Contemporary Logical Form

I love craigslist. I check them almost daily, mainly for secondhand furniture and books, but I'll occasionally read the "Rants and Raves" column, too. I had some extra time at work today, so I figured I'd venture away from Augusta's page and read some in North Carolina, as I'm applying for a graduate program there soon, and, well, I guess I was curious as to what kind of discussions are going on in my potential future home. Greensboro was in a heated battle between Atheists and Christians, and in the background, people were berating an IHOP waitress for being of Spanish descent and not speaking perfect English. It was scary there, in the Rants and Raves board in Greensboro, NC, so I went to a few other cities. In Charleston, SC, the discussion is lewd, and it somehow has been linked to a "black" verses "white" issue. In Athens, GA, people are calling the Jena 6 "thugs" and "hood-rat niggers" who will be judged by God. In Detroit, MI, it's the classic Republican vs. Democrat debate, with a healthy amount of "suck it up, public educators" thrown in the mix. Springfield, IL's page has been consumed with a blend of politics, war, and religion, while Los Angeles' threads were just so haphazard I'm not sure what they're discussing.

What bothers me isn't what's being discussed--racism, violence, politics, religion, and sexuality are things that need to be talked about--but the frustration comes from the way people are talking. It's completely illogical. I've yet to see any kind of normal discussion going on, and it's rare that a post isn't belittling or intentionally insulting the poster they're responding to. Insults, slurs, and curses are thrown out at every chance, and everyone assumes that their opinion is right, and everyone else should, quote, "fuck 0ff," or "suck my dick," or "go kill yourself."

I only searched a fraction of these boards, and only on one website, but I've seen it everywhere. Facebook, MySpace, Blogger, YouTube--I doubt there's a venue that hasn't been marred by inappropriate arguing.

Do I think that public forums should be censored? No way. I do think, however, that people should censor themselves in consideration of other people. Isn't it our social responsibility, our responsibility as people to manage the way we speak to each other? It seems like we would have so much more constructive conversation if we weren't so insistent on forcing everyone to agree with our perspective.

I'm content to know that I won't agree with the way other people see the world; on the same hand, though, I've accepted and embraced the fact that people don't agree with me. I'm not saying we should shy away from dialogue, or even make it nice or surface-level, but I do think that we should be more willing to lead our discussions with rationality and humility, and the general understanding that people, by definition, are diverse and impossible to understand. If we can't handle even our conversations with maturity and logic, what can we handle?

First Cigarette

I met my first cigarette at the Metro, the bar where we were getting a beer after class one night. Isaac had driven Zoh, Ali, and I to 8th Street Tobacco. Jacob Pride met us there. The boys bought loose tobacco, and Ali bought a pack of Djarum Blacks for the girls to share. When we got to the Metro, we crammed ourselves into a booth. A desk light sat on the edge of the table, and every time Ali’s need brushed against the outlet, it flickered wildly. Sometimes it went out completely, and we sat in the smoky darkness until Ali could find the plug again. I was nervous, and the Newcastle bottle cooled my palms. I didn’t know anyone there very well, and I didn’t know Jacob at all. I did know his cousin, Sam, and I wondered if Jacob, like Sam, would be one to sneak Miller Light in a gas station fountain drink cup into class.

Ali packed the Blacks, took one for herself, and offered the pack to Zoh’s delicate fingers. She took one, and I watched those fingers ignite the tobacco-filled stick, and place it to her lips. She inhaled, gently, and after a few seconds’ stillness, a blue-grey cloud slipped out of her mouth, and formed a nebulous haze three inches above her forehead. I watched this process for a while, learning how it worked. I held my breath after she inhaled, and anticipated the moment smoke would slide across the invisible gap in her lips with her neck arched back. Ali practiced smoke rings with Jacob in the background. Isaac rolled cigarette after cigarette, pausing to consider the flavor between each drag. I sipped a Newcastle, and half of another before Ali thrust a Black in my hands, and said “Here, smoke it.”

I had to ask how. “Easy,” she said, “Just breathe in, and take the smoke with you.” I did, and the rich, sweet smoke overtook my throat. There was the taste of candy on my lips; the filter was laced with cinnamon and cloves. I didn’t know how to bring the air into my lungs, so I held it there, on my tongue and at the roof of my mouth for a while before I tilted my head back and blew the now stale smoke up into the air. My exhale was sloppy and moist, and instead of the smoke blowing neatly away from my face to dissipate into the air, it drooped miserably near my cheeks. I repeated this for as long as I could stand, which was only about an inch and a half of my cigarette’s life. I finally had to snuff it out, leaving it crumpled and pathetic in the ashtray before I excused myself to the restroom and splashed cold water on my face.

Staring at my flushed complexion in the mirror, I clutched the porcelain of the sink and whispered, “Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up.” I could taste mingled beer and tobacco on my tongue, and heated spices in my hair. Traces of cigarette clung to my fingertips. I regained control of my senses, and walked back to the table. The air was muggy and stale, and I couldn’t feel a breeze through my turtleneck. Someone suggested we leave, and as crisp air washed over my face, I felt relieved. January air filled me, flushing out the hot cigarette breath that clung to my lungs. Later I would brush my teeth, only to still taste it on my tongue.

Arts in the Heart 2007

"Why do I drink so much? Why do I drink so much? What kind of drunkard would I be if I didn't drink so much?"

Who needs Bukowski when you've got poets who write lines like that? Oh yeah, that bit of poetic intrique was also sung. By an old man. With an Irish lilt. (Hearing that reminded me of my favorite Garrison Keillor joke: Two Irishmen walk out of a bar...) And so opened my Saturday night. Somewhere after that, I ate curried goat. Delicious. I mean it. I usually have an aversion to green foods that aren't sold in the produce section, but I think I'll have to add curried goat to the list of green things that are okay. (Green M&Ms might have to wait a while, though. No, that's a lie, I'll pretty much eat a green M&M anytime.)

Meanwhile, the reason I heard Irish jokes and ate goat: Arts in the Heart this year was pretty much fantastic. Some really great artists showed up- favorites were Grunge Goddess Pottery, a guy that made the image of a nude woman in stained glass, and Batik by a Sri Lankan named Rita. The Batik booth was the best. Her Batiks can be viewed here. (The ones I openly fawned over were similar to "Expression of Music," "Immortal Love," and  "Peacock Couple," but they're all stunning.) The whole process of making these canvasses is intense, time-consuming work. It's labor, but they're absolutely breathtaking in the end. I'd never even heard of this medium, but it's centuries old and pretty rare in today's market (for Western cultures, anyway; apparently in India, kids learn how to do this).

So, regardless of Weiss' philosophy test I've got on Monday, I'll be heading downtown tomorrow to ogle more art. Also to read (along with the gracious help of Zoh, Isaac, and Mike) a part of my play. 1-3:30 on the Cafe Stage--me and all the other Porter Fleming Winners are hanging out to read some stuff. (The link's for a map.) Not that I know any of the other Porter Fleming winners, but we'll get together and read anyway. Afterwards, I'll probably be heading to the Carribean booth for some plantains. And then maybe for some Indian food. And then back to Rita's booth just to stare (I'm much to poor to buy something I can stare at in my underwear).

Tuesday in Recap

8/28 in Recap

Tuesday Morning (Prayer Group, 10:30): Nelsey Tapley remarked that she “couldn’t remember when I was that young….cutting a’loose, probably.” She then informed me that she did the Charleston in front of a crowd of party guests when she was about 13. She looked silly, but it was the Charleston, so who cares? We’ve lost the art of social dancing. Now, you’re unique if you can tango or waltz; the girl in me longs for the elegance of social dances. Learning to dance tops the list of “things to do when you’re not in school anymore.” Re-learning the violin and taking more photography courses are there, too.

Tuesday Afternoon (Thesis Meeting, 2:30): “beautifully written,” “excellently stated,” “good progress,” “good project,” “excited to read your work,” “ambitious timeline, but we support you.” The panel of four encouraged me that the fifth (who was out for migraine-recuperation, and is notoriously the most challenging and difficult to please) was highly satisfied with my work, and impressed by the solidarity of my project. I felt that the only solid thing about me was the table I gripped with my palms. Are they just being nice? I feel like anyone can see that I have no idea what I’m talking about. Most of my self-esteem is tied up into academia, which is a precarious foundation. I’m scared I won’t live up to their expectations.

Tuesday Afternoon (Iraq War Protest, 6:15): A group of 30-40 people stood outside of a Unitarian church (not, duly noted, the First Baptist across the street) with signs protesting the Iraq War. “Honk for Peace!” a red sign screamed, and suddenly taken with a bohemian blush, I honked, and threw up a peace sign. Janis Joplin reincarnate in my Japanese sedan. Cars flew by me and I felt suddenly embarrassed. I’m not even fully in support of withdrawing our troops.

Tuesday Evening (Mom and Dad’s House, 9:30): My parents’ speaking becomes unintelligible when they note that I am suddenly less like their little girl in sweatpants and rubber boots than they would like me to be. It’s hard, as I’m slowly realizing that I can be disappointed by them, and their acceptance of the things I do, and their habits as maturing adults. And yet, they are proud of me, too, and that is a burden. And immense freedom. We are all growing older, and that's a hard thing for each of us to accept.

Tuesday Evening (Apartment Bedroom, 11:00): Folding clothes. Arranging underwear. A glass of ice water and Amos Lee through earbuds. Twenty minutes of solidarity of being. Contentment in lavender-vanilla scented fabric softener.

Dear Diaries

I’ve recently become privy to the heart of a 13 year old girl, via her secret and inner-most thoughts kept in her diaries. Behind her still child-like print and neon-colored ink, her thoughts lie in wait, behind her words, even, hoping to be discovered. It’s hard, sometimes, wading through the cotton candy that is firework flames and rapid fire heartbreak, but there’s a person there, a hint of what she will become.
Reading the account of her days is an experience. This girl works in extremes; opposites are built into her nature, and thus I am forced to operate on her same extremes, her same paradoxical emotions transferred to me. I laugh at her dramatic sentences, her wild emotions prefaced with haughty words and grand phrases. I sober at her expressions of her doubt, the quiet questioning of herself—with these she is less bold. I am emboldened when she is sure of herself, painfully afraid when she is challenged.
Our likeness is beyond our keeping of journals—I started writing at the same age she is now. I still have my journals; she will revere her pages until we are both too old to know we wrote them. She has become who I am; she is a part of me. Her 13 year old feelings belong to me at 21. Her hopes, mine. Her doubts, mine, too. She questions the same things I do, and faithfully accepts ideals I embrace along with her. “Who am I?” she asks, and I echo, “What am I doing with myself?” “Am I capable of love?” she wonders. I answer, “Is loneliness forever?” “Am I understood?” we beg in unison.
At times I want to scream at this girl, to rip out her words and abuse her immaturity. Other times, I embrace her in her fragility, long to protect her vulnerable heart. I want to give her the answers, show her how she can live and be happy, but then I remember, I am without answers. Just like her, I have only questions.
I don’t know why this girl has chosen to let me into her life, her world of possible lies, of beautiful truths. Perhaps I am the actualization of her desire for her secrets to be known by another person. Perhaps I am the person for whom she leaves her diary on a café table, the person she wants to read her thoughts and know her truth. Perhaps she needs the affirmation of her voice—as if someone reading her words validates their reason for existing. Or maybe only that she is not an apostle of secrets, a treasurer of mystery. She may be too bold, or not bold enough, too full of lies, or too strict with honesty. But I think in her writing, I have learned only a little of who she is, and infinitely more of who I am becoming.

time enough for words

I’ve had this poem in my brain since early Thursday; I’ve been working it and reworking it, and I finally got a sketch of it down in class last night. It’s been coming to me for days in the form of images—ephemeral photographs in my mind to which I’m struggling to ascribe language and words. It’s about 20 lines or so, folded in my pocket, being carried around in the anticipation of something to click in my brain and make it fit. It’d be a good poem…if someone else would write it. Or if I could make the images in my mind and my vocabulary connect.
Today was the day I would let it rest. Today was the day I would think about everything but that unrhymed demon nesting in my pocket, folded into notebook paper, just waiting to be constructed into something other than the half-formed mess it is right now. So in letting it rest, a completely different poem wrote itself out on my computer screen. I woke up with this new poem coated on my teeth, spoke this new poem to my dash on the drive to work, wrote out this new poem in about an hour at my desk.
I’m jealous of the ease at which this new poem unfurled; frustrated that it should have been more difficult to be justified.
Damn writing.

On Death

I've been engaged in conversations about life lately, and as I was writing tonight, I found something I wrote about death back in October. We view death and life as paradoxical extremes, but I don't know if that's true or not. These paragraphs speak of death as beautiful, and at the same time, I realize that the whole process of death can be bitter, terrifying, and ugly. Can the two be one? Anyway, the post.

~

We're afraid of death. As a culture we want to live a long time, and have a painless death, and there be guaranteed the peace of happy eternal existence. That's not a bad hope... The truth is, no one knows what death is like, and no one knows what death will bring, so we're scared of it. Perhaps we should be. But we don't even talk about it--not until we're standing over cocktail weenies at a funeral, and even then we're saying trite, meaningless things like, "Well, at least he's in a better place now," and "She would have wanted it this way."

How do we know what she would have wanted, what kind of place he's in if we never talk about it? It's morbid to talk about death. Instead of it being a healthy and necessary curiosity, it's a secret thing only the depressed and dying think about.

I think about death, I always have, especially m own. I always think about how people will react to it, as if their reactions and grief would be something I could watch from an invisible perch on the wall.

I want my own death to be something talked about, candidly, without fear and hesitation. I want people to think about mortality, and [the existence of] God, and perhaps most of all, each other. I want my death to allow people to see how much they really need other people. When I die, I want people to find healing in each other--through the love they can offer, through stories that won't fall on deaf ears, through shared meals and silent hugs, through meandering down neighborhood streets where life's essential questions are asked and challenged, through the community of connection with other people. I want people to enjoy their lover's body, I want people to pay attention to the warmth of the heart next to them, the feel of a person in their hands.

I want the healing of my loss to be found in the commonality of grief and love.

Grievers, be comforted...seek your ability to love another person. If you need to, sit amongst my things and remember. Know that I was happy. I would want people to know that I was happy, and that my moments of unhappiness were only because of things still not experiences, and not because of pain....Experience your life, love your life and the people in it.

We are so comfortable in the things of our life, when really, I think the prospect of all that is really in the world--truly seeing and knowing the true beauty made in creation--if we understood that, we should never be comfortable.

I think death touches that chord of true beauty in our souls--death shows us that things are transient, and even such a think as intangible as our connection with another person can be broken, that its bitter ripping away from ourselves leaves us with a would we aren't sure how to heal.

Death makes pain natural, and healing a discovery. Death should make us know we are meant for other people.