow." FF
TOMORROW NIGHT at random dive bar.
Enter Naomi and non-flakey friend.
"Why doesn't anyone want to hang out with us, Naomi?" NFF
"I don't know. I just don't know." Me
I really don't know, actually. I think some people have an innate ineptness for planning and or follow through. My brother has encountered this with his friends, too. Maybe it's in the genes? Or the jeans? He was known as "Fancy Pants" in high school.
I digress.
I'm the designated planner in the group, yet no one seems to abide by the plans. I blame my Judging preference, INFJ. (MBTI). I like order and structure and predictability. Yes, I'm boring, but at least I get things done. No one seems to appreciate this, though. So, why continue to plan? I've decided that I'm going to try being spontaneous this week! Yeah! Lets see what INFP is like! Well, there goes logic. So what if I'm 3 hours late to the club and wonder why my friends are leaving. I mean, jeez, planning is so, like, um, adult and boring and restrictive. * SARCASM SIGN *
No more calling friends either. You want me, you can come GET me.
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