Let me start off with something of an advisory. No, there will not be any controversial language, per se, but there will be some political points being brought up here. So, if this does not interest you or you'd like to avoid it, I completely understand.
The original article has been linked at the bottom of this post.
Symbolism. This is the life blood of a good story. It's the stuff that allows audiences to come back, time and again to Inception's ending. Is the top at the end the real thing, or is it simply a symbol? If the latter, this means that the main character indeed has yet to wake up.
When Clint Eastwood gave a speech at the Republican National Convention, I'm not sure if anyone was prepared for the symbolism he would bring out on stage with him: An empty chair. This was it. Nothing more, and nothing less. But this empty chair eventually came to symbolize something more. No longer was it as light as air; it took on the heaviness of the president of the united states. The empty chair came to symbolize Obama.
Political symbols have been used for a long time in this country. Some rally under the banner of an elephant whereas others understand their symbol as a donkey. Symbols, as Batman Begins might say, cannot be killed. They have meaning because of those things we attach to them. Thus, I find it disturbing that someone in Colorado has taken it upon himself to set a chair in his front lawn. I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't be upset over that. Let me rephrase. He has set a chair swinging as though from a noose from the bough of a tree on his front lawn. This, he claims, is a political statement, and it should be protected under free speech.
I agree with him, actually. I think that he has the right to do what he wishes to do. However, I think that this is a political statement in the same way that Mein Kampf is a political statement. You're certainly allowed to read that if you like, but I think we all know where you'd stand, politically and morally. Disgusting is the first word that comes to mind although it may not be the best.
Let me explain why.
If the chair is a symbol for president Obama, then hanging that chair from a tree in the middle of your yard is akin to the symbolic lynching of someone. This act carries connotations of racism, hatred, and bigotry. It should be publicly discussed. I think this man should be ashamed for such an heartless display, but it is in his yard. It is on his private property, and I cannot justify forcing another to act as I see fit.
I just want people to realize that this act carries meaning. Moreover, that the meaning it carries is not a very good one. In fact, it is rather vague. What is it saying? That Obama ought to be hanged? For what reason? Because you don't like his policies? There are far more eloquent ways to publish this message into a myriad of mediums. Not only is this statement ineffectual, but it is brutish and grotesque.
Just as we are unsure if the top from Inception ever actually stops spinning which would leave the audience stuck firmly in a dream and deep in sleep, this country, too, sometimes seems unsure as to whether or not something as a symbol has meaning. Everything has meaning, and we must wake up and realize that our actions and voice travels much farther than our arms (or our yards), and if we make a statement, we should make sure that we have a purpose for doing such not steeped in a past from which this country is still feeling the effects.
Rather, our creed should read:
We are awake; we are watching; and we are willing to speak up in a respectful manner if something doesn't sit right with us. Even if that thing is simply an empty chair which has taken on much greater heaviness than simply that of air.
Source: http://kdvr.com/2012/09/24/loveland-homeowner-calls-hanging-empty-chair-political-statement-others-call-it-hate-speech/
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Grandeur
People often look up at the stars at night and marvel
at the might of the universe. How vast, how bright, how brilliant, how exalted, how beautiful.
The grandeur of it keeps us eye-locked on the sky at night for a blinking hint at
any messages the universe may be sending.
People often look up at the night sky without realizing that the stars are just
a reflection spied within their own eyes.
The blinking matches the beating of your heart; don't you hear it?
There are constellations in your palms; you just have lines already traced over them.
Think about this:
You are breathing the same oxygen atoms that Jesus, Siddhartha, Mohammed, Moses, and Abraham inhaled.
When atoms interact, they can become entangled, so you have divinity
within your blood at every moment. Moreover, your
fingertips are made of molecules, atoms of carbon, keratin, and creation because
those same atoms were used to compose the bodies of stars until they collapsed.
Stars died so that you could live. You
hold the makings of light at your fingertips, so
make sure that the stars didn't die in vain.
Grab a pen and let the constellations in your palms pour onto your pages.
Tell the story you've inherited from your parents that they
inherited from theirs down the line through the eons, past time and
back through space to before the Big Bang when God spoke and made
that first burning source of light - the words, like the atoms in your body,
have existed since then - waiting for you to
take up your light, to tell your story, to be bright,
brilliant, exalted,
beautiful.
I'm going to break one of the rules of poetry here and provide a bit of context to this poem. Namely, it was based off the word "Grandeur". In a poetry club here in town, we have a "homework assignment" to complete for each week. While there are no points taken away or anything like that, it is simply an opportunity to explore an idea, a word, a concept, or ourselves. For example, the coming week's assignment is to "Write your story." Granted, we all have many stories, but the main question here is how do you see yourself? What image can you pull from your life to explain how you're living now. Stories are important to us. You'll notice that the above, however, is not a story.
Well, with this blog, I one day want to be able to give back and not just keep taking your attention and time for my own words. I would love for people to be able to share their stories. If not here, then somewhere. If this experiment ever takes off, I want to give back in the form of donations, workshops, mentorship, and/or editing/revising/writing help for anyone who wants as much.
So, I implore you to write your story. Who are you? What do you want to say about yourself? If you don't want to share here, please share somewhere so that someone gets the insight of whoever you are.
So please go, write your story, and be bright, brilliant, exalted, and beautiful.
at the might of the universe. How vast, how bright, how brilliant, how exalted, how beautiful.
The grandeur of it keeps us eye-locked on the sky at night for a blinking hint at
any messages the universe may be sending.
People often look up at the night sky without realizing that the stars are just
a reflection spied within their own eyes.
The blinking matches the beating of your heart; don't you hear it?
There are constellations in your palms; you just have lines already traced over them.
Think about this:
You are breathing the same oxygen atoms that Jesus, Siddhartha, Mohammed, Moses, and Abraham inhaled.
When atoms interact, they can become entangled, so you have divinity
within your blood at every moment. Moreover, your
fingertips are made of molecules, atoms of carbon, keratin, and creation because
those same atoms were used to compose the bodies of stars until they collapsed.
Stars died so that you could live. You
hold the makings of light at your fingertips, so
make sure that the stars didn't die in vain.
Grab a pen and let the constellations in your palms pour onto your pages.
Tell the story you've inherited from your parents that they
inherited from theirs down the line through the eons, past time and
back through space to before the Big Bang when God spoke and made
that first burning source of light - the words, like the atoms in your body,
have existed since then - waiting for you to
take up your light, to tell your story, to be bright,
brilliant, exalted,
beautiful.
I'm going to break one of the rules of poetry here and provide a bit of context to this poem. Namely, it was based off the word "Grandeur". In a poetry club here in town, we have a "homework assignment" to complete for each week. While there are no points taken away or anything like that, it is simply an opportunity to explore an idea, a word, a concept, or ourselves. For example, the coming week's assignment is to "Write your story." Granted, we all have many stories, but the main question here is how do you see yourself? What image can you pull from your life to explain how you're living now. Stories are important to us. You'll notice that the above, however, is not a story.
Well, with this blog, I one day want to be able to give back and not just keep taking your attention and time for my own words. I would love for people to be able to share their stories. If not here, then somewhere. If this experiment ever takes off, I want to give back in the form of donations, workshops, mentorship, and/or editing/revising/writing help for anyone who wants as much.
So, I implore you to write your story. Who are you? What do you want to say about yourself? If you don't want to share here, please share somewhere so that someone gets the insight of whoever you are.
So please go, write your story, and be bright, brilliant, exalted, and beautiful.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Your Concept... It Needs "Work"
I don't like politics. I like discussion and debate; don't get me wrong on that. I love a good argument, in fact. But I can't stand politics. Someone might as well be poking me in the eye. Or I might as well be roommates with the owner of 1,000 shrill alarm clocks all set to go off at the most inopportune time of night - namely, right before sleep finally sets in. But I am willing to put that dislike aside for just a moment. Okay, more than a moment, as writing this will likely take at least a few of those all too precious seconds.
This country has a problem. That statement is misleading. We have several problems. One of which IS unemployment, the economy, capital, and, yes, taxes. This problem is multi-faceted and reaches a level of complexity which a humble English major can't really get into, so I, instead, as every professor of creative writing will eventually tell his or her students, will write what I know. Or at least what I think I know.
There is a lack of truth in language. Words seem to shift in their meaning, and I'm not sure when it happened, but it's set the idea of things all off-kilter. Somehow, words have become like art. Like music. Two disciplines in which one may ask, "But what does it mean?" The likely reply (if the composer is worth his or her salt) would be to simply play it again and have the individual interpret, as they are wont to do. Words do not function like art. A speech should not be a painting. A press release should not be a poem. Words have meaning; politics is not art. But this doesn't explain why we have so many politicians rearranging facts as though those facts are the features of faces in Picasso's paintings. Journalists should not need to interpret the words of a politician.
Perhaps this is why I'm so appalled by recent comments made by a certain politician. The words themselves, while disgustingly general and grossly stereotypical I can stomach. Lima beans aren't palatable at first, but one eventually develops a taste for them. What dismayed me was the response put out by the man who spoke the words (paraphrasing): "They [the words] could have been more eloquently stated, I'll say that much." This is the gist of the retort. A rebuttal of sorts and one which should send up red flags because politicians are not poets.
I am a slam poet. In writing this competitive style of poetry, one must always be mindful of a few things: concept, writing, and delivery. Concept is the core idea or message behind your poetry. Writing is your phrasing, the words one chooses to express the concept of the poem (how eloquently one states his or her point may be considered to fall in this category). Delivery is the poet's stage presence; it is his or her performance. Writing cannot change the concept of the poem. Writing DOES NOT change the concept of the poem. Painting a racing stripe onto a Ford Pinto does not change the fact that it's still a Ford Pinto. It would not change the fact that I would be mildly embarrassed to be driving one. In fact, I'd wonder if other people wondered if I was trying to hide something by dressing up such a crummy car. Before this analogy gets too messy, let us use it to talk about something useful.
Mr. Romney writing off 47% of the American public as entitled, victim complex people who expect the federal government to take care of them is an absolutely deplorable concept regardless of how he wants to word it. Eloquence be damned; no amount of writing can save such crass statements. If I walked into a slam with a poem with that poor of a concept, I should rightfully lose. No matter my writing, a bad concept is just that: Bad. It is uninspired, pandering, and insipid. Which is to say tasteless.
I will be waiting to see just how the media decides to cover this. More than likely, the man in question and politics as usual will resort to something like poetic license. This is what was said, but that is not what was meant. Sadly, it reminds me of a poet who once said of their own work, "Mine is the kind of work that you can't really understand. You just have feel."
Romney is a politician, not a poet. If he were, however, his work would be the kind I could neither understand nor feel.
This country has a problem. That statement is misleading. We have several problems. One of which IS unemployment, the economy, capital, and, yes, taxes. This problem is multi-faceted and reaches a level of complexity which a humble English major can't really get into, so I, instead, as every professor of creative writing will eventually tell his or her students, will write what I know. Or at least what I think I know.
There is a lack of truth in language. Words seem to shift in their meaning, and I'm not sure when it happened, but it's set the idea of things all off-kilter. Somehow, words have become like art. Like music. Two disciplines in which one may ask, "But what does it mean?" The likely reply (if the composer is worth his or her salt) would be to simply play it again and have the individual interpret, as they are wont to do. Words do not function like art. A speech should not be a painting. A press release should not be a poem. Words have meaning; politics is not art. But this doesn't explain why we have so many politicians rearranging facts as though those facts are the features of faces in Picasso's paintings. Journalists should not need to interpret the words of a politician.
Perhaps this is why I'm so appalled by recent comments made by a certain politician. The words themselves, while disgustingly general and grossly stereotypical I can stomach. Lima beans aren't palatable at first, but one eventually develops a taste for them. What dismayed me was the response put out by the man who spoke the words (paraphrasing): "They [the words] could have been more eloquently stated, I'll say that much." This is the gist of the retort. A rebuttal of sorts and one which should send up red flags because politicians are not poets.
I am a slam poet. In writing this competitive style of poetry, one must always be mindful of a few things: concept, writing, and delivery. Concept is the core idea or message behind your poetry. Writing is your phrasing, the words one chooses to express the concept of the poem (how eloquently one states his or her point may be considered to fall in this category). Delivery is the poet's stage presence; it is his or her performance. Writing cannot change the concept of the poem. Writing DOES NOT change the concept of the poem. Painting a racing stripe onto a Ford Pinto does not change the fact that it's still a Ford Pinto. It would not change the fact that I would be mildly embarrassed to be driving one. In fact, I'd wonder if other people wondered if I was trying to hide something by dressing up such a crummy car. Before this analogy gets too messy, let us use it to talk about something useful.
Mr. Romney writing off 47% of the American public as entitled, victim complex people who expect the federal government to take care of them is an absolutely deplorable concept regardless of how he wants to word it. Eloquence be damned; no amount of writing can save such crass statements. If I walked into a slam with a poem with that poor of a concept, I should rightfully lose. No matter my writing, a bad concept is just that: Bad. It is uninspired, pandering, and insipid. Which is to say tasteless.
I will be waiting to see just how the media decides to cover this. More than likely, the man in question and politics as usual will resort to something like poetic license. This is what was said, but that is not what was meant. Sadly, it reminds me of a poet who once said of their own work, "Mine is the kind of work that you can't really understand. You just have feel."
Romney is a politician, not a poet. If he were, however, his work would be the kind I could neither understand nor feel.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
With words written on wrists
I'm 26, a student teacher. My first semester. I've spent time subbing in distant districts, but this is my first class in which they'll see me week in and week out.
It's Monday, 9/10/12. Suicide awareness day. I wasn't aware until a student walked in with words written on his wrists. The words triggered a memory of back in college as an undergrad. I remembered events broadcast over Facebook, and I remembered people branding profiles and pictures with the acronym TWLOHA: To Write Love On Her Arms. I had decided that the assumption underlying the acronym was that love was too beautiful to strike through; no one would willingly redact that word if it were already written there, on someone's arms. Or wrists. So the pen was treated as a bandage. Highlighters and markers became the definitive way to show support for friends, family, or peers lost to early to their own devices. Love. That one, simple word was all it took to stop someone from striking through that spot. Apparently, the name of the day changed, but the sentiment had remained. I was remembering this when my student walked in with words written on his wrists.
About his past, I had gleaned the following facts: that he had lost his father to something. Possibly an overdose or no chair to stand on which left a broken neck or lack of air; it could have been a slickened wrist with arteries that couldn't coagulate fast enough. Whatever the cause, I didn't want to ask.
Death is not an easy topic. But today, we're talking about something entirely different. Adjectives. Modifiers. Descriptions. And I don't want these things to be just words for my students anymore. I want words to become bandages for the scars I know my students hide. I want words to become reasons for waking up, or ways they can still see the sunrise as something that's beautiful, not just 6 AM. But many barely know how to write let alone how the pen can become a bandage, but I don't have time to teach this. Due to budget cuts and an emphasis on lessons designed to prepare students for tests, we have little time to explore why writing is important for the long term. For a moment, I think about today and what it means, and I wonder if writing "Love" across school budgets would stop bureaucrats from slashing them. And, besides, we have a test coming up. This is something I've learned already in my short time here: we always have a test coming up.
But then my student walked in on suicide awareness day with words written on his wrists. Words like "love", like "rest in peace", like "dear dad." The finality of it is brutal. But we have a test coming up, and I don't have time to talk to them about how the pen can become a way to understand the world. I don't have time to explain how I use lines and letters and words to describe and understand how this world works, and I'm afraid that many will never come to understand the joy of placing a sunset on paper or making time slow down with the sound of a pencil between their finger tips as it gently whispers across pages, but then my student walked in with "Love" written on his wrists, and I understand.
I understand that he understands loss more fully than I currently do, never having lost a father I knew. No matter how many pages I fill, he will still feel the loss of his father every time a birth day comes and goes, and he has no dad to express how proud he's become of his growing son. I think he understands more than our tests could ever confirm, and we shouldn't cease academics due to the absence of fathers or mothers, but I wonder how much learning will actually get done today. After all, learning is a life long process, but this system emphasizes short turn over for answers. It emphasizes that information is only useful for finding an answer, and that there is only one right answer. Because of this, our system cannot understand why my student walked in with words written on his wrists. It cannot understand that the sunrise is so much more than just 6 AM. Even worse, this system cannot understand why its students get out of bed each morning.
But we have a test coming up. We always have a test coming up, so there's no time to change the system.
But learning is still a lifelong process which will not end when the tests do. My student walks in with words written on his wrists. I think about how a lifetime isn't enough to learn everything. I think about how I don't have time to encourage this curiosity. I think about how 13 years seems like too few to understand what loss is but more than enough to learn it through and through. I think about how, after 26 years, I'm still trying to describe the beauty of a sunrise on paper.
It's suicide awareness day when my student walks in. But we have a test that he has to study for and not enough time to be able to talk about the words written on his wrists.
It's Monday, 9/10/12. Suicide awareness day. I wasn't aware until a student walked in with words written on his wrists. The words triggered a memory of back in college as an undergrad. I remembered events broadcast over Facebook, and I remembered people branding profiles and pictures with the acronym TWLOHA: To Write Love On Her Arms. I had decided that the assumption underlying the acronym was that love was too beautiful to strike through; no one would willingly redact that word if it were already written there, on someone's arms. Or wrists. So the pen was treated as a bandage. Highlighters and markers became the definitive way to show support for friends, family, or peers lost to early to their own devices. Love. That one, simple word was all it took to stop someone from striking through that spot. Apparently, the name of the day changed, but the sentiment had remained. I was remembering this when my student walked in with words written on his wrists.
About his past, I had gleaned the following facts: that he had lost his father to something. Possibly an overdose or no chair to stand on which left a broken neck or lack of air; it could have been a slickened wrist with arteries that couldn't coagulate fast enough. Whatever the cause, I didn't want to ask.
Death is not an easy topic. But today, we're talking about something entirely different. Adjectives. Modifiers. Descriptions. And I don't want these things to be just words for my students anymore. I want words to become bandages for the scars I know my students hide. I want words to become reasons for waking up, or ways they can still see the sunrise as something that's beautiful, not just 6 AM. But many barely know how to write let alone how the pen can become a bandage, but I don't have time to teach this. Due to budget cuts and an emphasis on lessons designed to prepare students for tests, we have little time to explore why writing is important for the long term. For a moment, I think about today and what it means, and I wonder if writing "Love" across school budgets would stop bureaucrats from slashing them. And, besides, we have a test coming up. This is something I've learned already in my short time here: we always have a test coming up.
But then my student walked in on suicide awareness day with words written on his wrists. Words like "love", like "rest in peace", like "dear dad." The finality of it is brutal. But we have a test coming up, and I don't have time to talk to them about how the pen can become a way to understand the world. I don't have time to explain how I use lines and letters and words to describe and understand how this world works, and I'm afraid that many will never come to understand the joy of placing a sunset on paper or making time slow down with the sound of a pencil between their finger tips as it gently whispers across pages, but then my student walked in with "Love" written on his wrists, and I understand.
I understand that he understands loss more fully than I currently do, never having lost a father I knew. No matter how many pages I fill, he will still feel the loss of his father every time a birth day comes and goes, and he has no dad to express how proud he's become of his growing son. I think he understands more than our tests could ever confirm, and we shouldn't cease academics due to the absence of fathers or mothers, but I wonder how much learning will actually get done today. After all, learning is a life long process, but this system emphasizes short turn over for answers. It emphasizes that information is only useful for finding an answer, and that there is only one right answer. Because of this, our system cannot understand why my student walked in with words written on his wrists. It cannot understand that the sunrise is so much more than just 6 AM. Even worse, this system cannot understand why its students get out of bed each morning.
But we have a test coming up. We always have a test coming up, so there's no time to change the system.
But learning is still a lifelong process which will not end when the tests do. My student walks in with words written on his wrists. I think about how a lifetime isn't enough to learn everything. I think about how I don't have time to encourage this curiosity. I think about how 13 years seems like too few to understand what loss is but more than enough to learn it through and through. I think about how, after 26 years, I'm still trying to describe the beauty of a sunrise on paper.
It's suicide awareness day when my student walks in. But we have a test that he has to study for and not enough time to be able to talk about the words written on his wrists.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Shadows
I'm not sure what to write. I just came from an amazing meeting of some of the most poetic minds I know. Sometimes, we think that we've heard everything. Maybe it's because of the saying that the more things change, the more they stay the same. Even after all this time of listening and reading and writing, I'm still hearing things that are brand new. I'm amazed by it all. This vastness of talent can make anyone feel less self-assured. I found myself feeling like just a shadow of myself. Suddenly, the lines I thought were great sounded less impressive, and the thoughts that could have sounded so new had a thick layer of dust. No longer verdant, they were... missing something.
And here I'm reminded of a Facebook post that's been circulating recently. A picture put out by George Takei. On it is a dark brown background with the words "The reason we struggle with insecurity is because we compare our behind-the-scenes with everyone else's highlight reel" super imposed on top. I suppose this thought has been expressed before in yesterday's "The Experiment." post (or some variation of it): We don't know how long it took an artist to compose a work. We can't really be sure how long a piece took to get finalized. What seems like a short time may actually have its roots in the far-flung past. The point is that we cannot compare ourselves with others in any meaningful way in this regard.
The moment we begin to think "I'm not as _____ as ______ is", we've lost sight of what makes us so amazing. Suddenly our greatness is diminished as though it is a shadow shrinking under the midday sun. Perhaps, then, we should commit to taking walks just before the sun sets or just as that same sun is rising. By doing so, maybe we can remind ourselves that who we are, like the length of our shadows, is not always determined by our size but by the light being cast upon us. So we should find the best light under which we can thrive and grow. Find friends who shine on you at your best angles rather than stare down as though you're under interrogation. It is never wrong to be who you are.
You may not know how you are amazing, but it is a good start to simply know that you are.
And here I'm reminded of a Facebook post that's been circulating recently. A picture put out by George Takei. On it is a dark brown background with the words "The reason we struggle with insecurity is because we compare our behind-the-scenes with everyone else's highlight reel" super imposed on top. I suppose this thought has been expressed before in yesterday's "The Experiment." post (or some variation of it): We don't know how long it took an artist to compose a work. We can't really be sure how long a piece took to get finalized. What seems like a short time may actually have its roots in the far-flung past. The point is that we cannot compare ourselves with others in any meaningful way in this regard.
The moment we begin to think "I'm not as _____ as ______ is", we've lost sight of what makes us so amazing. Suddenly our greatness is diminished as though it is a shadow shrinking under the midday sun. Perhaps, then, we should commit to taking walks just before the sun sets or just as that same sun is rising. By doing so, maybe we can remind ourselves that who we are, like the length of our shadows, is not always determined by our size but by the light being cast upon us. So we should find the best light under which we can thrive and grow. Find friends who shine on you at your best angles rather than stare down as though you're under interrogation. It is never wrong to be who you are.
You may not know how you are amazing, but it is a good start to simply know that you are.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
The Experiment.
What does it take to write something worth reading? How much time did authors of the past put in in order to ensure that their words, like verbs, were moving? How many strikes of a pen through struck out words did Hemingway make before it was enough? When is something finished to the point of publication?
Questions seemingly unanswerable are ones on which we writers thrive, yet they can also be to our detriment, our demise. As a writer or something like it, I know the sorrow which befalls a blank page. Taunting. Especially when we can do naught but write tautologies. Yes, music is like sound, but it is so much more than that as well. Yet here in the space between idea and expression is where words so often fail. Here, writers strike through word after word while trying to find the right ones. The life of ideas is cut short here. This is why the pen is mightier than the sword: swords can rend flesh and tear sinew away from bones, but they can never touch the life of an idea. The pen is the only weapon strong enough to cut through the embodiment of ideas: words.
This is a place I will practice my craft. I will write. I know not yer if any will read these musings, but I like the idea of a grand experiment to see if I can raise an army's worth of words. Though, not to do battle with anything but my own ideas. I can't always guarantee an amazing experience from each and every word I write, but I can say that the words will at least strive to sound nice. This is not to say I'll always be kind. Sometimes, we must simply say what's on our mind in order to let it breathe and give it room to grow.
I know not yet what it takes to write something worth reading. Someday, I'll find this out. I only hope someone is around to read it when I do.
Questions seemingly unanswerable are ones on which we writers thrive, yet they can also be to our detriment, our demise. As a writer or something like it, I know the sorrow which befalls a blank page. Taunting. Especially when we can do naught but write tautologies. Yes, music is like sound, but it is so much more than that as well. Yet here in the space between idea and expression is where words so often fail. Here, writers strike through word after word while trying to find the right ones. The life of ideas is cut short here. This is why the pen is mightier than the sword: swords can rend flesh and tear sinew away from bones, but they can never touch the life of an idea. The pen is the only weapon strong enough to cut through the embodiment of ideas: words.
This is a place I will practice my craft. I will write. I know not yer if any will read these musings, but I like the idea of a grand experiment to see if I can raise an army's worth of words. Though, not to do battle with anything but my own ideas. I can't always guarantee an amazing experience from each and every word I write, but I can say that the words will at least strive to sound nice. This is not to say I'll always be kind. Sometimes, we must simply say what's on our mind in order to let it breathe and give it room to grow.
I know not yet what it takes to write something worth reading. Someday, I'll find this out. I only hope someone is around to read it when I do.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
September Towers
I was thinking about this earlier today, and I think my thoughts (as they often are) were a little... harsh.
Perhaps it's because every year at this time, the local campus and the College Republicans place tiny American flags on the lawn like some macabre, patriotic reminder. I don't want us to forget the people who were important to us who were lost that day, when the towers fell. I don't want us to treat the sacrifices that brave men and women made like that sacrifice was nothing. They still feel the repercussions of their courage in their daily lives, hospital bills, health problems, and so many other things. But what I do want us to forget is a mentality: the generalization that everyone of Islamic faith or Middle Easter decent is somehow complicit with those attacks and their underlying ideology.
It is unfair to assume that the beliefs of many line up with the actions of a few, but we're taught that actions speak louder than words, so maybe that's why we don't hear the frantic protests in the Middle East. Life is complex, and the history of human actions is even more so. I won't argue about who did what to whom as I'm not knowledgeable enough about history to carry any kind of debate with any sort of authority...
Perhaps... I wish we could band together like we did after it happened. Unfortunately, I know the dark truth behind that wish is that people were held together by their sorrow and their hate. While some may have been simply glad to be alive and to understand the joy of holding their loved ones hands, others could only look in horror as smoke poured out of buildings like clouds; physics stopped making sense. Maybe that's why some chose to jump; they... thought they could fly, or that they would simply fall into the sky because, after all, the world had just been turned upside down.
I don't know anymore. I want to say we should live like people are wonderful, and these attacks were freak accidents, but that's a happy state of denial by which I'm hesitant to abide because sometimes... sometimes people are what's wrong. But they can also be what's right. People are willing to help out to an amazing extent those whom they know, but the unknown causes doubt. Fear, I suppose. And some say we're governed solely by those two emotions. No longer love and hate because those are far less dichotomous than we've been led to believe, but I don't know.
Life is rumored to be written here, and for me, right now, THIS is life. Unsure. Frail. Apprehensive. Yes, scared. But looking for a way forward. I don't know where I'll find the path, but I know there must be one to walk. Today should be a day for giving thanks to those we love and honoring those, whom we may not know, who have served this country. While I won't say that we should embrace the world with love or the like all the time (as I'm far too cautious to leave my heart, mind, soul (I suppose) so far exposed), I do think we should... I should... be willing to walk with the knowledge of my past in my stride.
I was thinking about this earlier today, and I... still don't have an answer, but I'm willing to walk 'till I find one worth keeping.
Perhaps it's because every year at this time, the local campus and the College Republicans place tiny American flags on the lawn like some macabre, patriotic reminder. I don't want us to forget the people who were important to us who were lost that day, when the towers fell. I don't want us to treat the sacrifices that brave men and women made like that sacrifice was nothing. They still feel the repercussions of their courage in their daily lives, hospital bills, health problems, and so many other things. But what I do want us to forget is a mentality: the generalization that everyone of Islamic faith or Middle Easter decent is somehow complicit with those attacks and their underlying ideology.
It is unfair to assume that the beliefs of many line up with the actions of a few, but we're taught that actions speak louder than words, so maybe that's why we don't hear the frantic protests in the Middle East. Life is complex, and the history of human actions is even more so. I won't argue about who did what to whom as I'm not knowledgeable enough about history to carry any kind of debate with any sort of authority...
Perhaps... I wish we could band together like we did after it happened. Unfortunately, I know the dark truth behind that wish is that people were held together by their sorrow and their hate. While some may have been simply glad to be alive and to understand the joy of holding their loved ones hands, others could only look in horror as smoke poured out of buildings like clouds; physics stopped making sense. Maybe that's why some chose to jump; they... thought they could fly, or that they would simply fall into the sky because, after all, the world had just been turned upside down.
I don't know anymore. I want to say we should live like people are wonderful, and these attacks were freak accidents, but that's a happy state of denial by which I'm hesitant to abide because sometimes... sometimes people are what's wrong. But they can also be what's right. People are willing to help out to an amazing extent those whom they know, but the unknown causes doubt. Fear, I suppose. And some say we're governed solely by those two emotions. No longer love and hate because those are far less dichotomous than we've been led to believe, but I don't know.
Life is rumored to be written here, and for me, right now, THIS is life. Unsure. Frail. Apprehensive. Yes, scared. But looking for a way forward. I don't know where I'll find the path, but I know there must be one to walk. Today should be a day for giving thanks to those we love and honoring those, whom we may not know, who have served this country. While I won't say that we should embrace the world with love or the like all the time (as I'm far too cautious to leave my heart, mind, soul (I suppose) so far exposed), I do think we should... I should... be willing to walk with the knowledge of my past in my stride.
I was thinking about this earlier today, and I... still don't have an answer, but I'm willing to walk 'till I find one worth keeping.
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