i realize that in some form or another, this blog has largely been devoted to chronicling the passage of time: noticing the changes demarcating the stages of life, nostalgia, the seasons, the future, the past, memories.
but, if this blog is supposed to be a reflection of my most persistent thoughts, then that seems about right.
Time is an interesting phenomenon to behold, and thus my fascination. such an intangible thing, a deception, but relentless. 15 minutes goes unnoticed, but what about 5 years?
i can lament the sweet brevity of childhood, but feel tormented in the endlessness of a single day at work, fail to understand how short the days are while at the same time, counting down the days until the summer or my next vacation.
does it seem accurate to say a year is 365 days? somehow a year seems so long, but when i think about the days that comprise a year, it seems so swift. and how quickly a month passes! it's already march...
and yet, june can't come quickly enough...
some things you take for granted until you stop to think about them, and that's the trouble with Time. perhaps this is why nostalgia is such a poignant emotion; it is a form of concentrated regret for lost time. it is regret for our readiness for the future, our persistence in pressing onward and forward, regret we feel when we reflect on how far we've come and see the distance and extent of our own removal.
usually, we don't remember Time until we see its signs in the accumulation of little changes: the appearance of first wrinkles (laugh lines around the eyes), childhood clothing no longer being appropriately whimsical for the workplace, high school references no longer being recent enough to be relevant, "child" actors now in their 30s or 40s (sometimes it takes seeing someone else's aging to understand your own).
Showing posts with label ruminations. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ruminations. Show all posts
Sunday, March 08, 2009
Saturday, March 07, 2009
sprinkle some salt on that
one lamentable thing about keeping a busy schedule is that when you finally find time for yourself, you don't know how to spend it. suddenly "taking care of yourself" seems like such a chore. i sit in bed trying to read, or in front of my computer, anxiously wondering if i'm "relaxing" enough to prepare for the week ahead. by the time i get the hang of it (relaxing, that is), it's sunday night and full speed ahead to the week again.
typical.
another deeply felt regret: the race to beat morning rush hour traffic often precludes dream journaling. which is a damned shame. so many vivid and bizarre subconscious juxtapositions. like this morning's dream: my boyfriend and i were trying to save German/Russian musical theatre by interrupting a board meeting at a post-modern art museum with a co-written performance piece (he was the German, i was the Russian, there were neon green costumes and feathers and gymnastics of an exotic variety. i was flexible and limber!)
later today: shopping for large electronics with company money, grading papers, finding easy foods to eat (apples, popsicles, carrot sticks, blocks of cheese...?), calisthenics in the great outdoors, musings on the passage of time.
-stephan!e
typical.
another deeply felt regret: the race to beat morning rush hour traffic often precludes dream journaling. which is a damned shame. so many vivid and bizarre subconscious juxtapositions. like this morning's dream: my boyfriend and i were trying to save German/Russian musical theatre by interrupting a board meeting at a post-modern art museum with a co-written performance piece (he was the German, i was the Russian, there were neon green costumes and feathers and gymnastics of an exotic variety. i was flexible and limber!)
later today: shopping for large electronics with company money, grading papers, finding easy foods to eat (apples, popsicles, carrot sticks, blocks of cheese...?), calisthenics in the great outdoors, musings on the passage of time.
-stephan!e
Sunday, February 01, 2009
strange powers
i think my sense of smell is my super power. hyperosmia it's not, but i think it bears mentioning.
perhaps this explains my over-sentimentality, my strong nostalgia and sensitivity to the passage of time. smell is linked, neurologically, to memory. it is also, as far as i am aware, the only sense that doesn't dull with the passage of time. my eyes will eventually deteriorate until i'm blind, and i will deafen in my old age from listening to too much loud music, and even my sense of touch and taste will deaden. but smell, well, i hope smell lasts forever. even if i can't see, i could still find my way around a life full of memories, just by following my nose. existential whiskers, that's all i need.
perhaps this explains my over-sentimentality, my strong nostalgia and sensitivity to the passage of time. smell is linked, neurologically, to memory. it is also, as far as i am aware, the only sense that doesn't dull with the passage of time. my eyes will eventually deteriorate until i'm blind, and i will deafen in my old age from listening to too much loud music, and even my sense of touch and taste will deaden. but smell, well, i hope smell lasts forever. even if i can't see, i could still find my way around a life full of memories, just by following my nose. existential whiskers, that's all i need.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
"in" love
i'd like to have a conversation with the ppl who put words to the feeling "falling in love."
i'd like to know what they were thinking. i'd like to know if this strange consuming empty feeling – this gripping helplessness and vulnerability, this confusion – is what they'd imagined for people in such a state. or, am i getting it all wrong? is this really "stress-induced fever"? "vertigo"? or perhaps "stomach flu"? maybe i need my appendix removed?
did they know that they were articulating a feeling very different from simply "loving someone"? it scares me because there's a preposition: "in" – i'm inside it(?!) – i've fallen – "fallen in" – was there a trip wire i didn't see? was this the result of some trickery, some carelessness on my part? must i be hurt at the end? or is there a mattress i can rest my head on at the bottom of this tunnel? maybe a trampoline?
and is there a way out?
i'd like to know what they were thinking. i'd like to know if this strange consuming empty feeling – this gripping helplessness and vulnerability, this confusion – is what they'd imagined for people in such a state. or, am i getting it all wrong? is this really "stress-induced fever"? "vertigo"? or perhaps "stomach flu"? maybe i need my appendix removed?
did they know that they were articulating a feeling very different from simply "loving someone"? it scares me because there's a preposition: "in" – i'm inside it(?!) – i've fallen – "fallen in" – was there a trip wire i didn't see? was this the result of some trickery, some carelessness on my part? must i be hurt at the end? or is there a mattress i can rest my head on at the bottom of this tunnel? maybe a trampoline?
and is there a way out?
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
dessicating + de-sexing
from the pages of a notebook, which i sought to represent as closely to the original hand-written version:
i've noticed a weird vibe about the ppl here. i'm struck by how attractive everyone is:
tall, leggy blondes; thin, well-spoken women with perfect bone structure in skirts and stilettos all the time
but what's remarkable about it is there is nothing really attracting about any of them.
none! and it occurs to me: they're too perfect, they're almost eery
it reminds me of Vonnegut's short story "Welcome to the Monkey House" and the suicide mistresses (/waitresses?) and how they were required to dress in skin tight body stockings and knee-hi boots, but no one was attracted to them & they weren't sexual beings themselves b/c ppl were doped up on these numbing pills [that made them lose all sexual urges]
and it seems to me it's the same way with [the women here]. everyone is so obsessively focused on [a] "mission" that they're blind, deprived of their basic humanism, dried up and numb
i feel like since i got here i'm feeling myself become... a prude/ dried up/ sapped of sexual urgency/ desire or spontaneity or fervor... it's hard to say
but you get closer to what i'm thinking if you think about it this way: sex as a ferile desire/ need/ a wild passion/ an urgency/ an animal veracity/ferocity that grips you, right? something a little depraved, perhaps a little messy, a little too animal and a little too human
= too much reality and rawness for this environment, which is drying up all our sexual/human urges
i think of corporate suckers, how those poor bastards spend so much goddamn time in suits, in meetings, in these glass facade buildings [spending all day repressing their human needs and desires] so that all they wanna do when they get back to their posh hotel rooms is don a pair of lady's stockings and fuck each other doggy style.
or, i think of school teachers we've all had, those crusty old spinsters who we pitied on some level as kids b/c we knew they were [probly] terribly alone and had probably never known a night of real passion in their lives.
and i wonder: is that what i'm getting into?
-stephanie
(as i wrote this i listened to "the twist" by Frightened Rabbit, off their album Midnight Organ Fight and one quote kept recurring at exactly the right moments: "i need human heat."
i need human heat. i need human heat. i need human heat. i need human heat. i need human heat. i need human heat. i need human heat. i need human heat. i need human heat. i need human heat. ...)
i've noticed a weird vibe about the ppl here. i'm struck by how attractive everyone is:
tall, leggy blondes; thin, well-spoken women with perfect bone structure in skirts and stilettos all the time
but what's remarkable about it is there is nothing really attracting about any of them.
none! and it occurs to me: they're too perfect, they're almost eery
it reminds me of Vonnegut's short story "Welcome to the Monkey House" and the suicide mistresses (/waitresses?) and how they were required to dress in skin tight body stockings and knee-hi boots, but no one was attracted to them & they weren't sexual beings themselves b/c ppl were doped up on these numbing pills [that made them lose all sexual urges]
and it seems to me it's the same way with [the women here]. everyone is so obsessively focused on [a] "mission" that they're blind, deprived of their basic humanism, dried up and numb
i feel like since i got here i'm feeling myself become... a prude/ dried up/ sapped of sexual urgency/ desire or spontaneity or fervor... it's hard to say
but you get closer to what i'm thinking if you think about it this way: sex as a ferile desire/ need/ a wild passion/ an urgency/ an animal veracity/ferocity that grips you, right? something a little depraved, perhaps a little messy, a little too animal and a little too human
= too much reality and rawness for this environment, which is drying up all our sexual/human urges
i think of corporate suckers, how those poor bastards spend so much goddamn time in suits, in meetings, in these glass facade buildings [spending all day repressing their human needs and desires] so that all they wanna do when they get back to their posh hotel rooms is don a pair of lady's stockings and fuck each other doggy style.
or, i think of school teachers we've all had, those crusty old spinsters who we pitied on some level as kids b/c we knew they were [probly] terribly alone and had probably never known a night of real passion in their lives.
and i wonder: is that what i'm getting into?
-stephanie
(as i wrote this i listened to "the twist" by Frightened Rabbit, off their album Midnight Organ Fight and one quote kept recurring at exactly the right moments: "i need human heat."
i need human heat. i need human heat. i need human heat. i need human heat. i need human heat. i need human heat. i need human heat. i need human heat. i need human heat. i need human heat. ...)
Thursday, June 05, 2008
on the intimacy of clothing: an analysis of what's in my drawers
yes, that is my closet, but i hardly wear half of it. really, the middle shelf is all i wear and the rest are keepsakes. read on...i'm sorting through my desk drawers at home. oh desk drawers. they're so fun to clean! don't you agree? drawers are like the limbo of office supplies and personal effects. if they get shoved into a desk drawer they're probably on their way to the garbage, but for some reason, you decide not to toss it just yet, and hide them away in the back just for yourself to find later when you're trying to cut down on all your material possessions.
i read an essay or short story a long time ago about a middle-aged man confronting the reality of his father's death. he realized he never knew his father in the way he wanted to, and now, after his father's passing, was trying to reconstruct his father's life from his possessions. in the story, the author finds his father's wallet tucked away in a nightstand drawer, and clutching it close to his heart, tells the story of the object: how its edges were worn from everyday use, how he imagined it snuggled close to his father in the back pocket of his jeans, the smell of the old leather (isn't it amazing how that smell never completely fades?), imagined the stories that wallet could tell: all the places it'd been, the kinds of things his father bought, the touch of his father's hand, the pace and rhythm of his walk as felt from a jeans pocket (i remember the story being particularly striking to me when i read it, however many years ago, b/c of the significance of the wallet being so close to his father's bum, tucked into a pocket and nestled beside his father's buttock - something so peculiarly taken for granted and yet so beautifully described that it made me wish more things could be kept in back jeans pockets.)
of course, i read that story a long time ago, but something about it lingers with me still: the idea of closeness, how use and physical contact transforms our objects into possessions. old shoes, worn and hole-y shirts...
one of my friends said recently that the idea of our bodies conforming to our clothes made him squirm. at the time, i imagined a body with the qualities of a liquid, taking the shape of its container (we are, after all, how many %'s water?) i imagined a huge fat man (or woman) squeezing into a pair of pants, and afterward, the shape of the flesh when it was declothed - the lines pressed into skin from pant creases, the bulge of stomach fat demarcating where the extra flesh flowed over the top of the waistband. yes, that was gross. but now i imagine the opposite, and think of our bodies shaping the clothing, stretching them thru wear and use, the touch of skin lingering in the fabric, the warmth exuding through the fibers.
i guess this explains my penchant for taking people's clothes. i love borrowing worn clothes. while packing and sorting through my closet for things to donate, i found a pile of clothes i'd borrowed indefinitely from my friends. almost every close friend of mine is now missing a shirt, a pair of pants, mittens, a hat, a sweater... i've kept them all this time because they really do have emotional value: i feel safe when i put them on, like i'm wearing a hug.
example: my friend John and i had a mud fight on the lawn behind Shriver Center my junior year. it was one of those spring nights when the trees are just days away from full bloom, and it was raining (i love the way night-time spring rain smells. the smell of cooling daytime pavement and saturated dirt and leaves). we got completely soaked, so we jumped in the fountain. it was wild and wonderful. we went to his house afterward and he lent me a t-shirt and a pair of old corduroy pants to change into. the pants were a little too small for him and they were a little too big for me, but i loved them. i put them on and felt like a little kid playing dress up. a week later, i gave the t-shirt back, but i never returned the pants. that summer, i packed his pants in my suitcase bound for Mongolia and wore them nearly every day (you can see, i'm wearing them here) - the air was so dry we hardly ever changed clothes.
i also have my friend Brittany's brown cardigan sweater. it doesn't fit me very well (the shoulders are bunchy), but i still wear it occasionally and hope that maybe, just maybe, it will fit this time.
i have piles of my mom's old clothes, which i love to wear and think about the prior life they had. was this the dress my mom was wearing when she met my dad? is this the skirt she wore out on their date when he proposed? i found an old color block sweatshirt that belonged to my mom which i wore all the time when i was in elementary school. i spilled acrylic paint on it once in art class and cried for almost half an hour in the bathroom when i realized i'd stained it and ruined it forever.
and i feel cliche about it, but i love wearing my (ex)/boyfriend's clothes. i found one of my ex's old t-shirts in the closet. i loved sleeping in it. i haven't worn it in about 2 years since we broke up, but i still appreciate its softness, and the smell, which i swear, still reminds me of his apartment and the Writing Center.
my boyfriend Ben lent me one of his shirts the other day b/c i was cold, and even though it didn't fit me too well (the sleeves were really long, it hung off my shoulders, the neck was really low), when i wore it, i felt safe and warm, like he was holding me close - closer than would be physically possible with just our arms alone (sometimes i wish i could pull someone into me so tight, and eliminate all the spaces between us, the way you can pull a shirt around you and your body heat fills in the remaining spaces in between). i thought of all the times i'd seen him in this shirt, the way it hung on his shoulders, the way it felt against my cheek when i hugged him, and how much i wanted to be able to take that feeling with me to L.A., when we will be half a globe away from each other starting in the fall. lucky for him, i didn't decide to steal it right then and there, though the thought had crossed my mind.
borrowing clothing is a really intimate act, like sharing a personal space with someone else. think about it: getting into someone's pants (literally, rather than idiomatically speaking, that is). walking in someone's shoes. wearing your heart on your sleeve... i'm out of examples but i'm sure there are more...
this is why i hate packing. i always go to my closet convinced i am going to cut down so much of the stuff in there, that i'm gonna donate half of what i have and make room for new things. but, i always end up putting things back on their shelves. i just can't bear to throw them out or give them away. my dad chides me for being over-sentimental, but he doesn't understand! - this is love i can take with me and tuck away in drawers...
with love and a pair of hand-knit mittens,
stephanie
Monday, March 31, 2008
real emotional trash
ok so that's the name of a Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks album. but it's fitting, b/c not only have i been listening to them a lot lately, but that's kinda how i feel about my life right now.
i don't have any real reason to feel this way, but emotions are kinda like that. they just happen, that's why i prefer saying "i feel" rather than "i think" b/c emotions are just there and you have to deal with them, and reason is overrated anyway. who wants an explanation when all you really want is a hug?
i don't know if it's the weather in ohio (nothing but rain for days, it seems), or the lack of sleep, or the malnutrition, or my loneliness*, my restlessness, the overwhelming list of things i have to do before tomorrow and the next monday and before i graduate, or if it's the lack of warmth or safety i have b/c i realized i left all my sweaters at home, or the hole in my sleeve, or the mud in my shoes, or the way i feel no one understands how sad i can get sometimes, but...
in the last hour or so i've felt on the brink of tears. and i hardly ever cry. but i guess these little break-downs happen a lot. i guess i document them b/c they're always strange to me when they happen, and maybe deep down i hope by remembering them i can counteract them when they happen again.
lately, i've been busy and a lot of my friends have been busy. i can understand that when work piles up, we need to take breaks from each other some times. but really, when this happens, i don't get more work done, i just spend less of it being happy. i miss living with ppl who knew me well enough to know that when work kicks in, that's when i need them most. i miss having a friend nearby to reach out a hand and steady mine. i need people the most when i get busy like this, but i find ppl especially don't want me around these days.
i feel forgotten. i feel alone. i feel like disappearing.
that's usually what i try to do. i turn off my phone, i unplug the internet. i put up a wall of sound around me and let pounding music throb in my head until i can fall asleep again.
i'm real emotional trash. i'm feeling used and under-appreciated today. i've been running around since the early morning working for various ppl, sometimes getting paid, sometimes getting ignored. i've been really emotional b/c i feel i've put my own work off for so long, and i've spent most of my day making time to help other ppl with things, and only getting pushed around and asked to do more things. one of my friends observed that he seems to notice "ppl seem to want to take advantage of you a lot." this doesn't make me feel very good.
i think i'll take a trip. i don't know to where yet. i don't want to say i'll be back, even tho i probably will. i just don't want to be sad any more, and if i find happiness on the road, maybe i'll stay there for a while instead.
listen: "We Can't Help You" [mp3] by Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks
-stephanie
*loneliness, even when you're surrounded by people. that's the worst kind of loneliness.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
the precariousness of blogging: thoughts on internet anonymity and authenticity
i got an interesting reality check today, when two of my teach for america contacts called me to discuss my last blog post.
obviously, i was embarrassed. i felt like an utter ass having to talk to future co-workers and/or bosses about my flippant gut-rxn post about their organization (or is it our organization?... i guess i'm part of it too now, which makes me kind of a hypocrite and kind of a horrible colleague...)
then, i was confused: i heard the phrase "media sweep" (apparently Teach For America runs these regularly to see what's being said about them and i got caught up in the dredge [sic] report). later, i checked my sitemeter stats and realized i'd been receiving record traffic to the site today for my latest post, and felt a little overwhelmed at the sudden inadvertent attention my blog was attracting, and a little upset to realize my writing was becoming an issue of concern. (panic would hit later, when it occurred to me if they're reading this, what else are they finding about me? would they disapprove of what i was saying, would they try to censor me, or worse, ask me to censor myself?)
i was suspicious, too. i figured TFA had PR managers (if you're reading this, "hello!") and that they'd eventually catch wind of my blog and would be reading it for clues into my character or political leanings (in fact, it surprises me that i wasn't contacted earlier about it...) but there's something utterly jarring about talking to your future on the phone, and having to discuss your blog. i mean, having a conversation about my blog is always a strange thing for me. even when my friends and relatives allude to my writing here, it startles me. it seems private, even though i know it's not. there's a cathartic purpose to my writing, i leave it here, let it live and let it die, and it's always strange to me to have it brought up in my real life. i know that probably makes little sense, but i think that in many ways the identity i am forging here is different from the one i live day-to-day. maybe more honest, maybe more flippant, maybe freer, less tied down to institutional loyalties and less sensitive to organizational commitments. i guess the internet provides the freedom to publish without having to own up to anything... this is a persona i've created, this isn't me.
i say things here without thinking about how it may affect my life, but maybe even occasionally with the hope that it will. it's a delicate and vulnerable intimacy that i've chosen to share with the world in this public and exposed space. i've always been well aware of the precariousness of such a set-up, but never have i felt so unnerved having to integrate the two parallel worlds i've created for myself. and it seems that lately these are growing ever farther apart from each other.
i mean, i want to teach, and i want to change the world. the only reason i even bothered applying to TFA in the first place was that it seemed like a good way to do both right out of college. i am extremely happy and glad to be invited into the corps. when it occurred to me that i could have been dismissed because of my recent writing, i was devastated and extremely regretful. but, i meant everything i said. only now i realize that i spoke too soon, too dramatically and with too little information. (TFA and Americorps refuse to pay you for hours of political activity done in your free time, but that certainly doesn't condemn political activity in its entirety.)
this is all merely to serve as a public disclaimer* to my previous post. though i meant everything i said about political activity and its importance to one's education, i don't think Teach for America is entirely encouraging political withdrawal (tho, realistically, they should also consider the message they're sending to recent college graduates, who are extremely sensitive to material threats and already possess predilections for political apathy - any threat of disciplinary action against political activity could be the death blow to political progress). and even though their "media sweeping" has me a little unnerved and uncomfortable (uh, "Big Brother" anyone?), i don't want visitors and devoted readers to think poorly on Teach For America and their policies. and of course, i applaud TFA for endeavoring to change the lives of our youth. they're right to recognize that hope for change and progress must occur in the schools.
after all, i'm a company (wo)man now, gotta toe the line...
-stephanie
*disclaimer #2: even with the knowledge that TFA ppl will probably be monitoring my blog on a regular basis from here on, i am going to continue trying to make this a safe space for my expression and reflection.
obviously, i was embarrassed. i felt like an utter ass having to talk to future co-workers and/or bosses about my flippant gut-rxn post about their organization (or is it our organization?... i guess i'm part of it too now, which makes me kind of a hypocrite and kind of a horrible colleague...)
then, i was confused: i heard the phrase "media sweep" (apparently Teach For America runs these regularly to see what's being said about them and i got caught up in the dredge [sic] report). later, i checked my sitemeter stats and realized i'd been receiving record traffic to the site today for my latest post, and felt a little overwhelmed at the sudden inadvertent attention my blog was attracting, and a little upset to realize my writing was becoming an issue of concern. (panic would hit later, when it occurred to me if they're reading this, what else are they finding about me? would they disapprove of what i was saying, would they try to censor me, or worse, ask me to censor myself?)
i was suspicious, too. i figured TFA had PR managers (if you're reading this, "hello!") and that they'd eventually catch wind of my blog and would be reading it for clues into my character or political leanings (in fact, it surprises me that i wasn't contacted earlier about it...) but there's something utterly jarring about talking to your future on the phone, and having to discuss your blog. i mean, having a conversation about my blog is always a strange thing for me. even when my friends and relatives allude to my writing here, it startles me. it seems private, even though i know it's not. there's a cathartic purpose to my writing, i leave it here, let it live and let it die, and it's always strange to me to have it brought up in my real life. i know that probably makes little sense, but i think that in many ways the identity i am forging here is different from the one i live day-to-day. maybe more honest, maybe more flippant, maybe freer, less tied down to institutional loyalties and less sensitive to organizational commitments. i guess the internet provides the freedom to publish without having to own up to anything... this is a persona i've created, this isn't me.
i say things here without thinking about how it may affect my life, but maybe even occasionally with the hope that it will. it's a delicate and vulnerable intimacy that i've chosen to share with the world in this public and exposed space. i've always been well aware of the precariousness of such a set-up, but never have i felt so unnerved having to integrate the two parallel worlds i've created for myself. and it seems that lately these are growing ever farther apart from each other.
i mean, i want to teach, and i want to change the world. the only reason i even bothered applying to TFA in the first place was that it seemed like a good way to do both right out of college. i am extremely happy and glad to be invited into the corps. when it occurred to me that i could have been dismissed because of my recent writing, i was devastated and extremely regretful. but, i meant everything i said. only now i realize that i spoke too soon, too dramatically and with too little information. (TFA and Americorps refuse to pay you for hours of political activity done in your free time, but that certainly doesn't condemn political activity in its entirety.)
this is all merely to serve as a public disclaimer* to my previous post. though i meant everything i said about political activity and its importance to one's education, i don't think Teach for America is entirely encouraging political withdrawal (tho, realistically, they should also consider the message they're sending to recent college graduates, who are extremely sensitive to material threats and already possess predilections for political apathy - any threat of disciplinary action against political activity could be the death blow to political progress). and even though their "media sweeping" has me a little unnerved and uncomfortable (uh, "Big Brother" anyone?), i don't want visitors and devoted readers to think poorly on Teach For America and their policies. and of course, i applaud TFA for endeavoring to change the lives of our youth. they're right to recognize that hope for change and progress must occur in the schools.
after all, i'm a company (wo)man now, gotta toe the line...
-stephanie
*disclaimer #2: even with the knowledge that TFA ppl will probably be monitoring my blog on a regular basis from here on, i am going to continue trying to make this a safe space for my expression and reflection.
**disclaimer #3: even after all this, i am most grateful to TFA for having the patience and understanding to excuse my last post, and to have the integrity not to dismiss me after the brash things i said. it truly reflects well on the character and dedication of the program that they were concerned for my feelings and sought to clarify miscommunication, rather than writing me off immediately. i was extremely impressed with them for being so forgiving and understanding, because i know that they didn't have to be. and for that reason, i think we're going to get along, and i am happy and proud to consider myself a part of the corps.
Friday, December 07, 2007
keep on keeping on...
the media urges workers to cease their striking "for the sake of the children!" read on...busy with finals and wrapping up business from the past semester and from the summer too. i just wanna make it thru the weekend, when most of my work will hopefully be done, and then enjoy hanging out without something hanging over my head.
so, for now, read (if you want) a paper i submitted in the past week on the state of labor relations in America today, and an indictment on Christmas.
-stef
------
The Villainization of the Worker and the Cultural Power of Christmas
When I first read the BBC’s article “Show goes on for Grinch musical” (November 22, 2007), I was reminded of the movie Love, Actually (2003). The film, in case you haven’t seen it, is an examination of eight London couples’ relationships during the holiday season. In it, improbable romances take bloom “because it’s Christmas” (offered to the audience as an excuse, or a rationalization – as if to aid in the suspension of disbelief). The final message isn’t so much that “Love conquers all,” but rather that there’s only one thing more powerful and irrational than Love: Christmas.
The recent halt to the stagehand strike on Broadway reminds me of this tendency in our movies – aptly depicted in Love, Actually – and in our culture to mythologize and bestow power to certain symbols. I mention Love, Actually because of the important link between spectacle, commodity and culture that it makes explicit: the film fetishizes love and the spirit of the holiday season, succeeding in having the audience and its characters surrender themselves to the power of Love and Christmas, depicted as a set of performances and exchanges of codified behaviors. The commodity and its spectacle are conflated: Love is Christmas and happy endings. In a society whose culture is largely mediated, cultural values are often articulated and reproduced in the form of spectacle: “The spectacle is not a collection of images; rather, it is a social relationship between people that is mediated by images.” And Christmas is Capitalism at its most spectacular: the pageantry, the parades, the commercials, the camped-out shoppers waiting as if for a new Star Wars film, whole city landscapes turned into Winter Wonderlands. Citizens turned into mall zombies, as in George A. Romero’s Dawn of the Dead (1978). These holidays are a holy daze.
This spectacularization becomes problematic because of its tendency to distract us from problems of lived existence. It is the tendency of the spectacle to replace reality with that of a hyperreality – “a world in which the spectacle defines, circumscribes, and becomes more real than reality itself.”
This is capitalism in action, enacted as spectacle, an illusion we uphold and defend at the expense of our fellow human beings. “The spectacle makes visible the world of the commodity dominating all that is lived.” This can be seen in the New York State Supreme Court judge’s injunction against the striking stagehands, demanding a resumption of their work “for the sake of this city.” The invisible force of labor in society suddenly made visible, it is imperative to the machine of Capitalism that labor protests be quelled as soon as possible, so that “life as usual” may resume. The article also mentions the popularity of Broadway among tourists, suggesting the need to end the stagehand strike in order to give them what they came for – an “authentic” NYC experience. The show must go on. Resume your positions. = The institution of Christmas exercising its domination by subjugating all other activities to its demands.
Within this dichotomy, the worker and his/her rebellion are situated in a position of delinquency, aberration, and worse – villainy. Anyone resisting or delaying the magic of Christmas is derogated – a “Grinch.” The story of “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” exemplifies this mythology, telling of a bitter curmudgeon who experiences a “change in heart” due to the overwhelming spirit of Christmas. By withholding the popular Christmas show, the striking workers are depicted in a negative light, as challenging the very sanctity of Christmas itself. One of the article’s captions explains, “the musical is very popular with children,” the implication being that the workers are victimizing an innocent public by disrupting the holiday proceedings. “Do it for the children,” we say. Do it “for the sake of the city!”
This is an appeal to Christmas spirit: it’s a long-standing myth in American culture that Christmas is “the most wonderful time of the year,” a time for philanthropy, for goodwill towards all, and for outstanding miracles. The stagehand strike went against the imagery of jubilation and goodwill associated with the holiday season, but Christmas soon conquered and quashed its opposition. “The spectacle is the moment when the commodity has attained the total occupation of social life.” The BBC’s article depicts the labor strike as a deviation from shared cultural values and reasserts the language of Christmas cultural mythology, calling the continuation of work a “miracle on 44th street.” The myth of Christmas spirit manifests itself in this particular instance to bedazzle us and quell opposition to a general capitalist mentality. We, the readers, become accomplices in suppressing the rebellion of the workers, we defend the spectacle at all costs, complaining about TV show reruns or a Broadway-less visit to NYC, rather than caring about the actual workers themselves or taking the time to understand the issues for which they are striking. The spectacle of Christmas becomes more real to us than the reality of labor disputes and workplace inequities.
This illustrates the power of the spectacle over our lived experiences, the entrancing nature of spectacle to deceive and distract. Submitting to the power of Christmas and its spectacle turns this moment of rebellion and critique into one of irreverence and then irrelevance.
Works Cited:
Society of the Spectacle by Guy Debord
Simulacra and Simulation by Jean Baudrillard
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Lacanian Others: on love and the movies
"there are three absolutes: Life. Death. and Love."
- Dr. C.P. Gause
---
"i'm a thief, and a liar."
"it's OK. i like you anyway."
- Dr. C.P. Gause
---
"i'm a thief, and a liar."
"it's OK. i like you anyway."
---
it's hard to say what makes you love someone. i'm beginning to suspect love is something we created in the movies. every date out on the town getting dinner and drinks is reenacting something they saw on the screen. every move is a reflection of something they've seen. this isn't reel life, this is reality.
are we doomed to search for these projected loves, extant in only the collective imagination of our generation? will we lose forever in these battles because we haven't learned that the enemy is our selves?
we are searching for ideas, images, tautological feelings we've been conditioned to want, by advertisements and soaring movie soundtracks. we're trying to live the dream, to live what we see, to feel, to be. we internalize these ideas, then become frustrated when our "Others" don't project the images we'd had in mind. is that love?
the psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan said that love is the thing we don't have that we are trying to give to someone who doesn't exist. in other words, a null set between the self and a nonexistent other... so sad, but canonical post-freudian psychology!
[mp3's, yousendit]
The Idea of You - The Neo-Futurists.
Our Life Is Not a Movie, Or Maybe - Okkervil River.
-stephan!e
Thursday, August 23, 2007
what's broken can always be fixed, what's fixed will always be broken
as some of you will remember, i fell in love with the music of a Swede named Jens Lekman.
and as the summer winds down and blows away, taking my memories of it (the smells, the touch and feels) away, too, i find myself listening to his music again. it always seems to find me in these liminal months, when i'm back in the midst of woods in Oxford, Ohio, awaiting the approach of autumn in the corners of rooms by windows, wishing it would rain to match my mood.
i think this is why i love Jens and his music: it allows me to relax and stop trying to articulate pangs i get about delicate moments, and be satisfied in knowing someone understands, that someone put it to song, with handclaps and gentle harp, and extravagant whistling.
i'm realizing time is fleeting. i spend my days now worrying about classes and homework, graduate exams, finding jobs, rushing to the library to grab all the books relevant to my research before someone else can, waiting for weekends so i can trip over to the woods or to the farmers' market. busy busy, always planning ahead, but never seeing directly in front of me.
i read a beautiful reflection on the death of a friend, on how the smallest details are what you always linger on to remember someone. "glances, touches, purchases, short phone calls, preparing a snack, standing in a doorway, taking off or putting on shoes." same goes for memories of your own life, i guess. all you have are moments.
which is why i return to Jens Lekman every summer, and especially why i listen to him now. he knows what it's like to want, more than anything, to prolong this moment, and every moment thereafter, to long to stretch out the spaces between seconds and climb inside and build a home. "The desire to go back to another time, to swim for a while there, and to cast it in rosy light. The doomed, daft act of revisiting a lost place and gilding it gold." [source]
-stef
---
speaking of moments, i stayed up all night remembering the summer in lost journal entries. i remember i've yet to fulfill my promise of posting writing from my summer travel journals. is there any desire any more?
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
dangerous familiars
hi to all you patient and adoring darlings!
thanks for your patience these past few days. i've been busy traveling all over West Virginia and Kentucky, and have just recently returned to being settled and having all my things in one small room again.
that is, i'm back at Miami University for one final year. and as i'm shopping around for the most interesting and compelling classes to take, while i'm stressing out about my undergraduate thesis and studying for the GRE's and planning student actions for all my various activisms, i've also found, in the blissful off-time, a surprising nostalgia and reminiscence creeping over me.
even as i look around the campus, at the frightening droves of willowy blondes and preppy jock boys, their polished exteriors enough to make me insecure, and despite the inexplicable phenomenon of cornhole that seems to proliferate here, i can sense that i'm really going to miss this place next fall, when i will surely/hopefully be somewhere far, far away.
i know it's merely because i've gotten familiar with the place, have become accustomed to moving back to the same dorm for the past 4 years, am grateful to see the same familiar faces, to have such a strong community in which to wallow, enjoy coming back each year geared up and ready to fight for a cause i've been devoted to for over 5 semesters.
but...
this familiarity has me kinda scared too. comfort is overrated, even dangerous. keeping on your toes becomes kinda like floating, when you get good at it. and who doesn't want to defy gravity?
i got to thinking about this in one of my classes today. i was sitting in a class full of Education majors, a class called "Cultural Studies, Power, and Education," a class filled with typical Miami-types, feeling a little on edge because everyone in there was so white bread [sic]. the professor had been trying all of class to ease us into a radical mindset (which i gratefully dived right into), while we examined ads from the 90's that proffered 40's gender politics to preschool aged consumers. i glanced around the room to see students rolling their eyes, grimacing at the mention of atheism and Marxism, the girl beside me scrawling the word SOCIALIST in big letters across the first blank page of her notebook, and underlining it.
i give the professor a lot of credit. to open with that kind of radical leap in student expectation is truly courageous. i'm counting on a smaller class next time around.
anyway, this moment turned into a huge realization for my research into the practice of critical pedagogy:
for me (and i consider myself fairly radical, surprise, surprise), this first class wasn't unusual or myth-busting at all. in fact, it was too easy to agree with the professor, too natural to nod along, to laugh at his leftist jokes, to feel grateful for and, yes, comfortable with a liberal bias in the classroom.
on the other hand, my peers were noticeably unnerved, even perturbed, by the professor and what they must have perceived to be Commie rantings. and so, they were reluctant to engage, hesitant to open their minds to the possibility that advertisers care less about the consumer than about selling products.
and then i realized, looking around, everyone in this class was wearing nice Polo Ralph Lauren polo shirts, J Crew khakis, their heads gelled and kempt, glistening examples of Miami's "squarely in the box" reputation. of course they couldn't open their minds to cultural studies and critical pedagogy! it made them uncomfortable!
when capitalism is working for you, when you're comfortable with it, you see no need, no reason, to challenge it. comfort and capitalism are closely related, in fact, they are co-conspirators. in a society used to instant gratification, it becomes hard to get people used to stepping out of their comfort zones. why would they ever have to, if they can find a KFC wherever they go? same goes for ideological comfort zones.
existential discomfort = the worst kind.
thots!
-stef
---
speaking of familiars, you should get familiar with the guys over at Said the Gramophone. they keep one of the most beautifully written music blogs out there. in fact, it's one of only 2 i actually read on a regular basis. this post was particularly striking and appropriate for the approaching end of summer. FUN TIMES FOREVER.
thanks for your patience these past few days. i've been busy traveling all over West Virginia and Kentucky, and have just recently returned to being settled and having all my things in one small room again.
that is, i'm back at Miami University for one final year. and as i'm shopping around for the most interesting and compelling classes to take, while i'm stressing out about my undergraduate thesis and studying for the GRE's and planning student actions for all my various activisms, i've also found, in the blissful off-time, a surprising nostalgia and reminiscence creeping over me.
even as i look around the campus, at the frightening droves of willowy blondes and preppy jock boys, their polished exteriors enough to make me insecure, and despite the inexplicable phenomenon of cornhole that seems to proliferate here, i can sense that i'm really going to miss this place next fall, when i will surely/hopefully be somewhere far, far away.
i know it's merely because i've gotten familiar with the place, have become accustomed to moving back to the same dorm for the past 4 years, am grateful to see the same familiar faces, to have such a strong community in which to wallow, enjoy coming back each year geared up and ready to fight for a cause i've been devoted to for over 5 semesters.
but...
this familiarity has me kinda scared too. comfort is overrated, even dangerous. keeping on your toes becomes kinda like floating, when you get good at it. and who doesn't want to defy gravity?
i got to thinking about this in one of my classes today. i was sitting in a class full of Education majors, a class called "Cultural Studies, Power, and Education," a class filled with typical Miami-types, feeling a little on edge because everyone in there was so white bread [sic]. the professor had been trying all of class to ease us into a radical mindset (which i gratefully dived right into), while we examined ads from the 90's that proffered 40's gender politics to preschool aged consumers. i glanced around the room to see students rolling their eyes, grimacing at the mention of atheism and Marxism, the girl beside me scrawling the word SOCIALIST in big letters across the first blank page of her notebook, and underlining it.
i give the professor a lot of credit. to open with that kind of radical leap in student expectation is truly courageous. i'm counting on a smaller class next time around.
anyway, this moment turned into a huge realization for my research into the practice of critical pedagogy:
for me (and i consider myself fairly radical, surprise, surprise), this first class wasn't unusual or myth-busting at all. in fact, it was too easy to agree with the professor, too natural to nod along, to laugh at his leftist jokes, to feel grateful for and, yes, comfortable with a liberal bias in the classroom.
on the other hand, my peers were noticeably unnerved, even perturbed, by the professor and what they must have perceived to be Commie rantings. and so, they were reluctant to engage, hesitant to open their minds to the possibility that advertisers care less about the consumer than about selling products.
and then i realized, looking around, everyone in this class was wearing nice Polo Ralph Lauren polo shirts, J Crew khakis, their heads gelled and kempt, glistening examples of Miami's "squarely in the box" reputation. of course they couldn't open their minds to cultural studies and critical pedagogy! it made them uncomfortable!
when capitalism is working for you, when you're comfortable with it, you see no need, no reason, to challenge it. comfort and capitalism are closely related, in fact, they are co-conspirators. in a society used to instant gratification, it becomes hard to get people used to stepping out of their comfort zones. why would they ever have to, if they can find a KFC wherever they go? same goes for ideological comfort zones.
existential discomfort = the worst kind.
thots!
-stef
---
speaking of familiars, you should get familiar with the guys over at Said the Gramophone. they keep one of the most beautifully written music blogs out there. in fact, it's one of only 2 i actually read on a regular basis. this post was particularly striking and appropriate for the approaching end of summer. FUN TIMES FOREVER.
Saturday, August 04, 2007
more thoughts on the 2008 Democratic campaign
in light of the provoking points my friend Brian brought up the other day, i'd like to append to my last post, in which i addressed what i think are important strategic concerns in regards to landing a Democrat in presidential office in 2008.*
---
BRIAN:
You raise some good points Steph, but two things may make that moot.
1. Immigration is not going away and any gains made by the right are being negated by the Hispanic vote moving left.
2. Iraq is the key and will determine who is elected. The more American casualties and violence, the more likely a Democrat will be elected.
---
yes, you're right. Iraq is a key (tho i would argue, not "the" key), and it is certainly affecting the way they're campaigning. but Iraq aside (since the Dems will, in large part, present similar strategies for getting out of Iraq), the vote still boils down to a matter of "how much change can our country handle?"
now, for my generation, this is a momentous point in our lived history. most of us can probably barely remember a States without the ludicrous Bush regime. any change will seem huge to us. but to have our first minority president, that will be TREMENDOUS! (and i'm not saying unwelcome...) even for other generations, our first woman or Black president will be a huge turning point in our nation's history, and i'm not sure if that much change right now is something America is ready for.
again, i hope i'm wrong. but many analysts have been saying, like you, that Iraq is the key. and many, unfortunately, still have terrorism in the back of their minds. and in the word of one political analyst, are "looking for a president who can protect us."
i just hope that we don't go seeking that kind of protection in something "safe."
-stef
*let me remind you, readers, that i am in no way claiming any sort of authority on the subject of formal politics. as i have said before, i tend to stay out of it as much as possible, preferring grassroots community-organizing to the two-party system. heck, i'm not even a political science major (or minor!) so my opinion is merely that of an interested observer, and hopeful citizen of the United States.
---
BRIAN:
You raise some good points Steph, but two things may make that moot.
1. Immigration is not going away and any gains made by the right are being negated by the Hispanic vote moving left.
2. Iraq is the key and will determine who is elected. The more American casualties and violence, the more likely a Democrat will be elected.
---
yes, you're right. Iraq is a key (tho i would argue, not "the" key), and it is certainly affecting the way they're campaigning. but Iraq aside (since the Dems will, in large part, present similar strategies for getting out of Iraq), the vote still boils down to a matter of "how much change can our country handle?"
now, for my generation, this is a momentous point in our lived history. most of us can probably barely remember a States without the ludicrous Bush regime. any change will seem huge to us. but to have our first minority president, that will be TREMENDOUS! (and i'm not saying unwelcome...) even for other generations, our first woman or Black president will be a huge turning point in our nation's history, and i'm not sure if that much change right now is something America is ready for.
again, i hope i'm wrong. but many analysts have been saying, like you, that Iraq is the key. and many, unfortunately, still have terrorism in the back of their minds. and in the word of one political analyst, are "looking for a president who can protect us."
i just hope that we don't go seeking that kind of protection in something "safe."
-stef
*let me remind you, readers, that i am in no way claiming any sort of authority on the subject of formal politics. as i have said before, i tend to stay out of it as much as possible, preferring grassroots community-organizing to the two-party system. heck, i'm not even a political science major (or minor!) so my opinion is merely that of an interested observer, and hopeful citizen of the United States.
Friday, August 03, 2007
elections 2008: how to get a Democrat in office
don't want this to happen again? then we better rethink our voting strategy...however, as an activist and as someone who would like to see significant progress made in my lifetime, i concede that we (the people) need help from those in more obvious states of power - the policy-makers, office-holders, our leaders and representatives in Washington - before we can realize progress.
and unfortunately, because of the sheer extremes the current administration has brought us to (widespread hatred for America and Americans, an international image of callous cowboy bravado), many - including myself - have decided that the only way to right our course is to elect a Democrat into office in 2008.
indeed, many activists have been working hard in the past years to build grassroots campaigns for Democrat candidates. in Ohio, recent election of Governor Strickland over Blackwell was seen as a huge win for the left. all over the nation, we are seeking a balance to the current administration by plugging in Democrats in every office imaginable.
so obviously, a lot is resting on the spot for Democratic candidate for President in 2008. and though i would LOVE to see either Barack Obama or Hilary Clinton make the ballot, i also have my reservations.
unfortunately, democracy in America is far more theory than practice: it's not "a government for the people, by the people," so much as a spectacle for the people to gawk and laugh at. (an emphasis on the idea of "spectacle" - we are not participating so much as we are watching.)
let's not forget that even if election by popular vote was actually practiced in the States (by which case Gore would have won and we could have avoided this discussion altogether), there still remains a stubborn majority of conservatives (and worse - neo-liberals!) in our country. conservatives who, even when faced with the travesties of justice inflicted on our nation by the Bush administration in the past 8 years, will still, undoubtedly, be reluctant to cast their vote for a Democrat, let alone a Black man or a woman (it's sad, but probably true).
what i fear is that neither of the forerunners in the Democratic camp will actually get elected. if offered a choice between a standard Republican candidate (from the country club set of old-fashioned white traditional values) and a minority candidate with liberal values, i fear most voters (not even just the conservative ones), even when reminded of the horrible events and misdeeds of the current administration, will still vote for the Republican.
regrettably, i don't think a majority of our citizenry is ready for change. at least, not the kind that would accompany the huge shift in paradigm that having Hilary or Obama in office would signify.
i hope i'm wrong. i really do. but it seems that if we want a Democrat in office in 2008, the best way is to vote John Edwards (he's got a kind of Kennedy feel about him...)
or is Al Gore still in the running...?
-stef
Saturday, July 28, 2007
the panopticon: Cebu Prison, Philippines and the role of YouTube in society
readers,
have you seen the prison dance tapes from Cebu Prison in the Philippines? they're quickly becoming huge hits on the web, and for good reason. they're amazing! seriously, i haven't seen musical theatre this good since i saw Les Miz on Broadway!
to be sure, just check out these meticulous recreations of Michael Jackson's "Thriller" and "I Will Follow Him" from Sister Act:
now i'm not sure if this is considered cruel and unusual punishment in the Philippines, but it makes damn good watching on Youtube. which makes me wonder: is the Filipino prison taking the panopticon to new extremes?
consider the function of the panopticon, and these observations regarding these bemusing videos:
-the costumes (a balding, pony-tailed, made-up male inmate, wearing a halter top with falsies portraying MJ's steady girlfriend as she is mobbed by zombies)
-the music (are they singing? is there a band? is the music being piped thru the prison loudspeakers? or is the music dubbed over the original soundtrack? if the latter, what are the prisoners dancing to in real-time? a Filipino version of "Thriller"/"I will follow Him"?)
-the choreography (the spot on renditions make me think they had someone teaching them. how does one teach 1000+ prisoners intricate dance moves from the 80s with success? and that someone must have sat and analyzed the music video for weeks to figure out the whole routine. that's quite a commitment to the spirit of dance.)
-the filming (who's holding the camera? and what makes them suspect the performance they caught on tape is merely a practice round, as they say, and not the real thing? is it a guard? a tourist? are they ushering tourists thru the prison grounds and charging them admittance fees? and doesn't this bring Titicut Follies to mind?)
AND, when one searches for the "Cebu Provincial Detention and Rehabilitation Center," the reputed site of these performances, one can find nothing written about the actual Center itself, its prisoners, or its practices, other than the recent buzz on the blogs about - that's right - the very dances that brought you to search for the Prison in the first place. isn't there something a little bemusing, a little existentially tautological about that?
finally, consider all this in relation to the medium:
-we're watching these videos on YouTube, a site that has grown into somewhat of a phenomenon, injecting the daily monotony of the average person to the same level of consciousness as ground-breaking news and celebrity sightings. you can find as many videos of average people ranting about Britney Spears as you can find actual video of Britney Spears.
-Youtube, unlike network news, is always on and always available. = someone is always watching.
considering this in light of these prison videos is incredibly revelatory of the current role Youtube might be playing in our society: the media, always influencing us in the most surreptitious ways, when placed in our own hands, has the ability to make us repeat itself to our own detriment.
take a look at any Youtube video and you will see what i mean. genres are making and perpetuating themselves everyday. the vlog rant. the celebrity satire. the video journal. there's a degree of comfort in seeing "average" people "just like us" on Youtube, while at the same time, comments like "shut up you f*in whore, you ugly faced b*tch" proliferate on every Youtube channel.
while a sense of democracy and control is bolstered by the success of Youtube, we can't help but feel the media's ability to enforce certain standards of appearance and form and style is not altogether eliminated in the process.
thus the panopticon. always watched = always controlled.
-stefan!e
have you seen the prison dance tapes from Cebu Prison in the Philippines? they're quickly becoming huge hits on the web, and for good reason. they're amazing! seriously, i haven't seen musical theatre this good since i saw Les Miz on Broadway!
to be sure, just check out these meticulous recreations of Michael Jackson's "Thriller" and "I Will Follow Him" from Sister Act:
now i'm not sure if this is considered cruel and unusual punishment in the Philippines, but it makes damn good watching on Youtube. which makes me wonder: is the Filipino prison taking the panopticon to new extremes?
consider the function of the panopticon, and these observations regarding these bemusing videos:
-the costumes (a balding, pony-tailed, made-up male inmate, wearing a halter top with falsies portraying MJ's steady girlfriend as she is mobbed by zombies)
-the music (are they singing? is there a band? is the music being piped thru the prison loudspeakers? or is the music dubbed over the original soundtrack? if the latter, what are the prisoners dancing to in real-time? a Filipino version of "Thriller"/"I will follow Him"?)
-the choreography (the spot on renditions make me think they had someone teaching them. how does one teach 1000+ prisoners intricate dance moves from the 80s with success? and that someone must have sat and analyzed the music video for weeks to figure out the whole routine. that's quite a commitment to the spirit of dance.)
-the filming (who's holding the camera? and what makes them suspect the performance they caught on tape is merely a practice round, as they say, and not the real thing? is it a guard? a tourist? are they ushering tourists thru the prison grounds and charging them admittance fees? and doesn't this bring Titicut Follies to mind?)
AND, when one searches for the "Cebu Provincial Detention and Rehabilitation Center," the reputed site of these performances, one can find nothing written about the actual Center itself, its prisoners, or its practices, other than the recent buzz on the blogs about - that's right - the very dances that brought you to search for the Prison in the first place. isn't there something a little bemusing, a little existentially tautological about that?
finally, consider all this in relation to the medium:
-we're watching these videos on YouTube, a site that has grown into somewhat of a phenomenon, injecting the daily monotony of the average person to the same level of consciousness as ground-breaking news and celebrity sightings. you can find as many videos of average people ranting about Britney Spears as you can find actual video of Britney Spears.
-Youtube, unlike network news, is always on and always available. = someone is always watching.
considering this in light of these prison videos is incredibly revelatory of the current role Youtube might be playing in our society: the media, always influencing us in the most surreptitious ways, when placed in our own hands, has the ability to make us repeat itself to our own detriment.
take a look at any Youtube video and you will see what i mean. genres are making and perpetuating themselves everyday. the vlog rant. the celebrity satire. the video journal. there's a degree of comfort in seeing "average" people "just like us" on Youtube, while at the same time, comments like "shut up you f*in whore, you ugly faced b*tch" proliferate on every Youtube channel.
while a sense of democracy and control is bolstered by the success of Youtube, we can't help but feel the media's ability to enforce certain standards of appearance and form and style is not altogether eliminated in the process.
thus the panopticon. always watched = always controlled.
-stefan!e
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
musical zeitgeist
i don't know whether to be sad or slightly amused by some of the recent trends in music i've observed. for example, i admit that i used to possess an unaware appreciation for "emo" music, until i found it had diverged into what my brother and i jokingly refer to as "screamo," a la Fall Out Boy and similarly poseur-esque boy bands.
i used to like Conor Oberst of Bright Eyes, until i got fed up with all his whining, and found his music didn't really take me anywhere. i never base an aversion for a singer/songwriter/performer based on genre alone, which is why i feel ok admitting that yes, i listen to Nelly Furtado, and i totally respect Kelly Clarkson for challenging the "popular" music industry and doing her own writing (even though, in general, i strongly despise the girl pop genre).
sometimes i wonder if all culture (and especially pop culture) isn't just a recycling of previous formulas. i get bored to death of hearing the same tunes playing incessantly over the radio. and i swear, even the best indie music is reusing some of its best licks (do i listen to too much music, or does it sometimes sound like musicians are blatantly rewriting their previous hits, or worse, the hits of other artists?)
but lately, i've found a ton of terrific new music from abroad, mostly Sweden (um, just to mention a few: Jens Lekman, The Knife, Peter Bjorn and John, El Perro del Mar. and the Field's "From Here We Go Sublime" is practically the soundtrack to my late summer nights). and i've been listening to some non-music, mostly new podcasts such as On the Media and Democracy Now! and comedy albums from funny men Patton Oswalt, David Cross (love!), Paul F. Tompkins, and Scharpling and Wurster. and, i just discovered a fantastic album by a collective of experimental instrumental artists, who've set the words of William S. Burroughs to funked up jazz/techno. thumbs, right?!
anyway, this whole thing was really just some pointless rambling to set up this brilliant clip from MadTV. i love this clip for so many reasons, first because i absolutely HATE the Calling and the song they are parodying. second, because it's absolutely true, music today sounds more and more like itself and the people who came before it, who did it much better. and finally, because i absolutely LOVE this caricature of Scott Stapp:
this is Scott Stapp.
this is an artist's rendering of Scott Stapp.
so, enjoy!
-stef
i used to like Conor Oberst of Bright Eyes, until i got fed up with all his whining, and found his music didn't really take me anywhere. i never base an aversion for a singer/songwriter/performer based on genre alone, which is why i feel ok admitting that yes, i listen to Nelly Furtado, and i totally respect Kelly Clarkson for challenging the "popular" music industry and doing her own writing (even though, in general, i strongly despise the girl pop genre).
sometimes i wonder if all culture (and especially pop culture) isn't just a recycling of previous formulas. i get bored to death of hearing the same tunes playing incessantly over the radio. and i swear, even the best indie music is reusing some of its best licks (do i listen to too much music, or does it sometimes sound like musicians are blatantly rewriting their previous hits, or worse, the hits of other artists?)
but lately, i've found a ton of terrific new music from abroad, mostly Sweden (um, just to mention a few: Jens Lekman, The Knife, Peter Bjorn and John, El Perro del Mar. and the Field's "From Here We Go Sublime" is practically the soundtrack to my late summer nights). and i've been listening to some non-music, mostly new podcasts such as On the Media and Democracy Now! and comedy albums from funny men Patton Oswalt, David Cross (love!), Paul F. Tompkins, and Scharpling and Wurster. and, i just discovered a fantastic album by a collective of experimental instrumental artists, who've set the words of William S. Burroughs to funked up jazz/techno. thumbs, right?!
anyway, this whole thing was really just some pointless rambling to set up this brilliant clip from MadTV. i love this clip for so many reasons, first because i absolutely HATE the Calling and the song they are parodying. second, because it's absolutely true, music today sounds more and more like itself and the people who came before it, who did it much better. and finally, because i absolutely LOVE this caricature of Scott Stapp:
this is Scott Stapp.
this is an artist's rendering of Scott Stapp.so, enjoy!
-stef
Sunday, July 22, 2007
a fondness for small things
i love all things small. things that fit into a pocket, things i can hold in my hands, little animals and small children. i love apricots just because i feel like i'm eating a tiny peach.
---
i went for a walk today after dinner, and noticed - for the first time in a long time - the blinking of fireflies. and, for the first time i can remember since childhood, i cupped my hands to hold one. as i slowly unfolded my fingers, it climbed to the tip of my forefinger, perching on my metallic blue nail, and i was reminded of my fondness for small things.
i remember a childhood filled with fireflies. the first time i ever caught one, my family had gone out to a large building on the UK campus that i've always thought of as "The Barn," a white rectangular building across from the football stadium parking lot that really looks as if the second floor used to be a hay loft. the interior of the building was basically one continuous room with linoleum floors and a few poles to help hold up the roof. it was perfect for potlucks, and that's exactly what brought my family and the other 40 families of the Chinese School together that night. me and the other 45+ kids were rapidly consuming sugar and the excitement of so much company, and as the parents started up the karaoke machine, we all escaped outside.
the best part about The Barn wasn't the ex-loft, or the foosball table, or the interior that would have made a perfect indoor roller skating rink had someone with the proper resources and foresight discovered it. no, the best thing about The Barn was it's Barn-like yard. to a small elementary schooler, the block of uninterrupted grass skirted by trees was all we needed to feel free and alive. you could play tag, hide and seek (the unmowed grass was enough to conceal most of us), and Red Rover. and, in the later hours, when the summer humidity had begun to settle into a fine dew, there they would appear - the fireflies.
it was like being out in the country and finding yourself amongst the star-lit sky. only you could hold this fire in your hands. all 46+ of us stood in wonder of this blinking light, following one or two spots with our eyes, to have them disappear and reappear another inch away. my Father came out to check on us kids, showed me how to get close enough to extend my hand, a small globe for them to land.
i remember nights at home after a summer rain, when the lightning bugs would come out to drink the remaining droplets from the leaves. my brother and i would follow them out, catching them in our hands, picking our favorite pairs and sliding them gently into empty jam jars we'd specially decorate for them with leaves, twigs and grass sprinkled with sugar water. my brother and i would sleep contentedly in our beds those nights, foregoing our ubiquitous nightlights for the soft friendly glow of fireflies in empty jars. sometimes we'd wake up the next morning to find them sick or languid, their little antennae drooping behind glass. sometimes we'd keep them too long and become distressed at having extinguished such gentle light. (it wouldn't take us long to find that one night sleeping over in our bedrooms was enough for them. we soon adopted a one-night-only policy.)
summers for me have always meant only a handful of things: summer camps, swimming in the neighborhood pool just before dinner, bike rides with my family, barbeque on Sunday nights, and lightning bugs at night.
tonight, as i walk in my neighborhood, the lightning bug twirling around on the tip of my metallic fingernail, i remember my life measured in these smallest of degrees. seconds open up and reveal spools of memories wrapped inside, now long enough to fit all the years between the then and now, to collapse whole stages of my life inside one second, the blink of a firefly.
the last time i ever held a firefly in my hands was at a sleepover at my friend Meredith's house, on the cusp between Montessori elementary school and public middle school, a late midsummer night separating harmless childhood candidness from the guarded moodiness of early adolescence. it was the day i got my braces, the first time my friends and i, all crammed together in the basement of my friend's house, watch an R-rated movie without our parents (Stigmata, it was ok), and the first time i ever stayed up all night (it was also the first night back from vacation in Hawaii with my family, which gives me jet lag and a time difference of -5 hours, which makes it impossible to sleep). it was the first and last time i ever played pranks on my friends, and the last time i ever catch fireflies.
playing in my friend's backyard after pizza and ice cream, i find a lightning bug. i pick it up, and prepare to plop it into a disposable plastic soda cup that i'm already beginning to prepare with foraged foliage, when i notice his lethargic demeanor. he seemed ill, devoid of a will to live, would probably die even before spending a night in the cup. knowing nothing about lightning bug biology or remedies, but possessing a strong fondness for small things (and at this time, a still strong desire to become a veterinarian), i held the ailing lightning bug in one hand, while gently petting him on his wings with the tip of my smallest finger. i noticed a weak bulb and tried to offer verbal support, thinking it a matter of self-esteem. i offer him droplets of water on grass blades, and walk him around the yard, extending my palm so he can take a look around. i do this for probably 15 minutes (but again, the seconds have opened up to reveal whole decades, and my firefly and i have spent what feels like a significant part of our lives together) when i notice a flicker of light, a liveliness to the antennae, and a willful effort to fly. feeling i have just saved a life, i return inside, leaving Patrick (as i call him) on the ledge, free of the cup.
---
now, as i watch my new lightning bug perform pirouettes on my fingertip, and traverse the knuckles on my hand, i relive my childhood in the infiniteness of a few seconds, reminded of a fondness for small things.
and as i step onto my driveway, the firefly takes off, into the night sky...
---
i went for a walk today after dinner, and noticed - for the first time in a long time - the blinking of fireflies. and, for the first time i can remember since childhood, i cupped my hands to hold one. as i slowly unfolded my fingers, it climbed to the tip of my forefinger, perching on my metallic blue nail, and i was reminded of my fondness for small things.
i remember a childhood filled with fireflies. the first time i ever caught one, my family had gone out to a large building on the UK campus that i've always thought of as "The Barn," a white rectangular building across from the football stadium parking lot that really looks as if the second floor used to be a hay loft. the interior of the building was basically one continuous room with linoleum floors and a few poles to help hold up the roof. it was perfect for potlucks, and that's exactly what brought my family and the other 40 families of the Chinese School together that night. me and the other 45+ kids were rapidly consuming sugar and the excitement of so much company, and as the parents started up the karaoke machine, we all escaped outside.
the best part about The Barn wasn't the ex-loft, or the foosball table, or the interior that would have made a perfect indoor roller skating rink had someone with the proper resources and foresight discovered it. no, the best thing about The Barn was it's Barn-like yard. to a small elementary schooler, the block of uninterrupted grass skirted by trees was all we needed to feel free and alive. you could play tag, hide and seek (the unmowed grass was enough to conceal most of us), and Red Rover. and, in the later hours, when the summer humidity had begun to settle into a fine dew, there they would appear - the fireflies.
it was like being out in the country and finding yourself amongst the star-lit sky. only you could hold this fire in your hands. all 46+ of us stood in wonder of this blinking light, following one or two spots with our eyes, to have them disappear and reappear another inch away. my Father came out to check on us kids, showed me how to get close enough to extend my hand, a small globe for them to land.
i remember nights at home after a summer rain, when the lightning bugs would come out to drink the remaining droplets from the leaves. my brother and i would follow them out, catching them in our hands, picking our favorite pairs and sliding them gently into empty jam jars we'd specially decorate for them with leaves, twigs and grass sprinkled with sugar water. my brother and i would sleep contentedly in our beds those nights, foregoing our ubiquitous nightlights for the soft friendly glow of fireflies in empty jars. sometimes we'd wake up the next morning to find them sick or languid, their little antennae drooping behind glass. sometimes we'd keep them too long and become distressed at having extinguished such gentle light. (it wouldn't take us long to find that one night sleeping over in our bedrooms was enough for them. we soon adopted a one-night-only policy.)
summers for me have always meant only a handful of things: summer camps, swimming in the neighborhood pool just before dinner, bike rides with my family, barbeque on Sunday nights, and lightning bugs at night.
tonight, as i walk in my neighborhood, the lightning bug twirling around on the tip of my metallic fingernail, i remember my life measured in these smallest of degrees. seconds open up and reveal spools of memories wrapped inside, now long enough to fit all the years between the then and now, to collapse whole stages of my life inside one second, the blink of a firefly.
the last time i ever held a firefly in my hands was at a sleepover at my friend Meredith's house, on the cusp between Montessori elementary school and public middle school, a late midsummer night separating harmless childhood candidness from the guarded moodiness of early adolescence. it was the day i got my braces, the first time my friends and i, all crammed together in the basement of my friend's house, watch an R-rated movie without our parents (Stigmata, it was ok), and the first time i ever stayed up all night (it was also the first night back from vacation in Hawaii with my family, which gives me jet lag and a time difference of -5 hours, which makes it impossible to sleep). it was the first and last time i ever played pranks on my friends, and the last time i ever catch fireflies.
playing in my friend's backyard after pizza and ice cream, i find a lightning bug. i pick it up, and prepare to plop it into a disposable plastic soda cup that i'm already beginning to prepare with foraged foliage, when i notice his lethargic demeanor. he seemed ill, devoid of a will to live, would probably die even before spending a night in the cup. knowing nothing about lightning bug biology or remedies, but possessing a strong fondness for small things (and at this time, a still strong desire to become a veterinarian), i held the ailing lightning bug in one hand, while gently petting him on his wings with the tip of my smallest finger. i noticed a weak bulb and tried to offer verbal support, thinking it a matter of self-esteem. i offer him droplets of water on grass blades, and walk him around the yard, extending my palm so he can take a look around. i do this for probably 15 minutes (but again, the seconds have opened up to reveal whole decades, and my firefly and i have spent what feels like a significant part of our lives together) when i notice a flicker of light, a liveliness to the antennae, and a willful effort to fly. feeling i have just saved a life, i return inside, leaving Patrick (as i call him) on the ledge, free of the cup.
---
now, as i watch my new lightning bug perform pirouettes on my fingertip, and traverse the knuckles on my hand, i relive my childhood in the infiniteness of a few seconds, reminded of a fondness for small things.
and as i step onto my driveway, the firefly takes off, into the night sky...
Monday, July 16, 2007
blabracadabra
= the magic that ensues from a deluge of talking.
sorry for the lack lately, things have been unusual.
how unusual? perhaps they start by being undescribably so. mostly i'm depressed b/c i wish i had done something else with my summer. i blame Mongolia and China for this. after spending such a short amount of time in such beautiful and stimulating environs, it is hard to return to my home in Kentucky and not fill with consuming regret. and regret is one of my top least favorite feelings in the world. i'd say "an itch you can't scratch" and water-logged shoes are pretty close behind.
i've been seeing doctors to try to sort out some nagging pains in my legs and stomach. that hasn't helped things, i suppose. i've always harbored some vague suspicion i won't live beyond 40, but feeling like it is worse than thinking it.
early mortality is ok, once you learn to accept it. you just learn to think about things differently. for example, i'm 21 now, past middle age. that means i feel even more entitled to go out and party than a normal 21-yr-old, because i'm also going thru a midlife crisis. (what this means in actual practice is that i party half the amount a normal Miami girl does (while wearing twice the amount of clothing, i might add), get drunk maybe half that time, but can outdrink most of my friends. considering my size, i have an astounding tolerance. go figure.)
speaking of freedoms, i registered for classes this morning, and found out most of my classes fall on tuesday/thursday. which means, amazingly, a four-day weekend. that is, if i decide not to take Elementary Chinese. the thought of taking Mandarin in a formal educational setting is exciting and terrifying at once. i fear reliving my high school French days, when the awkward pedagogical stylings of one Madame Keegan made me drop out of French classes before my time. i love learning French now, and still speak and write at an acceptable proficiency, but i hate to think of that happening to my mother tongue. the very idea of studying it brings me back to Sunday afternoons cooped up by the window of the language building on the UK campus, wishing my Chinese School classes would be over so i could go home and play in the yard.
on my list of classes for the fall?
-Cultural Studies of Power and Education
-Human Development and the Learning/Educational Environment
-Studies in Educational Issues
& Senior Sem (or, as i'm lovingly dubbing it, "The Extraavaganzaa." or "XG" for short. kinda like exegesis. haha, oh stop it.)
+ possibly El. Chinese
(that's 17 credit hours, 5 of which are to the intense wrapping up of my senior thesis, another 3 of which are a capstone. is that too much for a senior year? sounds like i'll be needing the 4-day weekends!)
i found a guy who's starting a media collective in LA and wants me to work with him. i'm considering it, having no other really exciting things in my life right now. only problem is, he wants me to go in the fall, which means i won't get to finish this thesis 4 years in the making. i always get commitment-phobia this time of summer, though, so i'm feeling highly at risk of flight. i get this way too with a job that's almost done. when i'm getting to the last page of a term paper, that's always the hardest one (after the intro paragraph) to sit down and write, because i know i have the necessary words in me, it seems pointless to do it just to do it. i suspect i prefer to leave the last pages off, rather than finish them. isn't that more seductive anyway? the welcoming openness and potential of halfness, rather than the rigidity and futile arrogance of mistaken completion.
i've been reading Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides (the pre-Oprah's book club version, thank you very much). i'm loving the suggestive implications on human nature and the tension between nature and nurture. it has me wondering if everything we are, everything we do, the way we think, if our primordial unarticulated languages are indeed inherited. if perhaps, nothing is really possessed or uniquely "ours." if we are only mirrors reflecting endlessly into ourselves.
i am 21 years old, my own kind of middle-aged, but i am still afraid to grow up. the idea of going to grad school, or possibly getting a job, is terrifying. i find myself envying all the high school graduates, like my brother, who get to experience college for the first time. i've realized that college itself has become a new kind of security for me, that i will miss the familiar buildings and people after every summer. Summer itself, like Childhood, seems to be a constructed concept. no longer will i experience the clear divisions between school years by the blissfully relaxed laziness of Summer.
unwittingly, i have styled my life after the movies. this week, i painted the nails of one hand a sunny, daffodil yellow. the other hand, an icy, chrome-like blue. like the priest from Night of the Hunter, it seems i've polarized myself into love/hate. or i guess in my circumstance, sunny/cold. it seems i only have two options in these last days of Summer vacation.
BLABRACADABRA!
-stefan!e
sorry for the lack lately, things have been unusual.
how unusual? perhaps they start by being undescribably so. mostly i'm depressed b/c i wish i had done something else with my summer. i blame Mongolia and China for this. after spending such a short amount of time in such beautiful and stimulating environs, it is hard to return to my home in Kentucky and not fill with consuming regret. and regret is one of my top least favorite feelings in the world. i'd say "an itch you can't scratch" and water-logged shoes are pretty close behind.
i've been seeing doctors to try to sort out some nagging pains in my legs and stomach. that hasn't helped things, i suppose. i've always harbored some vague suspicion i won't live beyond 40, but feeling like it is worse than thinking it.
early mortality is ok, once you learn to accept it. you just learn to think about things differently. for example, i'm 21 now, past middle age. that means i feel even more entitled to go out and party than a normal 21-yr-old, because i'm also going thru a midlife crisis. (what this means in actual practice is that i party half the amount a normal Miami girl does (while wearing twice the amount of clothing, i might add), get drunk maybe half that time, but can outdrink most of my friends. considering my size, i have an astounding tolerance. go figure.)
speaking of freedoms, i registered for classes this morning, and found out most of my classes fall on tuesday/thursday. which means, amazingly, a four-day weekend. that is, if i decide not to take Elementary Chinese. the thought of taking Mandarin in a formal educational setting is exciting and terrifying at once. i fear reliving my high school French days, when the awkward pedagogical stylings of one Madame Keegan made me drop out of French classes before my time. i love learning French now, and still speak and write at an acceptable proficiency, but i hate to think of that happening to my mother tongue. the very idea of studying it brings me back to Sunday afternoons cooped up by the window of the language building on the UK campus, wishing my Chinese School classes would be over so i could go home and play in the yard.
on my list of classes for the fall?
-Cultural Studies of Power and Education
-Human Development and the Learning/Educational Environment
-Studies in Educational Issues
& Senior Sem (or, as i'm lovingly dubbing it, "The Extraavaganzaa." or "XG" for short. kinda like exegesis. haha, oh stop it.)
+ possibly El. Chinese
(that's 17 credit hours, 5 of which are to the intense wrapping up of my senior thesis, another 3 of which are a capstone. is that too much for a senior year? sounds like i'll be needing the 4-day weekends!)
i found a guy who's starting a media collective in LA and wants me to work with him. i'm considering it, having no other really exciting things in my life right now. only problem is, he wants me to go in the fall, which means i won't get to finish this thesis 4 years in the making. i always get commitment-phobia this time of summer, though, so i'm feeling highly at risk of flight. i get this way too with a job that's almost done. when i'm getting to the last page of a term paper, that's always the hardest one (after the intro paragraph) to sit down and write, because i know i have the necessary words in me, it seems pointless to do it just to do it. i suspect i prefer to leave the last pages off, rather than finish them. isn't that more seductive anyway? the welcoming openness and potential of halfness, rather than the rigidity and futile arrogance of mistaken completion.
i've been reading Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides (the pre-Oprah's book club version, thank you very much). i'm loving the suggestive implications on human nature and the tension between nature and nurture. it has me wondering if everything we are, everything we do, the way we think, if our primordial unarticulated languages are indeed inherited. if perhaps, nothing is really possessed or uniquely "ours." if we are only mirrors reflecting endlessly into ourselves.
i am 21 years old, my own kind of middle-aged, but i am still afraid to grow up. the idea of going to grad school, or possibly getting a job, is terrifying. i find myself envying all the high school graduates, like my brother, who get to experience college for the first time. i've realized that college itself has become a new kind of security for me, that i will miss the familiar buildings and people after every summer. Summer itself, like Childhood, seems to be a constructed concept. no longer will i experience the clear divisions between school years by the blissfully relaxed laziness of Summer.
unwittingly, i have styled my life after the movies. this week, i painted the nails of one hand a sunny, daffodil yellow. the other hand, an icy, chrome-like blue. like the priest from Night of the Hunter, it seems i've polarized myself into love/hate. or i guess in my circumstance, sunny/cold. it seems i only have two options in these last days of Summer vacation.
BLABRACADABRA!
-stefan!e
Saturday, April 14, 2007
civic duties
today, i spent the morning devoting time to a variety of (neglected) civic duties.
first, there was a peace rally in uptown Oxford today, which i missed b/c of the cold n wet weather, so that was a bust.
then, i realized i had forgotten to file my taxes. which is ironic, considering that i've spent every Saturday morning for the past 2.5 months helping other people with their's. so, after rummaging thru stacks n stacks of various papers and forms tucked away in the drawers of my desk, i finally salvaged the 1040EZ instructions i'd gotten from my library at home many months ago (ha – i must've thot i'd get an early start on this...)
only to discover i'd failed to get the actual form.
i was close to giving up at this point, but thinking i should probly do at least one civically responsible thing today, i pushed on and am now typing out my tax forms on Adobe (the whole situation was considerably improved by listening to French poetry podcasts. "Le pont Mirabeau, qui coule la Seine...")
anyway, the point of writing all this: i found it quite an absurd juxtaposition of civic duties: protesting (to exercise freedom of speech, to be critical of the government, thus to be a responsible citizine) & taxes (to pay give some hard-earned $ back to the state so they can spend it on the war i'm protesting and not put it into educational reform or healthcare or ...)
it's also raining cold wind this morning, with no sign of sunny warmth in the near future. is this really April?
confused.
-stephan!e
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
field notes: observing the college student specious in its (un)natural habitat
i wrote this passing thought in a notebook as i people-watched in the halls of Upham, waiting for a sociology prof to sign my force-add slip for Social Stratification next year.
it suddenly seemed very clear to me how the college specious works...
"no wonder ppl drink themselves into oblivion on the wkends – they need release! release from the dull, painful monotony of the rest of their week, time spent wasting in classrooms, the dead, boring material washing over them as they sit staring, hoping to catch glimmers of a future promised them, a future they desperately await, while the present passes them by"
waiting out the monotonous present, living in a zombie state, hoping for something better down the road, while making a mockery of the present and the life you could be living.
this is what Paulo Freire termed the "necrophilic" nature of traditional education. = "driven not by a love of life, but a love of death."
is it sad i can quote all this stuff from memory now?
-stephan!e
it suddenly seemed very clear to me how the college specious works...
"no wonder ppl drink themselves into oblivion on the wkends – they need release! release from the dull, painful monotony of the rest of their week, time spent wasting in classrooms, the dead, boring material washing over them as they sit staring, hoping to catch glimmers of a future promised them, a future they desperately await, while the present passes them by"
waiting out the monotonous present, living in a zombie state, hoping for something better down the road, while making a mockery of the present and the life you could be living.
this is what Paulo Freire termed the "necrophilic" nature of traditional education. = "driven not by a love of life, but a love of death."
is it sad i can quote all this stuff from memory now?
-stephan!e
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