Unable to quiet the mind....
I couldn't sleep last night. There were so many reasons:
- My neighbor's pounding stereo
lovin' you is what I got remember that
lovin' you is what I got remember that
lovin' you is what I got remember that
- My fist on the wall
BAM BAM BAM
BAM BAM BAM
- The car alarm that went off sometime after 1 am. I have never heard a car alarm go off in our peaceful cherry blossom neighborhood. I don’t know whose car it was, but judging by the intensity of the alarm, they must keep it parked on my nightstand.
- My husband's normally slender body that increases in size at night to take up 9/10ths of the mattress, and then radiates more heat than the sun.
- Dante: the cat who likes to lick any exposed skin and who takes up the remaining 1/10th of the mattress.
Yet, the greatest contributor to my insomnia was
ANGST. I checked my blog. I use this word in every other post. Angst is outdated and
oh so 1990, yet my spirit is riddled with this ridiculous PoMo emotion.
The War. For all logical reasons - I should just accept what I cannot change, I can't believe that my actions have no impact on the world. I should just see my privilege as some sad fact of humanity and just be thankful I landed in the
haves camp and not the
have nots camp. My mind and heart would be so much more peaceful if only my filter was narrowed to let in only what facts I need to live out my day-to-day life and plan my sparkling future. Sure, it's okay to feel bad about the war and the violence in the world - just don't let it keep you up at night.
I fail at measured apathy. Crap.
I've started a correspondence with a woman in India. (Hi
Priya!) We’ve exchanged a few lengthy emails discussing love and marriage and touched on the war in Iraq. She blows me away. Her emails are so forthright and thoughtful. I am thankful that she answered my post on her blog. She reached out to me at a when I need the reassurance of the sane, empathetic souls that live outside my commodified little reality.
Reaching beyond the bounds of what is already known to me comforts and calms my angst. The world is full of people whose perspectives and values have not entered my awareness. Perhaps as I find these new voices, they will bring me hope.
Window Art for the release of "Fahrenheit 9/11" I highly reccomend this movie.
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My Twisted Reality
Matt, Kiomye and I spent the last four days in Seattle. We just drove back home this morning. For some reason, we’re ridiculously tired. Yes, we ran around a lot, but we got a good amount of sleep each night. I’m groggy and woozy. I feel like I’m adjusting to a different time zone. My find is foggy. I hate it. I have so much to do and I need to fully wake up and get thinking again.
This is going to be a very long post. Forgive me.
I have been overwhelmed with reality. To be an American living in America is to be a sea monkey living in a lovely little tank with pretty pictures pasted on the outside of the glass. So often, I can barely see past my television or computer screen, let alone beyond the boundaries of my country.
I am disgusted. I watched two powerful documentaries this weekend. The first was
Control Room. The movie was only playing at the Varsity and not in the big mainstream theatres. Honesty, we had wanted to go see Michael Moore’s Fahrenheit 9/11, but all showings had been sold out for the night. Our friend Jason recommended control room, so we decided that’s what we would see.
The film was amazing. It was a documentary about the Al-Jazeera television station. I had heard references to this Arab station many times on American TV. I got the message loud and clear. Al-Jazeera is the big, bad bogey media of the Bush Administration. This was the station that showed the gruesome pictures of the Iraq war victims and the dead American soldiers. This was the station that Bush called, “The mouthpiece of Osama Bin Laden.” Not one to take Bush’s statements to heart, I had listened to Amy Goodwin interview reporters from Al-Jazeera. They spoke of trying to provide their viewers with all the information about the war that they could. They did not censor themselves. They did not try to sanitize the war. They did not mean to show favor to one side or another. Hmmm, this didn’t match up with what Bush was saying.
The documentary allows the people at Al-Jazeera to show the cameras what they are trying to do and how they gather and analyze information and their debates about what is information and what is propaganda. There's not a positive word to be heard about the Iraqi dictator, and much admiration is expressed for the U.S. Constitution and values. One producer is angered because an American activist gives a rabidly anti-war on-air interview when the producer expected more measured opinions.
Also very interesting about the film is the frank, respectful exchanges between an Al-Jazeera journalist Ibrahim and Central Command press officer Lt. Josh Rushing which make up the heart of "Control Room." Rushing at first comes across as a typically slick p.r. guy offering clipped, official-line answers. Yet Rushing seems genuinely interested in the give-and-take with journalists such as Ibrahim, and he comes to see alternative points of view. After Al Jazeera airs footage of American military corpses and prisoners of war, triggering bitter complaints from U.S. officials, Rushing agrees that the broadcast sickened him but then reflects ruefully that he hadn't been similarly disturbed by previously aired images of Iraqi casualties. Rushing eventually comes to see parallels between Al Jazeera's appeals to Arab nationalism and the Fox News Network's appeals to American patriotism. (Salon.com reported last week that the Pentagon has barred Rushing from discussing the film, prompting him to consider leaving the Marines.)
One of the most poignant scenes in the film came just after a montage of Bush’s rationales for the war. He kept repeating that we are there to free the Iraqi people, that we are the great liberators, that the Iraqis are much better off with us there. The next scene showed a man standing in front of a mess of buildings that had just been bombed by American planes. His white robes were covered in blood. He was talking to the reporter, crying and yelling. He pointed at the scene behind him and said that this was a village, there were no militia here. He said he was covered with the blood of his brother and his five children. He then started crying something like, “I don’t want your freedom! I don’t want your liberation. Please go!”
Man. When faced with a plea like that, I want us out of there RIGHT NOW! I am so ashamed and pained by what my country, my leaders are doing to these people. I am sick of the images, sick of the crying mothers, sick of all the bullshit. I am so sick of this war.
Matt, Jason and I left the theatre and wandered dazed down the Ave. Street musicians asked us for requests and then chided us when we didn’t respond. We tangled in a hoard of students from the college headed out to the bars. The girls reeked of sweet perfume and the boys talked too loud. Silly. They seemed so silly. By the time we walked back to the car, we were able to start talking about the movie. We were all deeply affected. We were pissed by the lies we’ve been told about this war, and in shock at the scope of pain and suffering that has been inflicted on others by our government, our army, and our people.
It is difficult to know where to direct this angst, this knowledge, and this discomfort with the super-power mentality of our nation. It seems my very way of life conspires to make me forget, to make me apathetic. Our country in at war, yet my concerns when I wake up in the morning are far removed from this realits. I don’t worry about loved ones, or if my neighborhood is safe, or how I might lead a normal life in the midst of crisis. I am saturated in plenty. I worry only about how I will spend my time. Will we go to the movies today or should I work on my college homework? Where will we take our daughter to play this afternoon? Should we eat Big Macs or buy organic? Do I walk to exercise or watch The Bachelor on TV?
It is very difficult to see the role that I play in this war. It is very difficult to even remember that this war is happening. Two years ago, I read
Power, Privilege, Difference by Allan G. Johnson and first came to terms with my privilege. I had always assumed that I deserved my privilege, my respect, and my lifestyle. It wasn’t until I read this book and had MANY discussions about its contents that I came to learn and accept that privilege comes at a cost to someone else. It is the nature of privilege. There can’t be privilege if all is equal. Privilege denotes a special treatment. Special means that not everyone receives this treatment. Acknowledging that I have privilege and recognizing all of my privileges are two entirely different things. This is something I have been working on for the past two years. I have given a great deal of thought to the matter. Beyond recognizing my privileges, it is often even hard to see who exactly my privileges detract from. Who suffers from my consumer lifestyle?
I drive a Buick. I am quick to say that it’s my parents and that I am only borrowing it until I move to Japan. (I sold my car to pay for the plane tickets.) Yet still, I drive this behemoth everyday. I drive it to school, even though the bus stops close to my house and takes me directly to campus. I drive it to pick up my daughter, even though I can walk the distance if I give myself 15 minutes more. Summer has warmed up Olympia. I turn on the air conditioning the second I get in the cars and feel sorry for all the suckers I see with their windows open and sweat on their faces. I have now started to consider the implications of my actions in more global terms. I have too much knowledge to pretend that my driving habits don’t matter to anyone. I have seen the pictures of the pipelines in Iraq. I have listened to the reports that show who is profiting from this war. I have seen the pictures of the children on the stretchers, children as old as my daughter with skin blown away and their muscles and bones visible. When I reach to crank the air conditioning, those images flash in my mind and I know that I am participating in an act of war.
What do I do with this knowledge?
It is so easy to forget, to push this war out of my head. My friends won’t blame me. They’ll feel better that I’m not getting “too political” so they don’t have to watch themselves around me. I can easily distract myself in my promising life. I have so much to do, so much to see. The news hurts, I can just turn it off. The reality of it does not live in my neighborhood. Let’s go get a mocha and walk by the lake.
Sigh. But what CAN I do? If I choose not to ignore, if I chose to accept my responsibility, what then? Do I stop driving? Do I monitor foreign news reports daily to supplement the meager reports that make it into the US. Do I travel to war zones, like my classmate Rachel Corrie did and throw myself bodily before the aggressors, my countrymen?
I don’t want to radicalize. I want to belong in “my” world. I want to speak the same language of entertainment news as my peers and sit in bars and laugh with my friends. Reality sucks.
I strayed so far from my narrative that I haven’t mentioned the second movie. The day after we saw Control Room, we saw Michael Moore’s
Fahrenheit 9/11. Yes, this moving was maddening and enlightening as well. It was also a lot funnier and more entertaining to watch. I don’t think Moore’s documentary was as good as the Control Room as his bias is so strong. He provides the leftist propaganda to battle that of the right. I am glad for this film, and I hope many Americans see it, but it is not the harbinger of truth.
This post is long enough. I should let this rest here. I have much more to say, to learn.
Another lovely hike with another lovely friend
Yesterday I took Angie up to Lena Lake. I love the Lena lake hike. It's difficult enough to make your legs slightly sore at the end of the day, but not so difficult that you can't make it to the potra potty at the bottom of the mountain. The hike also has high rewards: a gorgeous sparkling lake and giant boulders to lounge on. It's the prefect "season opener" for hikers. This is the kind of hike that reminds us all why we love hiking so much.
Angie is great for conversation (that is - when I'm not blabbing nonstop). We got to talk writing, family and (gasp) the fourth dimension. Angie was in my
Author! Author! program this last year. She is the only student at Evergreen that really kicked my ass in a class. She argues otherwise, but she is just being nice. She's an amazing writer and someone whose name I will be looking for on the book shevles in a few years. She writes a great deal of things that, after I hear them, I think "Damn! I wish I'd thought of that." Of course, that makes me also not like her very much. But, dammit, I also happen to like her. I'm reminded of that episode of the Simpson's where a new girl comes to school and beats Lisa at everything, and Lisa really wants to hate her but can't because the new girl is so nice and the most interesting person Lisa has to talk to. Yeah, it's like that. I'm Lisa.
Funny Kio moment: I walked down the hill to Kiomye's daycare to pick her up this afternoon, then we rode the bus back. Kio
loves riding the bus. She screams with delight each time the bus rumbles or bounces. The other riders on the #41 kept sullen and quiet. Kiomye disrupted the peace. She kept shouting,"Squeeze me, cars! Squeeze me." or "MOVE cars, MOVE!" whenever we stopped at a light or an intersection. I was almost dying of daughter, but the other riders were not impressed with her adorable assumed position of influence. She also took advantage of the view (riding in the car she can't see much but the backs our our seats) to comment on the mountain on the skyline. She apparently associates mountains with snow and begin to demand that we go play in the snow. That's when the situation deteriorated.
It's June. There's no snow on that mountain, baby. It's too hot. Tantrum on the #41. "Snow! Want
Snow!" Tantrums aren't very charming.
Another funny Kio fact: She has taken to calling my friend Christy "Squishy". Ha ha!
"Call Squishy, mommy? Where Squishy go? Squishy go poopy? I love Squishy." Don't we all, don't we all...
Use daily. No need to rinse.
Kelsye waxes political
I know, I know, politics are upsetting and confusing. But, I've been reading the news and getting all angst-y and I just have to share. I found a particularly interesting
article on
Democracy Now comparing the vairous costs of the Iraq War with what that money could have done for our country. Very intersting stuff. I've decided to copy the ones that interested me most into my blog. You can see the entire report online
here.
From the study "PAYING THE PRICE: The Mounting Costs of the Iraq War" by Phyllis Bennis of the Institute for Policy Studies.
Total number of coalition military deaths between the start of war and June 16, 2004: 952 (853 U.S.)
Of those 952, the number killed after President George W. Bush declared "an end to combat operations" on May 1, 2003: 693
Number of U.S. troops wounded since the war began: 5,134
Number of U.S. troops wounded since President George W. Bush declared "an end to combat operations" on May 1, 2003: 4,593
Number of civilian contractors, missionaries, and civilian workers killed: 50-90
Number of international media workers killed in Iraq: 30 (21 since the "end of combat operations")
Iraqi civilians killed: 9,436 to 11,317
Iraqi civilians injured: 40,000 (est.)
Iraqi soldiers and insurgents killed prior to "end of combat operations" May 1, 2003: 4,895 to 6,370
The bill so far: $126.1 billion
Additional amount to cover operations through 2004: $25 billion
What $151 billion could have paid for in the U.S.:
-Housing vouchers: 23 million
-Health care for uninsured Americans: 27 mil.
-Salaries for elementary school teachers: 3 mil.
-New fire engines: 678,200
-Head Start slots: 20 million
Estimated long-term cost of war to every U.S. household: $3,415
Amount contractor Halliburton is alleged to have charged for meals never served to troops and for cost overruns on fuel deliveries: $221 million
Kickbacks received by Halliburton employees from subcontractors: $6 million
Percentage of Americans who now feel that "the situation in Iraq was not worth going to war over.": 54
Percentage of Iraqis who said they would feel safer if U.S. and other foreign troops left the country immediately: 55
Percentage of U.S. soldiers in Iraq reporting low morale: 52
Percentage of soldiers who said they would not re- enlist: 50
Percentage of wounded unable to return to duty: 64
Percentage of U.S. police departments missing officers due to Iraq deployments: 44
Effect on al Qaeda of the Iraq war, according to International Institute for Strategic Studies: "Accelerated recruitment"
Estimated number of al Qaeda terrorists as of May 2004: 18,000 with 1,000 active in Iraq
Percentage of Iraqis expressing "no confidence" in U.S. civilian authorities or coalition forces: 80
Yep. Scary stuff
indeed.
This woman's voice will not be lost to the dictators of history
I found this
article about an Iranian woman who has her own blog. This is an amazing feat. Women in Iran are often silenced, but this blog shows that one woman, intelligent and passionate, has an important perspective on world events. We are lucky that she found a way to communicate. I mourn all the voices we have lost in history. Lady Sun (pseudonym) said of her blog "We always wear masks in our society. This is a place to take them off." She writes amazing things like:
"...my disgust for any kind of interference with other people's lives in the name of aims which are in clear contrast with your method of enforcing them. I dont know if it makes sense to you at all when I say that I dont really care if it was Iraqis who were being tortured or Iranians or Americans, what matters to me is that NO human is entitled to harm others in ANY way for ANY purpose. This is why I resent capital punishment or other types of physical punishment.
Anyhow, I think people are different and they have different ideas; one cannot expect everybody to discard all nationalistic prejudices and judge issues based on pure humanitarianism and void of all kinds of bias and comparison. And this, I think, is the unfortunate result that we get, people are being tortured and others come and say, well, they've hurt others and so
"
Lady Sun's blog:
pinkfloydish.com
I've linked to the English archives of her blog. The English translation is lagging, so we can only read her posts through May. I couldn't find the June translations.
Pleasurable Meanderings
I have felt the urge to write building up within me. The words, the fleeting images, the poetic illusions, tangle with my sensible thoughts, and then fly away with the smallest distraction.
Maybe I should write a story about my daughter handing me the dead spider, I think and then notice the dishes stacked high in the sink and instead busy my hands with suds and sponges.
A soft sigh escapes from my husband’s lips as he reclines on our bed. I notice the way his profile contrasts the dark fabric on the pillows and contemplate poetry, but then he asks me what our plans are for tomorrow and we start to argue about errands and which family to visit.
I stand in the living room, just finished with my last chore. The TV is off, no music plays. Kiomye is at daycare and Matt has driven to Seattle for the day. I am caught in hesitation, in the sudden lack of momentum and direction. I look towards the stairs. Now. Now is the time. I could climb up to my office, turn on the screen and begin to type.
I do not move.
I listen to the strings of words pushing forward to a conscious level of thought, to clamor and raise their voices in the sudden quiet of my mind. The uproar disturbs me. The noise makes promises that I will have something to say when I sit down, something worthy of megabytes and reams of printer paper. What if they lie? What if I sit down and nothing happens, I just stare at the screen. Or, what if I begin to type and I find out
The Truth: that all I create is trite and overly sentimental and that I will never be a “real” writer. I fear that realization. I look up towards the second floor landing, to the gaping darkness that leads down to my office. I breathe in and out. My heart races. Then the phone rings and I trip over my feet in a rush to answer it. It’s my best friend. She may never find love. Can we talk?
Saved. Truth deferred.
I liked to tell myself that my fear of writing dissolved during these past two years in college when I wrote pages and pages of prose. I even completed enough passable material to put a book together. I was wrong. The fear has not left me.
Still, here I find myself. Words, words, lines, lines.
It gets painful after a while, the avoidance of my desire. Like holding my breathe in a pool until my lungs hurt; I have to come up for air eventually. I breathe writing. I breathe ideas. The rhythm of my fingers on the keys soothes my heart. I am over-anxious, I am pent up, I am difficult to be around. Then I get two hours alone with a keyboard and I am Buddha. I am ghandi.
I type outside tonight. My laptop rests on the round mosaic table, my body sits stiff in the chairs of woven faux wicker. A small tea light flickers in the glass holder that I bought in Mexico. The neighbor’s furry black cat slinks around my patio, pretending that she is invisible. My cat Picasso follows a few steps behind, crouched low, back straight as a ruler.
My patio is my trick to take the fear of the authority of my office out of the writing equation. My office is beautiful, filled with good art and impressive volumes of literature. Serious work gets done in there. I’m not up for serious work tonight.
There is a thin plywood wall that separates my patio from my neighbor’s. They have company. They can’t hear my typing above their conversations. I hear clicking lighters and deep inhales. I hear “thanks man” and “good stuff.” I hear them compliment the table the girls bought at my garage sale, the one I collaged with old Art Nuevo posters and I smile with pride. That project was painful to liquidate.
Where are you going with this tonight? What is the destination of your typing? Tonight I am wandering, meandering across the page. I am enjoying the act, slipping myself into the pleasure of composing. The journey is the only goal tonight.
Fear not, dear heart, you will write again.
Sensei Nelson fumbles her way towards enlightenment
Today I taught English “officially” for the first time. I am meeting weekly with a student from Japan. I teach her English for an hour, and then she teaches me Japanese for an hour. I consider this my warm up for when I have to move across the Pacific and teach everyday. I’ve been a writing tutor for over a year, but teaching English is VERY different from teaching writing to those that already have a masterful grasp of the language. Naoko is very smart and pleasant and we like make up inappropriate sentences to practice our grammar with and then drill them loudly in cafes. For instance, Naoko is working on learning complex sentences using conjunctions. She repeated, “Because Joe forgot his ID, he couldn’t get into either the strip club or the swingers bar and now he will never find his true love” over and over again. Very funny. I imagine that I can use the same “inappropriate subject matter to create interest in the lesson” technique with the 13-year-old boys I will be teaching. Yep. No doubt.
My level of Japanese is no where near Naoko’s level of English. I just pointed at things and said what they were and who they belonged to. Not as funny.
Here is a funny thing: I’ve been writing and studying writing in college for years now. I’ve even spent the past year tutoring students and explaining grammar concepts. But, multiple times during our English lesson, Naoko asked me questions I couldn’t answer for the life of me. She wrote: “The boys found the grey big box.” I said good, but it should be “big grey box” not “grey big box.” Why? Um, I dunno. She asked if there are any rules for the order of adjectives. How come “tiny broken wooden boxes” is correct and not “wooden broken tiny boxes”? Maybe there is a rule to explain this, but I certainly don’t know it. I made up some garbage about vague global adjectives whittling down to specific visual adjectives and then quickly turned the page and told her it would all make sense to her in time.
Later I told teased her that I had her pegged as a “good girl”, but then I got to know her better and found out otherwise. “Pegged?” She asked. “What does that mean?” Um, identified, I guess. “Why do you say pegged?” I have no idea. Any reason I could come up with seemed much too vulgar to be correct.
She also questioned me quite fiercely about why we Americans say we are going to THE store and not to A store. In fact, why do we even say we are going to THE store when, in fact, we may have multiple stops? I don’t know! Quit asking me!
When I was little, I held strongly to the belief that teaching is easy. The teacher just shows up and the kids do all the work. I have even thought that through most of my college career. I didn’t expect I would have to us MY brain so much. Doh!
Atmosphere visual: Kio and Matt are crashed out in the living room watching Pinocchio. Their mouths hang open and both have the same vacant deer-eyed look. I studied their faces for a full minute to see if either one blinked. Their lashes didn’t flicker at all. Sometimes when people say they can’t see the resemblance between the two I just have to shake my head and bite my lip. At home, they may as well be twins.
Punk dentist wins this round
I have the strangest dentist. For one, he’s only a couple years older than me. I am used to my medical caregivers being aging old men with grey hair and long nose hairs. My dentist has neither of these things. In fact, he looks handsome in a slacker kind of way. This in itself could be unsettling, except for the fact that he also acts like a punk slacker. He says things like,
Whatever, and
don’t let these teeth go to Hell. Ummm, Okay.
So, today, I had some cavities filled. I didn’t expect much from the experience, but it went even worse than I had prepared myself for. The dental assistant buried a three inch needle in my gums, forgetting to numb me up with topical anesthesia first. Opps, sorry. The magic potion injected into my tender pink flesh didn’t take. This fact was not realized until the dentist came at me with the drill and my nerves exploded.
Tell me if any of this bothers you, punk dentist said before he dropped the drill in my mouth, his thumb stretching out my lower lip, my tongue shoved back in my mouth by wads of cotton. ALL of it bothered me, dumbass! So, then the drill hit my nerves and I convulsed in the chair and the dentist decided to
shoot me up with something little more powerful. Bring it on, baby, bring it on.
Eight hours later, I can finally feel my tongue again and my lips don’t feel like bananas anymore. I get to go in again next week to get the final work done. Lucky me. So much to look forward to.
KIDS AT HOME: Rember to brush and floss daily! One good bruishing before your trip to the dentist is not going to cover up years of neglect. Avoid the punk dentist at all costs!
Expectations muck up the works, yet again
A Heartbreaking work of Staggering Genius almost lived up to its title. Almost. I didn’t cry like the author, Dave Eggers promised I would in the prologue, but I did enjoy the book a great deal. He has a highly neurotic and (my classmates will hate me for this) postmodern voice. The copyright page alone was funny enough to make me forgive the title. I recommend this book. I also recommend skipping through the parts where Dave’s rants go on and on until words cease to have meaning and everything is in Technicolor, but that only happens 50 times or so in the course of the book. I had avoided this book for as long as possible because of its title and the fact that so many people kept raving about it. But, then so many people kept raving about it and curiosity got the better of me. While reading it, I quickly discovered that Dave puts out McSweeney’s, which is the smartest, coolest, mort irreverent literary journal out there. If I had known that, I would have bought it the first week it came out. Oh well.
I finished the heartbreaking work on Saturday, while sitting on a plastic chair in the shade of my garage watching strangers paw through my junk. Garage sale. Thrilling way to spend a Saturday. I priced everything too high. Sure, my hiking boots went to Africa, but they were also old and worn and covered in mud. I didn’t get the 10 bucks I wanted for them. I thought I knew what would sell quickly and what would still be sitting on the tupperwares by the end of the day. I was dead wrong. The framed Van Gogh prints, the hand-painted Italian espresso cups, the two dollar digital camera (it works – I swear!) and the mosaic tile kit (still wrapped in plastic) weren’t even considered. The crimped, half-used roll of weed whacker wire and the dirty old sheet we were using to cover the items not for sale in the back of the garage were gone before noon. Crazy.
In another month, just before we move to Japan, we’re having the Garage sale to end all garage sales. We’re just opening up our house and letting people traipse through. Everything goes. Our discounts are mad, mad, MAD! It’ll be great. But, we’ve also learned from our experiences this weekend that Kiomye cannot bear witness to the carting away of her worldly goods. That child has not yet acquired a taste for the simple life. Buddhist philosophy is lost on her. She wants her damn pony, and her baby toys, and those shoes that don’t fit, and that ugly sweater she hates. They’re
HERS! Ahh, mommy’s sweet little capitalist.
Recent angst footnote: It sucks to be accountable for things you have written late at night, in isolation, believing that no one will ever lay eyes on the words you transcribe on the screen. Publishing is a strange, strange bird. Like an egret. Is that even a bird? What’s an egret?
Have you noticed how everyone is talking about God lately? Or is that just in my life, my circle. Maybe everyone else is talking about Jerry Lewis or the fad diets. I don’t know. Everyone else could have, in fact stopped speaking their native languages and have finally accepted Esperanto as the superior means of communication. I don’t come in contact with very many people when compared to how many people live on this planet. So, I have no clue what “everyone” is really up to. In fact, my cable is even on the fritz and I rarely look at the news sites anymore. Oprah could have been deemed Domestic Goddess and Ruler of the Free World for all I know.
When my post has deteriorated to this, I should know it’s time to sign off. Yet, somehow, I just keep going.
Isn’t it annoying when people give their pets ridiculous names just so other people will think they’re clever or cultured? “They” being the owners, not the pets. No, the poor pets are innocent victims of chance. They are stuck with names like Mordor or Deuteronomy that they have to lug around with them for the rest of their short little lives. People are so dumb. My cats are lucky to have been chosen by me. Yep, little Dante and Picasso have the hippest owners EVER.
My husband is in Seattle. Or, maybe he’s on the drive back by now. This is what happens when he’s not around for me to share my absurd, fleeting contemplations with. Really, he shouldn’t be allowed to leave the house at all.
I went hiking up to Lena Lake on Friday with my friend Amanda (pictured). It was a scorching kind of day and we got to laze around, white bodies draped over sunny boulders. My skin got burned and my muscles got sore. I loved it.
The 4th Dimension: Revisted
I just can’t get away from this topic. I know this isn’t very artsy fartsy of me and that I’m betraying my right brain alliance. But, I don’t care. I’m obsessed.
To Dan: Wouldn’t the space between alternate realities be a dimension?
Take away the option of time, and I came up with more scenarios for a possible fourth dimension. So the first three dimensions are (basically) represented as length, width and height. Must the 4th dimension be purely special? Are the only measurable quantities space and time? Do faith, light, or energy register? What about weight? That has nothing to do with anything spatial, yet it may be measured. Weight = force of gravity = energy. Could the 4th dimension have anything to do with energy?
For example, imagine a person with an energy dimension. The person has a length of three feet, a width of two feet and a height of six feet, exists in the present and has an energy reading of 4.2. Maybe in this dimension, different objects have different energy measurements. If these energy measurements were visible to us, maybe we could interpret our environment in a whole different way. Some very high energy objects (like the earth) may pull at smaller energy objects (like people). Maybe, if we were lifted far out of our galaxy, we could see the energy forces playing off one another and the energy would be visible in waves or clouds. Imagine if viewed from an energy 4th dimension, people look stretched as they are pulled towards the earth and as the earth is pulled towards the sun. Maybe objects that looks solid to us would look like pulled taffy in the 4th dimension the distortion depending on their energy measurement. Or, some could be transparent, as light and others opaque like stone.
Matt told me about the hypercube concept: the logical progression of dimensions recognized by many scientist types as the backbone of the 4th dimension. From what I gleaned from Matt, this is a theoretical representation of what the 4th dimension would look like IF changes from the 3rd dimension to the 4th evolve similarly to the progression of the 1st dimension to the 3rd dimension. Theoretically, a 4th dimensional being would be able to look at a four dimensional box and be able to see all of its sides, whereas a 3rd dimensional being would see only see half the sides at any one moment. Also - the 4th dimensional being would be able to touch the inside of the box without going through any of its sides. This is of course all reliant on the assumption that there is a logical uniform progression from one dimension to another.
On to the question of whether or not a book can be written portraying the 4th dimension…
I think the most challenging obstacle in writing about the fourth dimension would be to make it imaginable for someone who can never recognize the dimension. For instance, we know that the human eye is only capable of seeing a small range of the color/light spectrum. We know as fact that there are more colors than we humans can perceive. Yet, try as I might to invent a new color, my “new” colors are simply mixes and combinations of colors within my visible spectrum. They are not new at all. My brain is incapable of imagining color outside of my spectrum, despite the scientific proof that they exist.
Therefore, unless you are able to take the character out of the 3rd dimension into the 4th, they may never be able to conceptualize what the 4th dimension could be. Of course, even if you were able to write about a character visiting the 4th dimension, the readers of the book would not be able to take the journey themselves. They would have to rely on the translation and hearsay of the character. Moreover, they would have to believe in the imagination and intuition of the writer, which the readers would know to be faulty as the writer is in the 3rd dimension and therefore incapable of accurately portraying/expressing the 4th dimension. So, while a book could be written about the fourth dimension, it would be pure conjecture.
There are many possibilities that can be imagined for the 4th dimension. It needn’t just be limited to hypercubes and other geometric shapes. I’ve finally convinced Matt about the possibility of other dimensions and now he thinks that in the future we might harness the power of the 4th dimension and have computers, power sources and houses that occupy the 4th dimension making these objects smaller, lighter and more environmentally friendly. Imagine surgery where the operation can be done without cutting you open making them less invasive and expensive.
Anyway, we’ll probably never know for certain and philosophy is really just a smile on a dog.
Robot God-Jesus. The perfect answer to all your religious angst. With a wave of his titanium cross and the flashing of his red LED eyes, your prayers are granted. Amen, Robot God-Jesus. You saved the day again!
This is what my professor Bill did to his daughter's TV when she was spending to much time watching shows and not getting her homework done. The funniest part of this story is that he shot the TV while she was at school, and then left it outside of her to discover when she got home. No explaination needed. For a spilt second, my own quirky father seems almost sane.
The 4th dimension is causing us marital distress
So, Matt is writing a final paper for his philosophy class on the possibility of a 4th dimension and whether or not a book may be written about the 4th Dimension, as Edwin Abbott did on a 2nd dimensional world in his book
Flatland. Matt discussed his ideas with me to help formulate his thesis for his paper. We had a terrible disagreement.
First of all, I think a book can be written about anything, even if that thing does not exists. Matt disagrees. Further more, Matt thinks a fourth dimension is improbable, while I think it’s a proven fact. Isn’t time the 4th dimension? Haven’t our scientists people established that pretty well?
According to Matt’s teacher, time cannot be used as the fourth dimension for the purposes of his paper. He must either imagine an altogether new dimension or else argue that there isn’t one possible.
Fine. Whatever. Scrape time. It's only TIME after all.
Matt argues that since the 3 dimensions we have identified cover all measurable space (length, width, and height) that there is nothing left to measure and therefore no fourth dimension.
Poppycock! I say. POP-EE-COCK!
In the book flatland, 3D people visit 2D flatland. The main character, 2D guy, does not believe the 3D people about the existence of a third dimension as, in his reality, there is only width and length. All he can sense may be measured, therefore there must not be anything else. 2D guy will not believe in even the possibility of a third dimension until the 3D people take 2D guy to lineland, where he meets a linelander whom refuses to acknowledge 2D guy's existence as the linelander is only aware of things in one dimension.
To me, this proves that we, as spherelanders (3D people), are incapable of refuting the existence of a fourth dimension (or a 5th, 6th, or 112th) as we only have the capability to perceive reality in three dimensions or less.
Stephen Hawkins wrote very convincingly of parallel universes. Wouldn’t another dimension be needed to measure the space between universes?
I claim that there are a great many more dimensions than our meager little minds are capable of recognizing, maybe an infinite amount.
This is causing great marital distress.
That, and the fact that our next door neighbor keeps blaring that horrible John Meyer
Your Body is a Wonderland song that makes us both irritated and irrational people.
Author + rit + y = Not me
So, I'm reading these Self-Publishing guides and marketing books and getting very depressed. It seems that the success of most books rests in marketing, NOT in the content or artistry of the book. Good guts will help a book, but are not necessary. The actions these people suggest are overwhelming. Most ideas even involve
interacting with other
people. Ugh. That’s not why I signed up to be a writer.
This is so much more difficult than I thought it would be.
Maybe if I imagined I had some kind of authority, it would be easier to imagine promoting my book and giving talks. But, I have no authority, and I’m too self-aware to pretend otherwise. That’s a lie. I pretend to have authority all the time, just not in what is most important to me. Ask me about the economy or the Women’s rights movement in India and I’ll prattle off for an hour. Ask me about my book and I just go dumb.
Uhhhhhh… Um, it’s about stuff and life. I guess. Yea, it’s kinda good, but don’t worry, I’ll write a better one later.
That’s not going to get my book sold. Blech.
On a happier and contrary note, I just checked my sales report and found out that my book has moved up from 19th to number 7 on CafePress’s most popular fiction/literature category. That’s freakishly cool! I’m going to run around the living room in little circles and yelp like a Pomeranian. Please excuse me…
The Paradox of Motherhood
I took a bath with Kiomye last night. It’s the best way for us to have quiet bonding time. She scooped mounds of bubbles into her palms, cupped her hands in mine and together we blew the bubbles into each other’s faces. She squinted her eyes and giggled. I listened to her two-year-old babble (half baby talk/ half brilliant discourse) and wondered how such a magical creature could have ever been placed in my life. I felt incredible peace and satisfaction with the world. Minutes later, Matt picked her out of the tub, wrapped her in a towel and carried her into our bedroom. I heard her call out for me to follow, but I tipped the door shut with my fingertips and sunk lower into the water,
please please just five minutes alone.
Go figure.
I thought I'd add something a little more bohemian to my blog to balance out my post below. This is Anais Nin looking all lovely and writerly with a group of elderly intellectuals (at a hay ride?)
Jesus got top honors in my biochem class
My friend was expressing some religious angst on his blog, and now I feel like I want to talk about spirituality here on my own page. I am very hesitant to share my faith in public settings as I always think I need to do a lot of explaining and back-peddling when I say that I am a Christian. Yes, I am a Christian. (Here comes the explaining.) I am just not a very good “system of religion” Christian. I’m all about faith and one true God. I’m crazy about Jesus and his gospel of love. I am absolutely terrified of organized religion and have been deeply scarred by those that call themselves “good Christians.” So, I stand proudly and say, “Yes, I am a Christian, but I am not a good one.”
Two things that are at the core of my faith I just shared on my other friend’s blog. The first bit of wisdom I found just this year in a paper from a student I was tutoring. She quotes St. Thomas Aquinas to say:
“Because the Faith was the one truth, nothing discovered in nature could ultimately contradict the Faith. Because the Faith was the one truth, nothing deducted from Faith could ultimately contradict the facts.”
This reconciles all my personal conflict between science and God. St. Thomas makes perfect sense to me. If we look at our natural world and find evolution, it is because God created it as such. Science is a celebration of God’s creation. We need not fear that our God may ever be weakened by worldly truths unless we doubt the existence of God himself. I do not fear questions and science because I have faith in the true love of my God. I am free to question anything I’d like because I know that, in the end, if I am seeking truth, I will eventually end up at God’s feet.
-also-
The big question: how could God let so many people go to Hell? Is Jesus really the only way? What about those that never even get the chance to hear about Jesus? How fair and loving is that?
I remember only two passages from the bible, and those are mainly in gist only. But, after a quick search on the internet, I found the correct wording of one of the passages I hold most dear (The other is the ever popular first Corinthians). The answer to my most anxious questions I find in Deuteronomy 4.29:
“if you seek the LORD your God, you will find him if you look for him with all your heart and with all your soul.”
From this, I gather that those who make a genuine good faith effort to find God, will find him. This is regardless of whether or not they ever hear the name Jesus, or say the specific words of redemption. God is bigger than our language. Yes, I think there is one true God, but that we may all call him different names, only each of us knows in our hearts and souls if we really believe or if we’ve just found a superficial outlet for “creative spirituality.”
Required Vocabulary
Some of my careful readers found amusing little errors in my book, so I had to go back and re-edit the whole damn thing. In order to get a clean bill of health from my laptop’s spell check, I found that I had to add an incredible number of new words to my computer dictionary. Below are some of the words readers are required to know to comprehend my book that Microsoft may not understand:
Kelsye Brynne Nelson
Piss
Shit
Firma (as in terra)
Fart
NASCAR
Disney
Ritz (as in crackers)
Velveeta
Sea-Tac
Dunno
Partnered
Nadda
Writerly
RVs
Girly
Barbie
I-5
Honda
Wonderstruck
Pissed
Bookshop
Anais
Nin
Chrissake
Hemingway
Manet
Stepmom
Farts
Pisses
Asshole
Lego
Fuck
Bookmarked
Cannes
Sega (as in game system)
Dammit
Kinda
Snotty
Gonna
Wanna
Harrumphed
Kiomye
Wenatchee
Hondas
Mazda
Crap
Biggie
Google
Vibe
Some of the words I am not surprised were missing from the dictionary. Others I had expected. Vibe? Piss? Snotty? Even FART!?!
Anyway, the book has been updated. I made corrections and added a story. Those that have already bought my book, just consider it a limited edition.
Happy note: Of the 137 books listed in CafePress's literature/fiction section - my book is 19th in popularity. Cool! I've always wanted to know what being popular was like. Thank you again and again family and friends. :)
My grandmother Renny made the long drive to see me walk across the stage. She even wore her green coat - The Evergreen color!
The keynote speaker at my graduation was Dr. Vandana Shiva. She was fabulous.
I graduated today. Yep.
Kelsye (dark haired) is not a new version. The base model is the same as Kelsye 1.0 (tangerine streaked hair) with updated exterior packaging.
Chem-beauty and Snarky Snarkerson
I have dyed my hair yet again. Second time today, third time this week. The blonde didn’t turn out well, more like tangerine. Citrus head. No thank you. I know Matt wanted me to try a lighter color for awhile, but I just wasn’t feeling it. Dark hair is comforting. Short dark hair seems mature and sophisticated. I think I could pull that off for a month or so.
My friend Christy has an obsession with dying and cutting her hair. Every time she changes her look, I mark it up to low self-esteem issues and cluck that maybe when she learns to love herself inside, then she’ll be satisfied with her outside. If the same judgment is applied to my behavior I’ll jump up and down, insist it isn’t so and offer a big screw you. It’s just hair. That - and my self-esteem and identity as a woman. That’s all. Leave me alone.
Speaking of chemical dependency, I’m going to spend the rest of my evening soaking my fingers in acetone and watching the
Monster movie (about the serial killer – not the fluffy closet dwellers). I got these dang French manicure nails that looked great for my sister’s wedding, but are now growing out and resemble Dracula claws. I had no idea what I was getting into when I got them put on. I didn’t know what a pain in the neck it is to remove the dang things.
I am fascinated when I think of all the chemicals my body comes in contact with in the name of beauty. Taking inventory right now, I’ve got the hair dye (three layers), day-old mascara, acrylic nails, Aussie "natural-style" hair gel, all-day lip stain, toe polish and self-tanning lotion (God only knows what’s in that magic potion). And this is a casual day for me. Imagine how long the list may be on a formal day. I am not fit for human consumption. I would definitely NOT qualify as organic.
Personal message to Randy: Snarky. I just learned this word this fall. My writing class has been obsessed with it for two quarters. Snarky. It just dawned on me that that I can give a perfect definition of the word if simply I think of you. Interesting.
"The Plan"
Unless you are new to my blog (and my life), you know that I have just finished my first book,
Anticipation. I thought I’d share my next steps with the book here on my blog so everyone can follow along. It is still a mystery to me how musicians get their CDs produced and shipped to Wal-Mart, how movies make it to the theatre, and how books make it to the shelf of my local bookstores. I am about to find out the answer to one of these questions and I can share my progress with you, dear bloggers.
So, here’s “The Plan.” I have completed the first part of my plan, doing the writing. Luckily, my book is finished, revised and designed. That took about a year and could be a subject for a whole other blog on its own. But I’m done with that, so I’m moving on. Now I’m on to producing and publishing. I am going at this publishing from two angles, small press and big press.
For me, small press means self-publishing. As you all know, my book is already available for sale through Cafepress.com (see link on sidebar on right). They print on demand as each book is ordered, that’s why the price is high. Using the profits made from selling my book to family and friends (Hooray family and friends!) and whatever I get in my graduation envelopes, I will do a small run of 100 books through an independent printer. This will run me about $3 a book. I will then affix a “local writer” sticker to each of these copies and sell them in small quantities to the independent bookstores in Olympia, Tacoma, Seattle and Portland. I should be able to sell all 100 copies without much trouble. I will ask the stores for $9 and they may mark it up as they please. $9 - $3 = $6 x 100 = $600 profit. Using this money, I will then be able to buy a ISBN number (barcode) and the services of a distribution company that sells book to Amazon, Barnes and Noble, big stores like that. I can’t think any farther than that and by then it will probably be time for me to move to Japan and my self-publishing experiment will end.
Big press means to me “publishing contract.” While I’m playing my little self-publishing game, I will try to sell my book to a real publisher. This is the route that most people think of when they think of someone publishing a book. (The acceptance call from an editor, the fat advance check, the complimentary tweed jacket and the Hollywood hot tub parties.) In one month, I am attending the Pacific NW Writers’ Association Conference. I have scheduled meetings at the conference with an editor and an agent. Before these meetings, I will attend workshops that tell me how to pitch my book and how to talk to editors. I have no idea what will come of this, but it’s a start and it will get me some leads at the very least. I will be able to pursue big press publishing even after we move to Japan as most of that wheeling and dealing is done over the telephone or email.
So, that’s it. Exciting, isn’t it? I’ll keep you all updated as things happen.
Teary Business (the incredible lightness of being finished)
Yesterday, I had my final evaluation with my teacher. What he said was so positive and encouraging that I cried, but not until after I left his office because Bill’s not a crying kind of guy and I’m one tough cookie. Then I went to my graduation rehearsal and picked up my cap and gown. I drove home, attached the tassel to my cap and modeled the whole shebang in the mirror. Then I cried some more.
This ending college is a teary business.
Now I’m sitting here with streaks of bleach drying in my hair and a cup of coffee with half a pack of Swiss Miss mixed in. Indulgent. I just checked my online sales reports and found out that someone in LA just bought three copies of my book. Fabulous. I have no plans for this afternoon other than reading a novel and taking a long nap curled up with my husband.
One of the most wonderful things about ending my classes is that I now am the master of my own reading list. I rarely read anything of my own choosing during the academic year as if I do I am overcome with guilt because I am probably neglecting some other required reading. This week, I went crazy and spent a ton of money at the used bookstore. Then, my generous ex-step-mom (yes, I have one of
those families.) gave me a gift-certificate to Barnes and Noble that I managed to spend within an hour of receiving the card. I bought that Dave Eggers book that everyone says is so incredible and the new McSweeney’s with “literary” comics. I bought Ariel Gore’s
The Mother Trip (which I’m almost finished with) and
Expat, a book about women who live abroad that is perfect for reading in the bath. I bought three back issues to
Brain, Child and devoured them in one sitting. I bought a book of Camus’ essays because if I quote him in my writing, I really should actually read his words, rather than just garner his wisdom from my friends. I am rich in words and reading.
My timer just went off. It’s time to log-off, chug the coffee and rinse the bleach out of my hair. Until next time, dear bloggers.
It's official...
My little sister Ashley has graduated from high school. Horrah! Horray! We all remember the feeling of absolute relief and graditude when we look at the assembled mass of our peers for the last four years and realize we don't have to speak to any of them every again! No, I'm sure Ashley doesn't feel that we. People like Ashley. I'm sure she loves everyone of them. ;-)
Congrats, Scrout.
Deceptively poised.
Diploma in hand. Yea Ashley!
Ashley hams it up with her friends
A microphone and the attention of a couple thousand captive eyes. What more could a girl want?
I realize that this is highly inappropraite for my more sensitive viewers, but I just crack up when I see it. Look at the poor kitty! Oh, it's so sad. (The caption reads: Every time you masturbate... God kills a kitten. Please, think of the kittens.)
A cranky pessimist and a two-year-old went to a party...
So I drug myself to my writing programs end of the year party. I didn’t want to go because I was feeling all slothy and unsociable. Plus, I had to bring my sweet babe, which made it so I couldn’t fully participate in the festivities. I asked everyone there who had just graduated if they had post-graduation depression. Every one of them said yes. And not just, “Uh, yeah, ha ha”, but “Yes! Totally.” Some even went on with such things as:
“What am I going to do with my life?”
“I feel so lost.”
“I can’t believe my financial aid ended so soon. Now I have to get a freakin’ job.
Poignant. Yes. Very.
Beyond the vacant stares of hopelessness, there were some bright spots at the party. The python bit someone. My teacher Bill sang a couple folk songs. Kiomye couldn’t manage to undo the lock when I was using the bathroom next to the living room. I decided I might even keep some of the empty promises I made about hooking up with classmates in the summer.
What a cranky pessimist am I. Here is your degree, here is your kick in the pants. Thank you sir, may I have another?
Momentum
I have hurled myself through the past two years of school. Since I have been attending school full-time (often overloaded) and also have a child, a job and a husband, I had worked myself up into a determined ball of energy. If I caught a rare moment of peace, it was only because I decided to neglect some pressing item (homework, child, love).
Today is my first day of no classes. Kiomye is at daycare. Matt is at school completing his finals and frankly wants nothing to do with me until the end of the week when he is finished. There is nothing I need to do.
I hurried through my morning, getting Kiomye fed and dressed and off to daycare so I could use my precious free time to get my work done. I burst through the door when I got home, marched through the living room, then stopped suddenly. There was nothing I needed to do. I had no idea where I has hurrying to. I have no “to do” list, no backlog of reading to finish, no meetings to attend.
Weird.
I stood there in the middle of the living room for a couple minutes, then panic started to set in. I had to do something! It’s been so long since I was left up to my own devices, that I didn’t know what to do with myself, with my hands even, just hanging there like flacid lobsters.
So, of course, I cleaned the entire house. Two cups of coffee and one dirty mop bucket later, my house is sparkling for the first time in months. Again, the moment of panic in the middle of the living room.
Ah, yes, the internet. The easy answer. That’s where you meet me now, distracting myself by prowling around online. I’ll let my mind slow down and fry out a couple of its over active circuits, then sign-off and finally ask myself what I would enjoy doing with my time. Maybe. Or, I could just stay online and avoid myself all day. That might work too.
A rare moment of angelic peace.
My kid is so funny!
Evil TV
On my friend Dan's blog, he admitted his affection for a certain sleazy Amaerican television show that has just been released in Japan (where he lives) and I had to comment to tell him my experiences with it. I realized that it is my duty as a good citizen to warn all people of the dangers of this show. So, I've decided to copy my response to Dan's blog here on my own blog:
I'm not allowed to watch Temptation Island. The train wreck factor hooked me into the first season, but I got too emotionally involved. I would be watching the show while Matt was quietly doing something like eating spaghetti or reading a magazine, and as the couples on the show committed horrible acts against each other, my eyes would fall on my husband. The show is evil. When you live vicariously through their horrible lives, you lose all your trust and faith in love and commitment. Matt would then tell me he was making a run to the store and I would jump up and question him. Why was he going to the store? Did he
really need cigarettes? Why can’t he just smoke that stub? Doesn’t he find me attractive anymore? Doesn’t he love me?
Yeah, not good.
I had to watch the first season through to the end in the hopes that the couples would redeem themselves and my belief in monogamy somehow. Didn’t happen. I sat sobbing through the last show, then Matt shut it off and told me I wasn’t allowed to even watch the previews for the next season. I submitted gracefully.
(Yes, I realize that Matt should win some kind of award and a fruit basket for being married to me and not losing his mind.)
Creative parenting advice. Look at how happy the kids are. The boy even seems to be asking for it.
One degree down....
Today was my last class of my undergraduate college career. I still have to finish some credits over the summer, but I'm doing them as contracts on my personal projects. No more classes.
I'm exhausted.
The class ran seven hours. Student presentations. Actually, most of the presentations were enthralling. For Spring quarter, my peers have been working on independent projects. I had no idea how much cool stuff people were researching and writing until they stood before the class and shared their work. I am highly impressed with my classmates and their presentations have left me inspired and encouraged in my own studies and personal endeavors.
My daughter is watching Shrek (for the 11th time) and eating a microwave dinner marketed for kids. I’m sitting doe-eyed in front of the computer. It’s not exactly my most sparkling mothering moment, but give me a break – I just finished a degree.
This fabulous example of English translation gone horribly wrong is from Engrish.com
In Praise of Difficult Women
It’s the final week of my program at Evergreen. We’re doing our project presentations. One young woman in my class, Jessica Nash, spent the quarter researching “The Evolving Female Voice.” She shared some wonderful quotes that I want to post.
From
In Praise of Difficult Women by Elizabeth Wurtzel
“I think quite frankly, that the world simply does not care for the complicated girls, the ones who seem too dark, too deep, too vibrant, too opinionated, the ones who seem so intriguing that new men fall in love with them everyday.”
“For a woman, it is never enough to be just an artist, just a talent: our art is our life, carrying on with charisma, is all that counts. I don’t mean that a woman has to be a great beauty to matter – Janis Joplin was far from anything of the sort, but she had great possession, great élan, she wore lame and feathers and wiggled a lot.”
From
The Sexual Personae by Camille Paglia
“The very language and logic modern woman uses to assail patriarchal culture were the inventions of men.”
From
In a Different Voice by Carol Gillagan
“The failure of women to fit existing models of human growth may point to a problem in the representation, a limitation in the conception of human condition, an omission of certain truths about life.”
From
Wild, Succulent Women by Sark
“I write all my books lying down in pajamas and measure time by cups of tea.”
From Carolyn See
“Every word a woman writes changes the story of the world, revises the official version.”
From Virginia Woolf
“It is obvious that the values of women differ very often from the values which have been made by the other sex… yet it is the masculine values that prevail.”
Hmmm, I didn’t realize there were so many quotes. I had circled most of the quotes she gave us! Oh well. Maybe some blogger will find something interesting in the above modge podge. I loved them all.
The 27th Letter
The English language is severely lacking. How many times have you sat in front of the keyboard, a sharp point or feeling clarified in your mind, but at a complete loss for the words to type to translate your thoughts? I think our language is getting even more outdated as technology improves. The rapid rise of smilies is a testimate to this (wretched though they are). With the quick increase in email communications, corresponders found they could not accurately convey the meaning behind their straight sentences accurately. Jokes were made and people did not get them. Sarcasm was completely missed. Feelings were hurt, people were fired, it was very ugly. Enter the smilies.
For example, compare: "I never want to see you again!" with "I never want to see you again! ;-) "
Some may argue that smilies are just a poor substitute for clear writing and that we must simply take the time to write the extra sentences that make our meaning clear without silly faces. While I agree that writing can be pretty lazy (particularly in emails), I think our language should not be a hindrance to us. If our minds can think that fast, and if technology can transmit our messages instantly, why shouldn't our language work a little harder to keep up with us. Rather than us slowing down to meet the limitations of our language.
So, how do we solve this? I propose that what we need is not more words, but rather, a new letter. Think of the multiplicity of new combinations that simply adding one letter would add! Wow! And, as the deficiency in our language seems to be inflection (or emotional gist) I further propose that this letter is not a sound, but rather the absence of sound. This letter would represent a space for inflection, a slight lilting of the voice.
For those familiar with Japanese, this letter would be similar to the Japanese little tsu, only it would have a different meaning. Once the population has practice and experience with this new letter, the meaning could be manipulated to convey doubt, sarcasm, questioning, general snarkiness, and so on, depending on context and placement.
If you could change the English language, what would you change? Would you add or subtract. What would your letter look like?
