(no subject)
A brilliant TED talk regarding feminism, and male feminism, and the role men play in gender violence...and what we can do to stop it.
http://www.upworthy.com/a-ted-talk…
http://www.upworthy.com/a-ted-talk…
It gets better.
I'm tired of staying silent.
I sometimes worry I'm waiting for Godot.
This is what I have decided.
Tonight (this morning?) I will shower, do laundry, and fix my life -- in that order.
I like concrete solutions.
I like tangible choices.
I like decisions I can see: cloven footprints on dirt pathways, crushed flowers in overgrown meadows.
I like knowing where I stand: I go to great lengths to solve problems and ensure everything's still on solid ground.
There are some issues I cannot fix; they weigh on me for the fact they're both impassible and not mine to solve. But mine or not, they still directly affect me -- and I can change how I respond to them.
That in and of itself is a concrete solution, because it's something of a battle strategy.
I feel prepared. I can do this.
I am a rockstar.
And very awake, right now. My room smells like rain and fabric softener. I'm standing by the open window, breathing new air and still in my running clothes.
Tonight (this morning?) I will shower, do laundry, and fix my life -- in that order.
I like concrete solutions.
I like tangible choices.
I like decisions I can see: cloven footprints on dirt pathways, crushed flowers in overgrown meadows.
I like knowing where I stand: I go to great lengths to solve problems and ensure everything's still on solid ground.
There are some issues I cannot fix; they weigh on me for the fact they're both impassible and not mine to solve. But mine or not, they still directly affect me -- and I can change how I respond to them.
That in and of itself is a concrete solution, because it's something of a battle strategy.
I feel prepared. I can do this.
I am a rockstar.
And very awake, right now. My room smells like rain and fabric softener. I'm standing by the open window, breathing new air and still in my running clothes.
I felt you in my legs before I ever met you.
The smell of new spike shoes always makes me giddy. Pliant, unblemished, and lighter than air, with no arch support and ten razor-sharp .3 cm long metal pavement-teeth sticking out from their turquoise underbelly. My mouth goes dry and my toes curl. They are still at factory settings. Perfection.
I think, sometimes, in that long rambling way people think things at 3 a.m. Things that shouldn't matter but do, maybe, because I've not slept and because I feel foolish and because the city-scape looks so surreal and beautiful against my trembling fingertips, ghosting the windowpane's surface and reading it like Braille.
I think this semester has been both easier and harder than the last, and I have learned something from it. I think I have a better grasp on my character, my thought processes, that intangible and ever-changing being that is my Self. I think I am beginning to understand my body's wants and needs; I think it's not built for running, but damned if I won't do it anyway. I think the days go by too quickly sometimes. I think there's no love lost between myself and Hobbes. I think I still believe in magic.
I also think I'm homesick.
That's not the right word for it, exactly, because it's not home I miss. Not the place, not precisely. I miss the place at a specific time in my life. I miss those unpredictable winters and humid, disgusting summers...I remember cross-country practice in all weather -- snow so heavy it was hard to see, sun-drenched tracks and that questionable water pump, torrential rains to ease the sting of August air. Driving to Calleva for no reason at all, except maybe to swipe old car doors and burnt rubber when the staff had their backs turned. Eating lunch on that terrace thing in the C-Building. Shutting my eyes and licking my lips and pretending, just for a moment, that my tongue was yours.
I was sixteen, then, and breathed a younger air...one of second-hand city smoke and hookah and inexperienced girls at parties, fumbling touches and giggling behind closed doors, singing an anthem of vodka in plastic bottles and cohesive bonding of glossy lips. We were just kids.
Being a teenager is so silly. Every little detail is Amplified, felt tenfold, written in CAPSLOCK on a chartreuse background and using boldface type. Everything is bright lights and converse shoes and home-dyed hair -- and parentheses, so many parentheses, as we struggle in vain to justify what we say and do. Each action is threaded with this feeling (fear?) of this-is-my-last-chance so we have to forever chase it, catch it, never let it go and never stop because if we do we might forget.
How could I think we would forget?
Midterms have started here and the campus is a thrumming baseline, guitar strings tuned too tightly, live wires pulled too taut. We evolve (like Pokemon) into dedicated hours, meticulous equations, and deadly verbosity...each word precisely and lovingly chosen over all others. I thought we were magic back then but I think instead we are magic now. Or magic of a different sort, at least.
We are university magic. We are graduation magic. We are future-doctors-lawyers-business-executiv
We are potential energy disguised as people.
This, too, is perfection.
I think, sometimes, in that long rambling way people think things at 3 a.m. Things that shouldn't matter but do, maybe, because I've not slept and because I feel foolish and because the city-scape looks so surreal and beautiful against my trembling fingertips, ghosting the windowpane's surface and reading it like Braille.
I think this semester has been both easier and harder than the last, and I have learned something from it. I think I have a better grasp on my character, my thought processes, that intangible and ever-changing being that is my Self. I think I am beginning to understand my body's wants and needs; I think it's not built for running, but damned if I won't do it anyway. I think the days go by too quickly sometimes. I think there's no love lost between myself and Hobbes. I think I still believe in magic.
I also think I'm homesick.
That's not the right word for it, exactly, because it's not home I miss. Not the place, not precisely. I miss the place at a specific time in my life. I miss those unpredictable winters and humid, disgusting summers...I remember cross-country practice in all weather -- snow so heavy it was hard to see, sun-drenched tracks and that questionable water pump, torrential rains to ease the sting of August air. Driving to Calleva for no reason at all, except maybe to swipe old car doors and burnt rubber when the staff had their backs turned. Eating lunch on that terrace thing in the C-Building. Shutting my eyes and licking my lips and pretending, just for a moment, that my tongue was yours.
I was sixteen, then, and breathed a younger air...one of second-hand city smoke and hookah and inexperienced girls at parties, fumbling touches and giggling behind closed doors, singing an anthem of vodka in plastic bottles and cohesive bonding of glossy lips. We were just kids.
Being a teenager is so silly. Every little detail is Amplified, felt tenfold, written in CAPSLOCK on a chartreuse background and using boldface type. Everything is bright lights and converse shoes and home-dyed hair -- and parentheses, so many parentheses, as we struggle in vain to justify what we say and do. Each action is threaded with this feeling (fear?) of this-is-my-last-chance so we have to forever chase it, catch it, never let it go and never stop because if we do we might forget.
How could I think we would forget?
Midterms have started here and the campus is a thrumming baseline, guitar strings tuned too tightly, live wires pulled too taut. We evolve (like Pokemon) into dedicated hours, meticulous equations, and deadly verbosity...each word precisely and lovingly chosen over all others. I thought we were magic back then but I think instead we are magic now. Or magic of a different sort, at least.
We are university magic. We are graduation magic. We are future-doctors-lawyers-business-executiv
We are potential energy disguised as people.
This, too, is perfection.
All build-up and no follow-through.
A few days ago a couple friends and I got into a discussion on the on-going religious debate in France (for those not sure what I'm referring to, see this 'Economist' article). Personally, I've never been much for politics because it's shocking how quickly "friendly debates" become blood in the upholstery. That said, I do latch on to certain topics, and this whole notion of what's acceptable dress vs what isn't really fascinates me.
One of my friends (who is American, which is pertinent) said it's not at all right to impose such a law when it so clearly targets the Muslim portion of the population. Small crosses or stars of David can be slipped beneath shirt collars and are therefore permitted because they're not "ostentatious." This implies that the burqa should not be allowed because it can't be hidden. This makes it somehow dangerous.
Another friend (who is French, also pertinent) replied that while, yes, she agreed it was a blatant attack on a crucial tradition of Islam -- one which, throughout history, has been in flux and has meant very different things depending on the time, place, and political atmosphere in which it was worn -- this still doesn't change the fact that the French government is very different compared to the American one.
In America, she argued, there's this notion of separation of Church and State: this doesn't mean, necessarily, that all things State will also be secular, but rather that American citizens are free to practice whichever religions they so choose without fear of government intervention. In some cases the Church and State are very much intertwined, it's just that no one can legally take away your right to not be religious -- or to be religious in spades if you so choose.
In France it isn't the same, she said. You don't have that freedom of "going either way." If you are religious you keep it a private affair. The government goes through hoops to keep all traces of religion out of the school systems, public venues, government decisions, etc. It is seen as a danger (and a betrayal) to the State if one's religion gets too much stage time. We had to understand, she implored us, that in the eyes of France these women were French citizens first and Muslims second. And that's how it had always been.
I sat back and watched the two of them argue, both so passionate and somewhat understanding the other's viewpoint but still not quite getting it, and I got to thinking: how much are we a product of where we're raised...how we were brought up?
My country is at best idealistic, at worst narrow-minded, with a peppering of war-torn contradictions and a reluctance to admit mistakes. It has ferocity and brilliance and potential. It has stupidity and contrition and epic foul-ups. It is both star-struck and unaffected; pathologically polite and unforgivably rude; young and old. It smokes hashish and pipe tobacco, drinks vodka and port. It is forgiving and kind, it will flash you an encouraging smile, but it still has brutally high expectations.
Am I not the same?
So many times I've heard people say, I can't help it, it's just how I was raised. Or, No, I understand -- it's hard to fight against how you were brought up, eh?
But what does that mean, exactly? Of course we'll always take on characteristics of the people with whom we are raised. It's nigh on impossible not to. But does that leave no room for our own (somewhat) unique mannerisms, beliefs, and outlooks on the world?
At any rate... I think I'm just being rambly at this point. If you got to the end of this post, you're clearly some sort of demi-god.
And I owe about five of you letters, still.
One of my friends (who is American, which is pertinent) said it's not at all right to impose such a law when it so clearly targets the Muslim portion of the population. Small crosses or stars of David can be slipped beneath shirt collars and are therefore permitted because they're not "ostentatious." This implies that the burqa should not be allowed because it can't be hidden. This makes it somehow dangerous.
Another friend (who is French, also pertinent) replied that while, yes, she agreed it was a blatant attack on a crucial tradition of Islam -- one which, throughout history, has been in flux and has meant very different things depending on the time, place, and political atmosphere in which it was worn -- this still doesn't change the fact that the French government is very different compared to the American one.
In America, she argued, there's this notion of separation of Church and State: this doesn't mean, necessarily, that all things State will also be secular, but rather that American citizens are free to practice whichever religions they so choose without fear of government intervention. In some cases the Church and State are very much intertwined, it's just that no one can legally take away your right to not be religious -- or to be religious in spades if you so choose.
In France it isn't the same, she said. You don't have that freedom of "going either way." If you are religious you keep it a private affair. The government goes through hoops to keep all traces of religion out of the school systems, public venues, government decisions, etc. It is seen as a danger (and a betrayal) to the State if one's religion gets too much stage time. We had to understand, she implored us, that in the eyes of France these women were French citizens first and Muslims second. And that's how it had always been.
I sat back and watched the two of them argue, both so passionate and somewhat understanding the other's viewpoint but still not quite getting it, and I got to thinking: how much are we a product of where we're raised...how we were brought up?
My country is at best idealistic, at worst narrow-minded, with a peppering of war-torn contradictions and a reluctance to admit mistakes. It has ferocity and brilliance and potential. It has stupidity and contrition and epic foul-ups. It is both star-struck and unaffected; pathologically polite and unforgivably rude; young and old. It smokes hashish and pipe tobacco, drinks vodka and port. It is forgiving and kind, it will flash you an encouraging smile, but it still has brutally high expectations.
Am I not the same?
So many times I've heard people say, I can't help it, it's just how I was raised. Or, No, I understand -- it's hard to fight against how you were brought up, eh?
But what does that mean, exactly? Of course we'll always take on characteristics of the people with whom we are raised. It's nigh on impossible not to. But does that leave no room for our own (somewhat) unique mannerisms, beliefs, and outlooks on the world?
At any rate... I think I'm just being rambly at this point. If you got to the end of this post, you're clearly some sort of demi-god.
And I owe about five of you letters, still.
(no subject)
Dear essay on Descartes,
Why aren't you finished yet? I've treated you so nicely -- dotted my i's, crossed my t's...minded all my p's and q's. I cited references like I was making love. And yet there you remain, a page and a half short of completion and shrouded in an veil of sorrow and dead flowers. And to think, I held back all my spitting and cussing. For this. Now I have to wonder why.
My only saving grace is that you're pretty, and my only future hope is that my philosophy professor doesn't read you sober.
No love,
L
Why aren't you finished yet? I've treated you so nicely -- dotted my i's, crossed my t's...minded all my p's and q's. I cited references like I was making love. And yet there you remain, a page and a half short of completion and shrouded in an veil of sorrow and dead flowers. And to think, I held back all my spitting and cussing. For this. Now I have to wonder why.
My only saving grace is that you're pretty, and my only future hope is that my philosophy professor doesn't read you sober.
No love,
L
"Because Mozart's good for babies."
I feel like this entire weekend has been nothing but rugby. Rugby practice. Rugby match. Rugby social. Rugby fundraiser. Rugby rugby rugby.
Haha, this adorable first year on our hall brought a handful of mini Toblerones to the tea we had Friday night. She's from Switzerland, so when she gave them to us she said something like, "I don't know if you have these in your country," and we grinned and were like, "Well, yeah, we do, but we'll still take them anyway!" Toblerones are delicious.
I have a lot of coursework to catch up on.
And I think I was bitten by a spider.
Haha, this adorable first year on our hall brought a handful of mini Toblerones to the tea we had Friday night. She's from Switzerland, so when she gave them to us she said something like, "I don't know if you have these in your country," and we grinned and were like, "Well, yeah, we do, but we'll still take them anyway!" Toblerones are delicious.
I have a lot of coursework to catch up on.
And I think I was bitten by a spider.
The rates are better in the summer.
Going back to school tomorrow. Bittersweet? It'll be good to be back, but sometimes I worry about what I'm going back to.
People ought to say Oh fiddlesticks more often. When I was young, I learned to say it in lieu of fuck; I don't think I was the only one, either. Many of my friends said it...usually snidely, of course, as those crazy kids are wont to do. Fudge was in vogue, too -- but I think that one's fallen by the wayside even more markedly than fiddlesticks has. Nowadays I only hear it used by very young children and very old geezers.
The cat's curled up on my moleskine.
People ought to say Oh fiddlesticks more often. When I was young, I learned to say it in lieu of fuck; I don't think I was the only one, either. Many of my friends said it...usually snidely, of course, as those crazy kids are wont to do. Fudge was in vogue, too -- but I think that one's fallen by the wayside even more markedly than fiddlesticks has. Nowadays I only hear it used by very young children and very old geezers.
The cat's curled up on my moleskine.
I spend all my time on twitter and fanfiction.net.
I am finally done with classes. Three weeks in which to do whatever I choose -- so of course I choose reruns of Supernatural, writing fanfic and drawing fanart, and visiting old friends.
When I order tea at Starbucks, I convince myself it'll taste better this time, not be depressing like the last time. It never tastes better this time; it's always depressing like the last time.
I'm looking forward to the upcoming rugby season. Concussions? Broken collarbones? Bring 'em on.
When I order tea at Starbucks, I convince myself it'll taste better this time, not be depressing like the last time. It never tastes better this time; it's always depressing like the last time.
I'm looking forward to the upcoming rugby season. Concussions? Broken collarbones? Bring 'em on.