Bella Voce

When my brother said that Gaza deserved what the Israelis were doing to them and denied that it was a war, I said:

2009-01-19T17:14:00.000-08:00

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/7838618.stm

Read this above. Now, I'll admit that Hamas is quite ridiculous at times and has indeed carried out attacks against Israel which is unacceptable. However, the Israeli response was uncalled for. Did you know that Gaza has been blockaded for 18 months with very limited fuel or humanitarian aid allowed in? The only weapons they have are snuck in and are usually homemade. Israel on the other hand has one of the largest and most technologically advanced militaries in the world.

The final death toll? Over 1300 Palestinians and 13 Israelis, and no, I did not type that incorrectly. Over 100 times more Palestinians died than Israelis. Here's my citation for that source: http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2009/jan/20/gaza-israel-samouni-family

Just ask yourself, is that fair? Is that what we call Justice? To overkill that many people in response to homemade bombs? If this were in any other country, how would you feel? What if over 1300 Israelis died versus 13 Germans? Would that change your point of view?

Think about it.

---

Leave a comment...

I couldn't have said it better myself

2008-11-12T04:18:00.000-08:00

---

Leave a comment...

Instructions: Please click on fig. 1.1 and view fig. 1.2 for full comprehension

2008-10-27T05:18:00.000-07:00

fig 1.1

fig 1.2

I came to England hoping for rain, clouds, and the cold. London was surprisingly warmer than expected, but upon my first step into the climate of Coventry, I was assailed by a piercing cold. But I’ve think that I’ve acclimated since I’m still wearing only one layer of clothing rather than three that I was expecting. Over the weekend, I wished for the cold and rain. And today is a wonderfully moody day. Hence, I’m actually writing a blog post, imagine that. (Now if just my other wishes will come true ;)

As I sat with my feet propped up on my desk (see fig. 1.2) and read Salman Rushdie’s Shame, I pondered upon the differences of my uni experience in the UK v the US. How is life going to change upon my return to the states? Will I be satisfied? Am I the same person as 6 months ago?

There are obvious answers to all these (and those not stated, yet lying in the unconscious) questions.

1) I will not be going out every night as I am used to here. I won’t be clubbing two nights a week. I won’t have regular cricket practice. I won’t go to the pub any time that I am bored in the evening. My school will definitely not have sponsored drinking game nights. People won’t contribute to discussions in class as readily (yes, I still am attending classes).

2) But I will still be satisfied I think. This is one of the first weekends here that I have actually stayed and relaxed. It reminds me of spending Saturdays in my room at school with a mocha and my schoolwork. Instead of going to packed, sweaty clubs with cheesy music every other song and virtually no hip-hop, I will be chillin’ with friends at their apartments, solidifying my growing love of Riversidians.

3) I will not be the same person. But I don’t think that this change is due to the process of living in another country; rather, that of simply not dying, thus developing further due to availability of oxygen and nutrients. Of course I’m not the same person as 6 months ago, neither are you, dear reader, although it could be contested that this is not a development, but a degeneration due to entropy. But I digress.

I wanted to conclude with a phrase similar to “two different spheres, two different lives” in reference to the drastic differences between these three months and those upon my re-entry to the states. However, that is too dualistic. There is an infinity of spheres, perhaps to the 23^rd power…

(yes, this started out much more coherent than it finished, I will give you that)

---

Leave a comment...

Wordle.net

2008-10-16T06:10:00.000-07:00

Check out this awesome site to have fun with words!

Leave a comment...

Sky High

2008-09-28T11:08:00.000-07:00

I’m in the air – literally. I don’t know where in particular I’m flying over, probably Northern California or Utah right now. We just turned to the North and the cabin fills with golden sunlight. By golden, I mean that glorious color when the sun has about an hour until it sets. It’s the gold that you have to step outside to be bathed in its beauty no matter what you are doing. I glance out the window and the terrain below looks like a ruffled evening gown – a sage colored satin beneath a delicately sheer teal tulle. Unfortunately, with the direction we’re heading, the sun is setting rapidly. I crane my head now to catch the last glow of the sun before it’s gone over North America. The horizon burns like a cooling ember – no longer on fire, but trying to stay lit for just a moment longer. The evening dress below no longer enchants my eyes; it has turned into the desert it truly is. Where am I in the sky? The sun is gone, only a dull grey remains, like my heart.

-Written on board British Airways Flight 0282 September 16, 2008

---

Leave a comment...

Thank God for the Internet

2008-09-16T11:21:00.000-07:00

I'm at a point right now where I can't believe I have actually gotten. I've desired to study abroad in the UK for most of my life. It has been one of those unquestioned goals in life just as college and my Ph.D. have been. The entire past year has been devoted to getting all the necessary paperwork done and setting up a new life in another country. Granted, I'll only be there for 3 months, but so much work was required!

So I'm set to leave today in about 6 hours and this funny thing happened - I'm scared. This is something new for me. Going to college was a breeze and a blast, traveling around the country was a welcome wonder, and living on my own for 3 years has been liberating. This apprehension is something new to me.

However, I recognize through all of this that I have always had a support base that I could turn to at a moment's notice. This time it won't be there. I don't think that I'm looking forward to being both homesick and heartbroken at the same time.

But as I think about this new and crazy adventure, it's not that I don't have that support base anymore, it'll just be delayed by about 8 hours or so (give or take where in Europe I'll be at the time). So I want to thank you all who decided to stick it out with me; those who have been there for me so faithfully in the past and who value me enough to be there for me even as I'm not present with them.

I'll have Skype for internet calling, I'll still be using facebook, and email will be checked constantly. I love you all and can't wait to tell you about my journeys! Thank God for the Internet!

---

Leave a comment...

Can Google Predict the Future?

2008-09-11T18:48:00.000-07:00

I'm sure that you all have at some point googled yourself. I try it out every so often and see if maybe my blog got a little more traffic. I thought to do it the other day when my mom mentioned that someone had apparently stumbled on her blog by searching my name. That intrigued me, especially since the location was from the city my (now) ex-boyfriend lives in.

So I googled myself again. Other than the top searches being "Counting Crows - Goodnight Elisabeth bass tabs," I found three other Elisabeth Basses that were all professors at universities around the country.

"That's crazy," I thought to myself, "I'm in the process of becoming a professor myself!" I wonder if maybe my name has some sort of psychological quality that makes the bearer of the name more likely to continue in higher education - weird.

So that's it. I'm allowed to write a post about nothing every now and again, right?

...and btw, in regards to the song, I feel a little bit more like the singer instead of the girl walking away.

---

Leave a comment...

Dear Democratic Women,

2008-08-31T12:04:00.001-07:00

Republican Presidential Candidate John McCain announced his Vice Presidential Candidate on Friday. Commentators speculated that McCain would choose a more youthful candidate, perhaps Minnesota Governor Tim Pawlenty (1). However, McCain unveiled what I am sure he regards as his trump card, Alaskan Governor Sarah Palin.

Palin has been the governor of Alaska for almost two years, her anniversary coming in early December. She held office in Wasilla, Alaska for two terms on the city council and for two terms as Mayor before moving on to run the entire state. Outside of the political arena, Palin is your "average hockey mom" to quote Palin herself. She has been married for 20 years to her high school sweetheart and they have 5 children, the youngest being 5 months old (2).

Admittedly, Palin is a great example for women to hold strong careers, yet still be thoroughly involved in their family's lives. Despite this, the choice of Palin as the Vice Presidential Candidate should make voters think twice before falling into McCain's politically correct trap. The decision upon Palin shows that even "straight talking" McCain speaks out of both sides of his mouth.

McCain has repeatedly attacked Obama on lacking foreign policy experience, or rather, experience in general. However, as noted earlier, Palin been in office for about 5 terms (her fifth not being completed yet) and only 2 years of this period has she served at a state level. Please compare this to Obama's 7 years on the state legislature, and 3 years in the U.S. Senate(3).

McCain launched a national television ad that I'm sure you've all seen comparing Barack Obama to Paris Hilton and Britney Spears in terms of celebrity status. (Click here to view it). Oddly enough, Palin is the former Miss Wasilla and was a runner up in the Miss Alaska contest in 1984 (5). She has bumper stickers which read "Coldest State, Hottest Governor" and has posed for Vogue (4).

But McCain is not the only one double talking. Palin herself is also quite equivocal. While she is the governor of the state with one of the largest acreages of national parks, she favors drilling for oil in Alaska. She wants to stand up to the "good old boys club," yet stands alongside one of the members (1).

Perhaps one of the greatest strikes against Palin is her recent interview with CNBC (before her designation as the Vice Presidential Candidate) in which she stated, "What is it exactly that a VP does everyday?... We want to make sure that this VP slot would be fruitful type of position especially for Alaskans and for the kind of things we are trying to accomplish here for the rest of the US." (1) I am sure she has a vague recollection of what a VP does, but this distain is a little disconcerting.

Undoubtably, McCain's advisors probably noted that a woman was one of the only choices McCain could make in order to combat the perceived, though unfounded, racial appeal of Obama. Should he have chosen a white man, journalists would have cited him as "good ol' boy" retaining the status quo. Should he have chosen a black man, he would have been accused of choosing his running mate directly to combat Barack Obama's appeal to black voters. However, just as it would be a travesty to vote for Obama simply because he is black, it would be just as horrendous to vote for McCain because his running-mate is a woman.

On a forum which I visited recently, one person commented, "Everyone compares her to Obama, but she is not running for a presidency he is" (sic). This reminds me of an old adage that my tennis coach used to tell me whenever I hit a great serve, "Your serve is only as good as your second serve." McCain might be running for the number one spot, but should anything happen to him (I don't know, maybe a return of his skin cancer or just the fact that he's OLD), Palin is next in line.

And let's not forget to watch Alaskan political news from here on out. Why? In order to find out the results of an "abuse of power" investigation which Palin is under regarding her former brother in law.

While I might not pull a #75 on the "Stuff White People Like" list, i.e. threaten to move to Canada (6), should McCain/Palin be elected, I will sure as hell will not be happy.

So dear Democratic Women, do not fall for the fact that Palin would be the first female Vice President and "shatter the glass ceiling" that she loves to quote in order to reach out to you. So far, she has not gotten any farther than Geraldine Ferraro did in 1984 - oh yes, when Palin was busy winning beauty pageants.

Sincerely,

Bellevoce

Sources:

(1) http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/7589412.stm

(2) http://gov.state.ak.us/bio.html

(3) http://www.barackobama.com/learn/meet_barack.php

(4) http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20080829/ap_on_el_pr/cvn_veepstakes_palin

(5) http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/

news/world/us_and_americas/us_elections/article4636745.ece

(6) http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.com/2008/02/24/75-threatening-to-move-to-canada/

---

Leave a comment...

To Conquer a Subway

2008-08-10T08:56:00.000-07:00

Give me a car, Google Maps, and the road, and I’ll be all right. But public transportation? That’s a whole other topic.

A few of the “joys” of living in Southern California are its high gas prices, spread out services, and lack of efficient public transportation. (If you comment on this post complaining about gas prices, please expect that my next post will only be a rant of profanity infused political bashing. Don’t make me go there.) I had a great experience a couple of weeks ago when I was in San Francisco checking out graduate schools in Northern California. I took my car, my phone (the new iPhone with Google Maps), and hit the road for Stanford University. The route I took was gorgeous and I found the university in no time. Needless to say, I had the completely opposite experience the other day on different graduate school visit.

Time: 12:05 pm

Place: New York City

Destination: Columbia University

I walked out of the hotel doors on 32^nd street, turned to the right, and started my journey down to Penn Station. As I strided confidently down the street, I reviewed my directions once again as given to me by my mum’s friend who was a New York local.

“Oh, to get to Columbia University, just go down to Penn Station, take the 1 line, and get off at around 116^th or 120^th.”

As told, 32^nd dead-ended at Penn Station and I walked down the crowed stairs to the 1 line. However, my mum’s friend forgot to mention one thing – Penn Station is frickin’ gigantic! Was the 1 line on the NJ transit, Amtrak, or the Long Island Rail?! I stood in the center of the branching hallways teeming with commuters, feeling like a leaf pushed in the center of converging rapids. I took a chance on going into the Long Island Rail to find a mess of people, very little helpful signage, and no employees to ask questions of in sight.

After blindly drifting about for 5 minutes, I saw a couple of Police officers on a platform. Now, usually it’s the damsel in distress stuck in the tower, but at this particular moment, she was stuck on the floor in a labyrinth passageways while her two knights towered above her.

Having left all pride upon entry into the underground obstacle course, I pleaded to my knight in blue, “Excuse me officer, I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing! I was told to take the 1 line to Columbia University, but I don’t know where the 1 line is or even what exact stop to get off at!”

The officer chuckled (I’m hoping at simply my naivety). “I’ll tell you what, 90 percent of the people in here don’t know what they’re doing! The 1 line is around the corner to the right and you’ll get off at 116^th which is right in front of the University.”

“Thank you so much!!!” And I took off to buy my metro pass and enter the turnstile for the 1 line. So now I had to decide if I needed to go Uptown or Downtown; I settled on Uptown and took the stairs up to what I thought was the platform for Uptown. The train (is it called a train or a subway?) pulled in, I climbed on board, and found a seat. Granted, it was a little hard to stay put on the seat since my skirt was a satin-like material, which slid on the hard plastic with every acceleration.

After a few stops, I began to have doubts as to whether I was going in the right direction. Most of the time, this is when I whip out my trusted 3G internet and find my own answers, but the yards of steel and dirt above me prevented my love from reaching me.

I glanced around the car to look for a person who might be of help, all the while trying to avoid eye contact since I did not know the social norms of subway etiquette. There was a guy (with a really cool Yarmulke) sitting diagonally from me who looked like he could be a respectable college student. But after he got off, not on 116^th, I seriously began to doubt myself. After a couple more stops, everyone in my car exited and I was left alone in the deserted tin can underground. I felt like the last drop of Pepsi that you can’t get over the rim of the Pepsi can, so you throw it away to be buried in a landfill and disintegrate after a thousand generations.

After a second, the conductor woman came out and saw me sitting in fear for what happened next. “Where are you trying to go, honey?”

My wide blue eyes looked up in a cry for goodwill. “116^th,” my voice squeeked. “I’ve never ridden the subway before. This is my first time. I went the wrong way, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you went the wrong way. You should have gone Uptown, but instead you’re by the South Ferry. But don’t worry, I’m headed back up that direction, but it’ll take you about 30 or 35 minutes.”

“Oh, thank you so much!” I replied and continued to sit in my spot as new people boarded the car and we turned around. And the conductor was right, after 35 minutes, 116^th rolled up to my utter bemusement. I rose from my seat triumphant and took my leave of the metal beast to climb the stairway to the sun. And what do you know? The gates of Columbia University greeted me with glee!

---

Leave a comment...

So Sorry if You Missed Me...

2008-08-05T14:34:00.000-07:00

Upon the plea of my fellow bloggers, Matios and Orhan, I have (hopefully) returned to the blogging society once again.

I think that one of my problems has been my incessant procrastination. If I think of something to write about, I put it off until a “better” time has reached me. Thus forgetfulness takes hold and ::poof:: the inspiration is gone.

However, after needing to write, in 15 minutes, a short explanation as to why I am of the quality to take Honours level English courses at the University of Warwick in the Fall, I realized that the prime reason I have been inspired to write on my blog is probably due to the fact that I rarely wrote in general at all over the past few months. In fact, the ONLY essay that I had to write last quarter is my last post. I had two English classes and the only essay I wrote was for ART class!

As such, I shall now try to write, on my own, more frequently, even if they are not the scholarly masterpieces that I wish my posts to be, I suppose that I will share them anyways.

And now for a little insight into why I am an English major, I invite you to read that 250 word statement mentioned earlier.

“During my first class as a Political Science major, it took every nerve in my brain to stay awake through the dry lectures. My boredom reached such a point that I began using my class time to search the requirements for other majors. However, I ran into a slight problem; I didn’t have a back-up plan. I fretted about the major choice continuously until I realized something a few days later while sitting in a Freshman English composition class. No matter how dull I thought my professor to be, I loved reading, discussing, and even writing essays for my English class. Hence, that day after class, I went to my Dean’s office and switched majors.

Three years later, I have taken scores of English classes and rejoiced when I finally reached the level in my university career that the only classes that I needed to take were about Literature. Reading is not just work for me. I don’t read Ulysses or The Arabic Role in Medieval Literary History simply because I need to pass an exam after 10 weeks. Rather, I read because it inspires me and my inspiration flows through my fingers as they type furiously with the fervor of an aspiring scholar. It is with this passion that I feel I am capable to be taking English Literature classes at the Honours level. And where better to study the Literature of the English language, than in the home of its birth?”

---

Leave a comment...

Who Ever Imagined Writing an Essay for Art Class?

2008-05-26T16:35:00.000-07:00

“At one level, it is almost vapid, yet how unforgettable are those faces!” (Beckett 233). Even as a young girl glancing through the pages of my mother’s coffee table copy of Sister Wendy’s 1000 Masterpieces, I felt the same attraction to the painting “Ada and Alex” (1980) painted by Alex Katz. I would stare in particular at the face of Ada for minutes on end before leafing through the rest of the book. Something about her face drew me in, the way she was the foreground while Katz’s self-portrait was almost simply a piece of the background. I felt how he almost idolized her, how he understood her, yet was still mystified with this woman he called his own.

Of course, I could just be projecting my own feelings upon this one painting, which was the solitary painting of his that I had seen until yesterday. However, after reading about Katz in Alex Katz A Retrospective, I disagree with the statement I have just made. Throughout the entire 200 page book, Ada’s face and form appeared on every other page; the titles simple, such as “Oval Ada,” “Ada in Water,” or “Ada and Flowers.” Even if the title was different, such as “Blue Umbrella,” Ada’s face comprised the majority of the canvas.

As I studied the works in the rented library book, Alex Katz A Retrospective, my eyes scanned the relatively broad swaths of solid color. Many of the figures, admittedly not all of Ada, most commonly stood against a background of pure, vibrant color. I returned to the revered painting from my childhood, “Ada and Alex,” and noticed the same expanse of color, a deep maroon closely matching Ada’s hair.

Reflecting on my explorations of personal style in class and upon my responses to the readings assigned, particularly of Matisse, I recognized that what possibly drew me to Alex Katz was his style of Perceptual Realism. He let his senses guide him to his perception of reality; not concerned with depicting a photographic image of reality, but of what his own reality expressed. “In… 1951-53, Katz first confronted the problem of painting a modernist figurative picture, that is a picture of a recognizable subject in which the two-dimensionality of the canvas is strongly articulated” (Sandler 10). This aspect of two dimensionality can be seen throughout most of his portraits. “After 1954, Katz relied increasingly on direct perception… [his paintings] are also higher key in color. It appears that the more closely Katz depicted observed reality, the more conscious of the picture plane he became… he often juxtaposed a single planar volume on a single planar space to achieve a new assertiveness and openness of surface” (Sandler 10-12).

After I read these lines, I realized what exactly attracted me to Katz, the idea of Perceptual Realism itself. The art of photography achieves a certain amount of “reality.” One can escape into a photograph and imagine oneself in the plane of “mechanical realism.” While the idea of the objectivity of “mechanical realism” with respect of photography is debated, it goes uncontested that the art of painting is one of subjectivity. Katz recognizes this and paints his reality, not that of the later viewer. Katz invites you to see how he himself feels about his subjects, how he “realize[s] [his] model[s]” as notes Robert Henri.

Katz captures that which I struggle with, how to express my subject while still presenting it as a recognizable object. Further, Katz also possesses the ability to paint his reality in particular; not that of which he feels he is ought to show, but only that of his own perception. As Ada obviously ages through the decades of painting, her beauty and mysteriousness diminishes not, for, as I see it, Alex has not loved her any less, nor understood her any more.

Beckett, Sister Wendy. Sister Wendy’s 1000 Masterpieces. DK Publishing, NY

Sandler, Irving. Alex Katz A Retrospective. Abrams, Inc., NY

---

Leave a comment...

Things that made me happy today...

2008-04-28T21:35:00.000-07:00

jasmine is blooming now

"forgetting about it"

epiphanies

clouds

peace

quietness

sketching

opinions

awesome lunch discussions

crosswords

two hours of sitting in nature

Louis Althusser

package slips notes

I won't be erased

the future

skylights

white walls

crit sesh

getting things in order

architecture

easels as art

long grass with a foot fetish

---

Leave a comment...

Mac Attack

2008-04-09T19:49:00.001-07:00

I know! I haven't blogged in forever! I figured that if I'm going to commit to really beginning blogging again, I should post something new. So I figured that I'd talk about the new love of my life, his name is Mac :)

I bought him for about $1,200 (I love student discounts). He is a beautiful white Macbook that glistens in the sunlight. That little Apple light on the top makes me happy when I see it glowing. Haha, and when the computer is asleep, the tiny light on the front grows bright and then dims, almost as if he was really sleeping.

Yes, I sound like a crazy person, but come'on! It's a Mac! I have a friend who teases me incessently about my new Mac obsession and sent me to this site: http://www.thebestpageintheuniverse.net/c.cgi?u=macs_cant . I laughed my ass off because it is so true! Have fun as you read it and think of me!

---

Leave a comment...

(I'll be back)

East Campus Dr., 11:15 am

2008-01-22T11:47:00.000-08:00

"I love the rain. I just went and walked throuh a small grassy, foresty area of campus. The sun is coming out now and it makes me sad. What is it about the rain that calms me so much? I think that I'll love to live in London next year. I need change. I though that I had just begun a new time, but that didn't pan out and I'm now back to square one, or zero. I'm not sure. The question is, what can my heart handle?" - 1/21/08, 2:13 pm

It's funny how just getting a little sleep, going to class, loving knowledge, and recognizing that life goes on can cheer you up, despite the sun coming out. - current timemark

Zendagi Migzara...

---

(I just got a fun book off of Amazon.com entitled If... I will be posting the questions up for you to answer. They're pretty fun :)

If you had to name the most erotic piece of artwork you've ever seen, what would you choose?

Wintersong

2007-12-19T21:53:00.000-08:00

Christmas gets you thinking, even me who tries to break the stereotypes surrounding me. This Christmas will be a little different for me as compared to every Christmas past. Even so, as I helped my mum decorate the house and our tree, memories hit me left and right. I’ve tried to dodge them, but unfortunately a song came on that I had to put on repeat which paralyzed my sidestepping.

I decided to decorate my personal tree tonight as well and the barrage took full force. One of the first things on my tree was a Christmas card from a friend from high school of her two daughters, her husband, and herself – her own family. I can’t even contemplate that for myself yet.

I took a few ornaments that I received from family and put them up, one of which is an American flag star which I hid in the back so that I didn’t have to look at it [insert mischievous smile here].

One of my oldest ornaments is from my dear friend since fifth grade. It’s a dove carved from olive wood from Israel. I get to see this dear friend of mine again when she visits from New Orleans soon. I love that we have kept our friendship through the distance of different teachers, to different schools, to different states, and next to different countries. What’s next? The moon? Bring it on!

No tree is complete without at least one candy cane. A current friend and co-worker of mine was so gracious as to include one on my gift. Our friendship is budding and I hope that it continues. When I went back to the cardboard box to fish out another ornament and came across a card from last year from my best friend. I will always love that girl to death – she’s seen me in my worst times and stayed next to me all the way.

That next ornament that I pulled out was a picture frame with a picture of my boyfriend from high school and me. I still put it up on my tree every year and remember him. I remember when we broke up; the Christmas decorations in Starbucks were still up at the beginning of January. I said that I wanted to remain friends (not “let’s just be friends”). We have – even past high school and through our changing lives.

“But sleep won’t set me free. I lie awake and try to recall how your body felt beside me.” The words of the song sent my mind to the more recent ex-boyfriend and that precise memory. I am thankful for my time spent with him though it is past now and we’ve both moved on. He is a man that I still respect above many others and we are in the process of staying friends.

And so it hurts to remember the friend I lost. She wrote me a Christmas card last year as well. When I read it, I’m angry and tearful at the same time for the words she apparently said in vain. For all of the work that I put into saving the friendships of so many others, how can someone “give up trying to be your friend” and directly hurt you?

---

Leave a comment...

p.s. and if you have not read my piece beneath, could you please?

WTF Mate?!?

2007-12-06T23:01:00.000-08:00

That’s exactly the question that I am asking after I heard the news that “A US intelligence assessment released on Monday said that Iran had halted a nuclear weapons programme in 2003” according to BBC News.

WTF? So the U.S. has been bullying a sovereign nation, imposing economic sanctions upon it, and threatening Iran with war for four years for something it has not been doing? No wonder they have been mad at US.

I am quite surprised that this flash film does not have Iran involved in it. Then again, Iran stopped its nuclear weapons program four years ago, thus, arguably, cannot take place in the hysteria of stupidity put forward in the film. (And by “stupidity,” I mean the politics, not the satire.)

All of this talk reminds me of an angry email that I sent to (oops) one of the head leaders at my parents’ church after I received a forward from this particular leader. Below is the forward I was sent and my response back. Feel free to click on the links.

The Forward:
Support Sanctions Against Iran

I just took action on this issue and thought you might find it interesting too. Below you will find links directing you to the American Israel Public Affairs Committee website that will help you locate and email your House and Senate representatives. Whether your Jewish or Christian, please take a minute and help secure the lives of our brothers and sisters in Israel. G-d bless you.

SENATE: http://capwiz.com/aipac/issues/alert/?alertid=9563686&type=CO

HOUSE: http://capwiz.com/aipac/issues/alert/?alertid=9485951&type=CO

Christians/Jews United for Israel: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=exdsB5D1r7Y&mode=related&search=

Click on this URL to take action now http://capwiz.com/aipac/utr/2/?a=9485951&i=84713164&c=
If your email program does not recognize the URL as a link, copy the entire URL and paste it into your Web browser.

My Response:

I'm sorry. I cannot support U.S. sanctions against any country, let alone Iran. I do not support actions that only harm the innocents of that country and not the government itself. This stance against sanctions does not even include the opinion that I feel the U.S. needs to step out of this conflict all together.

If you recall, the U.S. has not only provided each side of this conflict with weapons (to Saudi Arabia, Israel, and IRAQ) and dictators (Sadaam Hussein), but has also instigated many of the conflicts itself (Iran-Iraq War). If Christians feel the need to support Israel (the largest military in the region which commits countless atrocities against the Palestinians and denies them true freedom), Christians should move to Israel and enlist in their army.

I also do not condone the use of religious propaganda to incite political actions. The petition you requested people to submit says nothing of the threat of Iran's theocracy as John Hagee warns from his pulpit in the link, but rather only mentions the reason as due to Iran's Nuclear Program. Please keep in mind that our most recent inspiration for war (9/11) was not brought to fruition by Iranian hijackers, but by 15 Saudi Arabians (U.S. Allies) and 4 others. If our nation feels that Nuclear technology should not be pursued, our nation should lead the way in complete disarmament.

So, WTF mate?

Leave a comment...

What Does an English Major Do?

2007-11-13T10:42:00.000-08:00

Often people imagine that English majors are the students on campus who write the most, whether it be essays, articles, or fiction. I have have found that Creative Writing majors seem to write a great deal more than I have. I make the distinction that English majors critique what the Creative Writing majors create.

My last post (yes, written far too long ago) touched upon the small CW side of me. However, my predominant English major side shall now take hold of my thoughts long dormant. We all have unique interpretations of what we read and often people view these varying interpretations as all correct. I did for a very long time until I took a Critical Perspectives upper-division course in which my professor told a student flat out that his idea regarding Walt Whitman's "The 29th Bather" was wrong. I think that the whole class sat rigid with utter surprise that that particular sentence had been uttered. My professor explained that while we are all entitled to personal responses, some interpretations are much more valid to the entirety of the work than are others.

I thank you all for your comments and observations on my last work, قاصدک, and, unlike my professor, I would say that all of your comments touched upon ideas which I had in store. My mother also talked with me intensely about my piece. I might say that her initial interpretation was much more along the lines of "wrong" than the others. She wondered if the main character symbolized my feelings of being cast off from love.

As would be expected, I have an interpretation of my own. Much of my meaning rises from small implications in the story which the average reader may not understand, as was my intention. In previous posts, I have mentioned how I love when different cultures encounter each other in beautiful ways. This piece tried to capture that feeling.

In Persian culture, a قاصدک (pronounced ghasedak) is a small floating plant particle, a dandelion seed. (The title stands as one of the only signals of a connection to Persian culture.) As, hopefully, you gathered from my post, if it lands on you, it means that you have good news coming to you. I learned this from reading a poem written by M.A. Saless as part of my Farsi lessons during the summer. I found it very interesting that my mother had always told my brother and I that if you caught a flying dandelion seed, which we called fairies, you could make a wish if you let it go afterwards. How, two continents and an ocean apart, these two cultures could carry such a similar tradition astounds me!

The two women at the beginning of my piece set up the story. When writing, I thought about mentioning their veils, but I realized that the native ghasedak would not mention that article of clothing, as it is normal attire for women in Iran. The older man with the beard stands for the dangers of blind, conservatism which contains the hazards of forgetting to see beauty and possible benefits in change. The young boy (the only symbol of white, U.S. culture through use of his blond hair and staccato language) does not hesitate to hold beauty in his hands and wish good for the future. The complementing of cultures comes when both the boy and the ghasedak are blessed through their mutual touching of one another.

I hope that you all enjoyed my piece and I would like to hear more elaboration (and critique).

Leave a comment...

قاصدک

2007-09-09T00:04:00.000-07:00

(Ghasedak)

The warm afternoon air lifts her white skirts up like wings, but she does not mind. Instead, she delights in the pleasure of the freely moving air currents as they whisk her away. To and fro, amidst tree leaves and pollen as her company, the breeze carries her through the outskirts of the city. She smiles excitedly to herself as her journey begins.

She looks down at the city she has only imagined of earlier. She has so many people to choose from. As she scans the park below, she sees from afar an older woman approaching a younger woman. The breeze draws her nearer and she watches the two embrace and greet each other with kisses. She urges the wind to set her upon the older woman’s shoulder, so that perhaps the woman’s daughter might tell her the good news of a future grandchild. But the breeze continues on and drops her not. She has forgotten that she holds no power of her own.

Her invisible path carries on, and though saddened by the opportunity denied, she looks expectantly ahead for the person she shall grace. The flow of air gusts a little through the streets now and she is pushed through the city and bumped up against walls. With a swirling burst, she slams into the collar of a gruff man’s suit jacket and gets caught in the bristles of his wily beard. She looks through his mass of beard to his face in order to catch the gleam of hope in his eye that she has been waiting to see. She wonders if perhaps her touch might mean the life of a family member or maybe a financial boost. Instead of treating her blessing with a look of gratefulness, the man mutters under his breath and brushes her off without a second thought.

With the downward stroke of his hand, her life seems at an end as a pool of water in the street looms before her as an ocean. Yet her course does not include that plunge, as the breeze picks her up again and returns to its course.

Though scared, she is indignant at the man’s forgetfulness of lore. She had only desired good, but now, slightly bereft of hope for these people she seeks to bless, only flies on because of the prodding of the wind. She hopes that the breeze may return her home, or just out of the city, that she may beget her own life from the rich soil. But the wind carries on.

An hour passes and she only stares distantly at the city below. It holds no beauty to her homeland of nature as its novelty has worn off now. Her tour progresses at varying altitudes until in one instant, her whole world goes black. She feels no caress of the wind, but only the grimy, compression of unnatural darkness. Slowly, however, a sliver of light opens and floods her prison. She sees the face of a young child with wisps of hair the color of the grain of her homeland and eyes the hue of the air which carries her.

Despite the fact of the youth of the child, she rages in her mind at his forcible capture of her blessing. Her mission is to grace, not ransom off her blessing. And with the advancement of her anger, the child begins to whisper in a language she has never heard before. It is more staccato and not as elegantly fluid as the one she knows. But with the words comes the quiet sound of earnest yearning. She turns her gaze into the eyes of the child, eyes filled with that same hope that she has longed to see on this journey. Despite the language barrier, she hears in his meekest, softest, kindest whisper the desires and secrets of his heart. Her own heart melts at this wonderful new experience, one she could never have known the joy of on her own. With the culmination of a toothy smile of pure optimism, the grubby hands release her into the torrent of air currents and wave goodbye.

She does not know what his words meant other than a secret shared, a wish whispered. She wonders at the flight of fate, from passing the women, to the slough of the man, to the capture from the child. Not only did her touch bless his young life, but more importantly, his hope blessed her own.

---

Leave a comment...

Zendagi Migzara

2007-08-17T15:53:00.000-07:00

I don’t know how to write this post other than to say that The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini is simply astounding! He presents life with a taste of reality, not the complete tragedies of Shakespeare nor the utter bliss of Jane Austen (though I do love both). For the characters of his novel, life is “not a Hindi movie,” as a character says in the book. Life does not stop at the moment of a happy ending, but continues on for eons to come.

I personally feel that the blending of cultures creates a masterpiece of extraordinary intricacy and beauty. Yes, we all know the “works of art” that consist of purely one panel of color, but compare those to the alluring complexity of Van Gogh’s Starry Night or the mind boggling works of pointillism, such as those of Georges Seurat. So I feel Hosseini did with The Kite Runner. Every now and then, he would use his native tongue, Farsi, for nouns and phrases amidst his writing. Half of the time I already knew the words, the other half of the time, I learned new words. At one point, Hosseini used the phrase "Zendagi migzara." I knew that zendagi meant life and that the second word was a verb in the present tense, though I didn’t know what it meant. Oh, I felt the joy of learning more than the story line!

Amidst his story, Hosseini includes politics, a subject that cannot be left out for a novel set in the geography of Afghanistan. The politics presented, however, was not the American perspective of how “we saved the world,” but the Afghani, first hand experience of the turmoil of an oppressed and neglected people. You do not simply hear about the genocides and public stonings on television as we hear periodically on the evening news, but you witness them as through the eyes of a man torn between the wretched state of his homeland and two decades of living in American security.

And while politics was apparent, the true story was of the inner turmoil of betrayal versus loyalty, what the ties of brotherhood should do and fail to do. Yet even through the bleakest times, opportunities of redemption can still be grasped. Life can be very bitter sweet, but it goes on – zendagi migzara – but life goes on.

---

Leave a comment...

Off The Wall

2007-08-09T14:23:00.000-07:00

After a year of keeping my distance and testing the waters, I think that I am going to dive in head first.

Into what? You ask.

Into the deep waters of the personal blog post. This might be kinda intense, though maybe not for you, but definitely for me. (I take that back. As I revise the piece prior to posting, I realize that you will see a different side of me here than maybe ever before.)

Through this year and amid the small pieces of fiction, prompts for thought, essays from class, and political posings, I have not had a great deal of emotional posts. I have hinted a few times at emotion and trauma, but not much. I haven’t shared with you the joys and bursts of anger of being an RA, the struggles of maintaining friendships, the fight to restrain myself, the loss of the foundation of my life, the extreme pleasure of maybe/possibly/I’m not quite sure feeling in love, and the ache of missing half of my heart torn from my body by breaking up “mutually.”

In fact, as I am writing this now, I don’t know if I’ll actually post it. If you are reading this, it means I have – duh… anyways.

A series of events led to this decision, and despite the fact that this progression might bore you, I’ll go on, because, hey, you’re still reading right now, right?

While talking on the phone with my best friend today, we discussed how she wanted to start her blog back up again. She wanted to share and discuss her struggle with the benefits and disadvantages of being thought of as “beautiful.” (For your information, she is gorgeous.) However, she was afraid that people would dismiss her as being catty and not knowing . . . blah, blah, blah. You get the point. (And if you are gagging right now because you believe that “catty” shit, leave my blog right now because I have no time for your hypocrisy.)

Hypocrisy. So that leads to the next point of my story. I shared her pain, though not of the same topic. I understood her through my case of “white guilt.” I hate what has happened racially, economically, and socially through the centuries to people who were deemed “not white.” I constantly fear that people will dismiss my feelings toward the subject as “white guilt,” as I am from probably almost privileged in every way, except that I am female. But I don’t hate racism and classism because I’m white and it is PC for me to say that. I hate it because it is wrong.

As we chatted about this and about blogs, she mentioned that she thought I should be more personal on my blog.

“Is there a Dr. Dorian here? Yes, I have a ton of bricks to be delivered to him.” Cue the bricks to fall from the ceiling onto Zach Braff after he signs the delivery slip. It kinda felt like that.

I had always thought I was very open on my blog. And I still think that I am, but just not with my feelings. I tried to write it off as, “I have been feeling the waters, you know, so that I don’t get stalked and kidnapped” and as “that’s not what my blog is, it’s actually meant to be a thinking blog to inspire people.” But this is only half the truth, thus a full lie.

Look at the post below this. In it, I celebrate my blog’s first anniversary. I re-posted my original post in which it states that “I am an open person” and something about people’s lives being books to be read. You want hypocrisy? I’m a living example.

Thus, you are reading this post. Now, I know this preface has been long, but I want to share a little bit more. I wanted to be personal, so here it is.

I had been thinking about that “white guilt” discussion and about a comment I made on another blogger’s post. I remembered through the years as my aspirations for the future ranged from graphic designer, to architect, to first female president (Hilary might take that one from me), to conservative political news anchor, to liberal journalist in Africa, to an English professor, to my now current idea. And through all my lofty ideas, I have always received undaunted support from my friends and family, until my latest goal.

I love Middle Eastern poetry and literature. Hafez, Rumi, and Ahmad Shamlu (a poet whose work inspired an upcoming post) now stand with Shakespeare, Alfred Lord Tennyson, and Robert Frost as my favorite poets. I am assuming that the majority of you don’t know who they are – they are masters of Persian poetry. I love how scholars are postulating that the story of Leili & Majnoon might have inspired the stories of Tristan & Isolde and Romeo & Juliet. I want to get in on that field. I feel that it is ripe for harvesting the joys of intertextuality that have been forgotten as scholarly research has focused on the Greco-Roman (read: white) influence on civilization and culture. Right now, I am thinking about pursing a comparative literature Ph.D. and studying the influence of Middle Eastern Literature on English Literature.

However, here is where that personal, emotional side comes in. So often, I feel like this ambition is doubted by my friends and family. They act like it is a passing phase. I’m only learning Farsi because my ex-boyfriend is Persian. I only listen to Arash, Cameron Cartio, and DJ Aligator right now and will go back to the kitschy (can music be kitsch AJ?) Christian alternative next month. The only reason I think Middle Eastern men are attractive is because they remind me of an old crush.

You know, never mind the fact that I loved hearing Farsi spoken before I even knew my ex-boyfriend existed, that I want to be a linguistics double major, and that I will be learning Japanese in the fall and Arabic next summer. Never mind that I already loved techno/pop, that Cameron Cartio sings in at least two other languages, and that it has been much more than a month. And NEVER mind the fact that I think Middle Eastern women are also always beautiful and that, as for the men, I find all that hair down-right sexy!

The truth is, who knows what will come of my life and I don’t give you any promises. But maybe I’ll share my feelings with you while I am searching.

So, whew! I think that this was my first “rant” on my blog. Summary: doubt hurts and life is not only “rainbows and butterflies” and sometimes the “compromise that moves us along” hurts like hell. But hey . . . life goes on – Zendagi migzara. And that is the title of my next post.

---

Leave a comment...

Celebrate with Me!

2007-08-05T12:36:00.000-07:00

Hello Everyone!

Today is my blog's ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY! I wanted to offer up a big thanks to moreburritos.com and the_matrix_has_you.blogspot.com (i.e. Mike and AJ) for inspiring me to begin my blog one year ago. Thank you also to everyone who has commented through the year and raised some great discussions.

As a tribute to my first post, I wanted to re-post it in nostalgia. So here you go:

A New Frontier

Interestingly enough, my excursion into the new frontier of blogging began on paper with a black pilot G-2 0.7 mm pen. I believe this will turn into a tale of self-exploration more than the sharing of my life, as a true literary masterpice should.

I am a very open person and enjoy sharing my life with others. I do not necessarily believe that the phrase "I can read you like a book" only possesses a negative connotation. Does not one read certain books to enjoy the story, to escape to a distant land, or to further find one's self in the text of the pages?

I have a friend who stated that his true friends are books. A very interesting comment that I wish I had had the sense to ask him to elaborate upon further. He then told me that if I wanted to understand him, I would have to read a book of his. I took the challenge and did in fact learn a great deal about his motivations, thoughts, and view of others. I also rediscovered my joy in disecting the intricacies of philosophy from literature.

To bring this analogy back around, just as books influence our lives from the mother's knee and on, so also we influence the lives of others. We form our own opinions based upon our reactions to the opinions of others. I look forward to you learning about me. I look forward to learning about you. I look forward to learning about myself from you.

***

If anyone has a favorite post, write a comment about it here and I'll respond with my favorite post of your own. Thank you all so much!

---

Leave a comment...

Not a Movie Critique

2007-07-23T16:10:00.000-07:00

The Island caught my attention when it first came out in theaters, but I am not avid movie-goer, thus I never made an effort to see it. However, with oodles of time to kill while on vacation, my brother and I watched the movie on Pay-per-view yesterday. I love action movies, so the fast paced, choppy cinematography captured my attention to the extent that I wouldn’t get up to go to the bathroom until my brother used the TiVo’s pause which I didn’t know that we had.

The Island, directed by Michael Bay and starring Ewan McGregor and Scarlett Johanssen, was much more than an action movie after I thought about some of the prominent quotes. It explored the ugliest and most beautiful aspects of humanity: Greed and Curiosity. (You thought that I would say Love, didn’t you?)

Greed manifested itself in the corporation which bred human clones in order to reap a huge profit and in the upper class who bought the human beings as their personal organ donors. While greed fueled the exploitation of these unique human beings, it also created, inadvertently, an amazing leap in the understanding of human behavior. When one of the scientists in the movie first discovers the development in McGregor’s character’s brain scans, he stutters for a moment and finally spits out, “It’s beautiful.” They recognize the complication as the development of human curiosity, which in the end destroys the entire operation and sets the truth free.

However, this post is not really about a discussion about the qualities of the movie. The Island and its exploration of the beauty of human curiosity served as my creative muse for an inspirational story of a young man in Africa. His name is William Kamkwamba and he lives in Malawi. This amazing 19 year old built a wind turbine (windmill) for his home and village using only a book on electricity, a 9th grade education, materials found dumped around the area, and his human curiosity. He can power electricity in his house and provide the village with electricity to charge various items.

I found the story of William Kamkwamba from the blog Heliotropic (a great blog about renewable electricity which I will most likely blog about in a different post as I feel it is a very important area of research and implementation). Carl Lenox, the creator of Heliotropic, wrote about the usefulness of Kamkwamba’s windmill.

“It is truly appropriate technology; if (when) the windmill breaks, he will readily be able to fix it, because he built it himself and the parts are readily available in his community. No need to parachute in expensive parts or specialists from Europe, the US, or even the capital city. . . It's the very definition of appropriate technology.”

I love the point which Lenox makes. Kamkwamba is not dependent on the major corporations and nations which exploit the people of smaller countries. (Notice a trend?) I hope that Kamkwamba continues on this same vein in his future exploits.

Elissa Baxter of The Sydney Morning Herald wrote an article spreading the news of Kamkwamba’s achievement. (I found the link to the article on Kamkwamba’s blog which he has had for about a month. Check him out here.) In it, Baxter speaks about the new generation which Kamkwamba is a part of:

“A fellow African blogger and new friend of Kamkwamba, Soyapi Mumba, described his first impression of Kamkwamba: ‘What I like about William is that he didn't join the multitude of people just blaming government or policy makers for his lack of education. Neither did he point fingers at statutory corporations for the lack of electricity in his home. He didn't just sit down and blame his parents for all this, either.’. . . Andrew Heavens, a journalist based in Khartoum, Sudan, says Kamkwamba belongs to the ‘cheetah’ generation of Africans who are not going to wait for government and aid organisations to do things for them.”

William Kamkwamba inspires me. Not to build a windmill outside of my house, but he inspires me to expand my curiosity and to care about the world around me. I already am looking into possible recycling programs to begin implementing at my university and I am currently learning the language Farsi and will start Japanese in the fall.

Whether my ambitions are inspirational or not, I encourage you to begin to expand your own curiosity with and care for the world around you. I want to be an American part of this new “cheetah” generation. Care to join?

---

Leave a comment...

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time

2007-07-14T20:18:00.000-07:00

“Wonderfully surreal . . . Heartbreaking and inspiring . . . It is hard to think of anyone who would not be moved and delighted by this book.” – Financial Times (London)

Indeed, I was. I read The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time by Mark Haddon in four hours on the drive from Florida to North Carolina. (Actually, I still have at least four more hours until we reach NC, as I am writing this post on the way there right now.)

The main character of the story, named Christopher, is a 15 year old boy who has autism and sets off to find the killer of his neighbor’s dog. He is reminiscent of a British version of Adrian Monk, the obsessive compulsive detective from the television show “Monk” on USA. Christopher takes on the role of Sherlock Holmes, switches to Steven Hawking on frequent tangents (a personal favorite as I love physics so much), and all the while remains an autistic child trying to make his way through a world frustratingly ignorant to his special intelligence. Christopher does not have the capacity to lie and lives his life by logic. While some of his decisions seem illogical to the average reader at first, after an explanation by Christopher, the reader can see how according to the dimensions of his life, they make perfect sense. This one aspect of Christopher’s life demonstrates Haddon’s exquisite talent as a writer. You feel as if you are really inside an autistic child’s mind, as if Christopher himself is truly writing the story.

The Daily News writes about the novel, “A lovely piece . . . [Haddon] illuminates a core of suffering through the narrowly focused insights of a boy who hasn’t the words to describe emotional pain.” As Christopher searches for the truth of the death of Wellington the dog, he comes across the truth of an important discovery in his own life. (I am not a plot spoiler, so you need to read the book yourself.) The reader watches as he deals with the implications of this change through his limited expression of emotion and change. My heart wrenched at many different points of the story, but not for the “disability” that he lives with, but with man’s inhumanity to man. I learned a great deal about the opposite perspective in situations such as those which Christopher encounters and writhed in anger at how so many of the characters dismissed him as mentally challenged and treated him with contempt.

This story touched me not only emotionally, but also morally as I examined my own treatment of those around me. I thought of two autistic children at my church and my impatience with them at times. I do not think that they realize my impatience, but I see it in myself and after reading The Curious Incident, I recognize my deficiency and what continued practice may develop it into, for “practice makes perfect.” As I pondered on this arena of perfection, I also contemplated how this impatience extends beyond those “mentally challenged” to simply everyone around me and my mind shot back to “man’s inhumanity to man.”

I think that we all forget that we deal with human beings and that each person’s mind is a mystery to our own. Entertainment Weekly writes, “Haddon’s book illuminates the way one mind works so precisely, so humanely, that it reads like both an acutely observed case study and an artful exploration of a different ‘mystery’: the thoughts and feelings we share even with those very different from us.”

---

Leave a comment...

The Philosophy of Comics

2007-07-08T16:45:00.000-07:00

I came across this cartoon on a website for religious tolerance. One of the webmasters "mused" and wrote a short piece following the cartoon:

"Imagine the results if more people in the world realized the simple fact that there are over 11,000 religions in the world and that it is impossible with our present knowledge to find out which is the "true" one. An inevitable corollary to this belief would be that they would develop a degree of doubt that their religion is the only "true" one. People might be less inclined to oppress, discriminate against, murder or commit mass murder and genocide against people of other faiths such as has happened during the past decade in Northern Ireland, Bosnia, Kosovo, Macedonia, Cyprus, Nigeria, Sudan, Iraq, Iran, Pakistan, Afghanistan, India, Sri Lanka, Philippines, Indonesia, the U.S. etc.

Imagine the results if more people accepted their religion as the best faith for them, but at the same time recognized that there are other religions which teach about other deities, other systems of morality, other religious practices, etc. Yet almost all of them motivate people to lead better lives. There might be fewer people willing to defend their particular religion by oppressing or killing followers of other religions and spiritual paths." *

An interesting proposition, indeed.

However, I believe that this question, when asked seriously to oneself, can be a method of destruction in and of itself. Perhaps wars may not be fought on the outside with others, but an inner battle resulting in a genocide of the soul may take place. But as to quote an earlier post of mine, will it "issue [solely] destruction or initiate new growth and life?"

---

Leave a comment...

*http://www.religioustolerance.org/reltrue.htm

Marked: Fragile

2007-06-28T20:26:00.000-07:00

I might say that the past three months have been quite destructive. Anyone at my university would likely concur as well. Thus, since my time has been diverted to finishing the school year alive (perhaps a little bit of an exaggeration :), my blog was placed on the back burner for awhile.

So begins my story. In the course of one week in May (not April), I evacuated the 40 residents of my hall at 3:30 am three times due to fire. The first fire burned an entire hall down and many residents lost all of the belongings in their rooms. The cause was deemed an equipment malfunction, which the speed of the spread of the fire corroborates. The second fire, four days later, I responded to with my fire extinguisher; it was a cardboard box filled with paper – felony arson. Don’t think I’m the hero in this, for it was a random resident who put it out seconds before I arrived. The third fire was about 19 hours later. Thankfully, a fellow resident put it out before there was extensive damage done.

Thus, staff members volunteered to keep posts at the major entrances of the building and documented every resident’s entrance time through each entire night following the last fire. Needles to say, when an outside security company was hired for the job, we were happy beyond measure. (insert shout out to my fellow staff members for all their hard work)

Bereft of flammable fun, whoever decided to torment our students turned to malicious vehicular “humor” by flattening tires in the parking lot. A friend of mine had five flat tires in the course of two weeks. I escaped only because my car had broken down on the freeway and was in the shop for two weeks . . . lucky . . . me . . .

And so, the end of the year finally rolled around with staff members eager to shed the responsibility of residents for the summer. The second to last day of move-out started off wonderfully; I had no finals and slept in. But upon my entering the office before lunch, I received the news from my supervisor that we were to begin strongly urging out residents to move out as soon as possible. UCR had received a bomb threat, police had already found two incendiary devices on campus, and as we all remembered, our building had a habit of catching on fire this year. The next two days progressed, nothing burnt down, and all residents were out of the building by 5 pm the next day; my summer began.

I must admit though, these events were not the most destructive force in my life over the past six months . . .

---

Leave a comment...

What's in Your Wallet?

2007-03-18T22:49:00.000-07:00

Who on earth collects bricks in order pave their own sidewalk for free? The lovely Anita in “101 Dalmatians” (1996). I remember the part of the movie when Anita hits Roger with her purse and he asks, “What do you have in there? Bricks?” Anita blushes somewhat timidly and says, “Well yes, I’ve been collecting bricks for my path.” (Please note: I was nine years old the last time I saw the movie, so the quotes are a bit sketchy.)

My tired, sore, red arms reminded me of this movie today as I toted a large rock around in my purse while shopping in Victoria Gardens. I didn’t realize that the 5x3x2 inch rock would weigh so much in my purse or that the purse straps would hurt so much. What a burden!

With this much randomness in a row, I’m sure you are DYING to see a point to this small collection of thoughts.

I did not carry this rock around to pave my driveway, decorate my room, or make a rock pet. I hoisted the heavy mass around because of a challenge at my women’s bible study on Friday (and if any of you know me, I never back down from a challenge). This rock represented a burden of one of my friends, which I chose to carry today. Some people’s rocks were small and pretty, others were large and dirty. The uniqueness of each rock stemmed from the psychology behind each choice. We each wrote what burden was represented on the rock in Sharpie marker.

I noticed something very poignant for my own experience as I began my day by attempting to fit the rock into my purse. I found that I could not position the rock inside of my purse in any way that allowed all of my stuff to stay inside. So, I took the next largest item out, my PDA (also known as my life). I recognized later on in the day that this small gesture represented much more than praying for a friend for the day. I saw that in order to truly care for someone else, my own agenda needed to be set aside.

So often, I use my tight schedule as a means to refrain from caring for others. If you have gotten a cancellation from me due to my busy schedule, please remember that it is not a lie, though quite possibly an act of selfishness. My new challenge is to void my own volition in order to care for my comrades. (What a sucker I am for alliteration.)

And so, my friend’s burden weighed heavy upon my heart (and arm) today, not only reminding me of her pain, but also of my own downfalls. Perhaps an additional component should be added to my previous post on carrying objects in our lives; how much space and weight a particular object exerts. Think about it, what’s in your wallet?

---

Leave a comment...

FINALLY, a new post!

2007-03-08T11:56:00.000-08:00

My studies have enveloped my life over the past month and a half. Thus, I have honestly not had the time to continue in posting or my new series, though I have two works in progess. Bear with me, please!

In the meantime, check out these great reads:

AJ Harbison at The Matrix Has You. Not only is AJ an amazing musician, but also an insightful and avid blogger. He's sure to keep you thinking about a variety of issues and even theological concepts.

Cucina Bella Due to my Italian heritage, I love to cook. This site has such interesting, nearly daily, posts on food facts and delicious recipes. It is full of pictures as well, which constantly make me wish that my kitchen was bigger!

Fun With Blanks I am not sure if this site has been updated recently, but check out the funny and/or meaningful comments. This is a kind of "Mad Gabs" type of site for bloggers.

John's Heart John might not have updated in very long time as well, but despite the grammatical errors (which we are all guilty of), he shares his heart with each reader (as the title of his blog aptly describes).

Mike Morabito at moreburritos.com. Mike's wonderful sense of humor and subtle blend of contemplation will keep you hooked on his myriad of topics in the plethora of posts.

Ovations by Carolyn Bass. Yes, this is my mother, but my plug for her blog is more than simple familial relations. A published author currently in progress on about three novels, her professional substance and quality impress even the most avid blogger.

Rebecca del Rio is poet who composes in both Spanish and English. As I am in the process of learning Spanish (hopefully to become bilingual) I enjoy her touching poems, which speak on a variety of Latin American issues as well. Speakers of each language will enjoy the vivid imagery in the rich poems on her page.

My "Current Reading" list also includes a few books which most definitely warrant your attention. Often the list will include one novel from my Literature class, one reading or book from my Ethnic Studies class, and a novel of my own choosing; all great reads.

Many of these people have links to other terrific blogs as well. Explore your world!

---

Leave a comment...

The Scientific Method of Religion - QS1

2007-01-17T23:46:00.000-08:00

Yes, I know. I have not written on my blog in an exorbitant amount of time. This phenomenon attributes partly to the fact that I loved my last post and the comment participation which followed. ::snap, snap:: (i.e. “snaps” for those who commented)

Around the end of 2006, a friend and I hashed out some of our differences in a very open and extremely important conversation. While (haha) things are not perfect between us, as none can expect from any, we have decided to explore each others’ worlds through a challenge to each other to question our stable lives. Thus, I have been examining my life and my preconceived notions about my worldview. Since I firmly believe that one cannot form one’s own opinion without hearing those of others, I am to begin sharing thoughts from with this quest and ask that you might give your own opinions and/or direct knowledgeable sources to my blog in order to prompt further discussion.

I invite you into my quest with this first entry:

***

Question Series 1 - The Scientific Method of Religion

Science and Religion both seek to explain things about the world.

-Science seeks to explain the natural, physical world.

-Religion seeks to explain the supernatural, spiritual world.

In essence, religion attempts to explain eternal, spiritual forces and science attempts only to explain the natural world. Thus we find that many scientist do not agree with religion since science cannot explain it. But should we disregard something simply because we cannot explain it?

An example: Dark Matter in the universe. We cannot see this dark matter, but we can see its effects. “Dark matter is simply a name [scientists] give to whatever unseen influence is causing the observed gravitational effects [on the light of stars and the Milky Way Galaxy’s rotation]”*. “Dark matter apparently dominates the total mass of the universe”*. Thus all of those years that you’ve been taught that there is nothing between the stars are in vain, for actually scientists are calculating that this unknown matter comprises 70 percent of the mass of the universe.

We do not know what dark matter is, what is its purpose, or how it was created; however, we do not disregard the theory simply because we do not understand it. Conversely, we explore and study it further so that we can understand it. So also, we should explore religion.

Why will I start with Christianity? Well, because I was raised in it and I believe it to be true. Simply because I was raised in it does not mean that it is a construction of my parents or that I only believe its validity due to the influence of my upbringing. Do you believe that earth revolves around the sun? Is this due to your own observations and measurement or that you were taught this concept? My starting block of Christianity simply means that I have a foundation to work on, or in the words of Sir Isaac Newton, I am “standing on the shoulders of giants.” Even if my predecessors are wrong, I still posses the possibility to come to a correct solution.

Look at astronomy and the incorrect assumptions (based on solid observations) from which our modern model has sprung. The model of the universe that dominated astronomical theory for almost 2000 years was of a geocentric solar system and universe. Compare this with the fact that we now know through extremely accurate measurements and thousands of years of scientific study that not only is the earth not the center of the solar system, but our sun is not even the center of the universe.* From these incorrect assumptions though, we have derived the truth (at least, for the moment).

In the scientific method, one begins with a hypothesis, an educated guess. One then studies and experiments different situations and related material to see if the hypothesis is falsified. Notice that one does not experiment to prove the hypothesis, but only if after every instance has been observed and re-observed by another, does the hypothesis develop into a theory. Even then, any theory can still be disproved at any time. The theories of Einstein himself might one day be discredited.

If we look at religion the same way we view science and the scientific method, we should explore the idea and field until it is proven false because we cannot prove anything true! Why do I still believe in Christianity though the theological concept of the Trinity is so difficult to understand? For the same reason I accept the observations of astronomy although we do not know what dark matter is. Though I may not understand everything, I have not found Christianity to be proven false yet. Long live the scientific method.

*Bennett, Jeffrey et al. Stars, Galaxies, and Cosmology. San Franciso: Pearson Addison Wesley, 2007.

---

Leave a comment...

Blood Diamond: Was Your Diamond Originally Red?

2006-12-19T00:39:00.000-08:00

“Long sleeve or short sleeve?” Neither climate nor fashion plays into this decision. Rephrased, this question reads as “Would you like your hand or your arm cut off? Because either way, you will lose something.” Due to the split second nature of the question, often it is only the machete who decides.

What would you choose?

Americans can most likely not even imagine the horror of making a decision such as this. We live the majority of our lives quite unaware of the atrocities around the world. Our concerns include the next promotion, a new car, and how to “keep up with the Joneses.” University students and intellectuals have led some of the major societal changes across the globe, but some question if the students truly care about the issues they protest against or whether they solely enjoy the disruption they create.

Blood Diamond, the recent film directed by Edward Zwick and written by Charles Leavitt, strives to awaken American culture to one of the numerous cruelties initiated around the world which we support. Yes, which we support. Through our ignorance of world affairs, we support the organizations which instigate this violence.

In the film, Leonardo DiCaprio plays Danny Archer, a diamond smuggler in the country of Sierra Leone, who attempts to use a man named Solomon Vandy, played by Djimon Hounsou, in order to find the location of a priceless diamond. Vandy found this diamond while working as a captive of the RUF (the Revolutionary United Front). However, not only does the RUF search for this diamond in order to buy military arms, but Archer pursues the location of the gem in order to sell it to the highest bidder in the professional diamond industry, a major player in the conflict, or blood, diamond industry. Watch the trailer here.

Nevertheless, do not be fooled by the trailer, Archer is not necessarily the good guy. In fact, out of all of the sides presented in the movie, there may only be two good guys of the whole lot, Vandy and the American journalist Maddy Bowen, played by Jennifer Connelly. Blood Diamond presents the reality, or rather presents as much of the reality as Hollywood is able to produce, of the conflicts rampaging in Africa over politics and economic resources. No one side is the good guy.

The RUF, who claims to free the people from the oppression of the government, tyrannizes the people, kills innocent families, and intimidates them into submission. Their “signature tactic was amputation of civilians” as Greg Campbell reports in Amnesty Magazine.* The government also dehumanized its people. In the movie, the government would not let Vandy’s family free from the refugee camp due to possible rebels encamped within. Campbell also stated that the government forces “killed civilians suspected of aiding RUF, tortured children suspected of being RUF, and slaughtered hospital patients in their efforts to rid Freetown of rebels.”* While the diamond industry openly denounced conflict diamonds, its executives covertly organized the paperwork in order to buy the diamonds from “reputable sources” in other countries. Bowen recognizes in the film that Sierra Leone testified to miniscule diamond exports in comparison to the rich diamond fields which it possesses, while the neighboring country of Liberia conveyed higher exportation rates than available.

Each of the forces which openly cried for the help and liberation of the people broke their promises and inflicted casualties upon the people simply trying to live their lives within the land of their ancestors. Women are raped and killed, men are enslaved and killed, and children are stolen, brainwashed into soldiers, and killed. While death dominates the fate of most of the people affected by civil war in African countries, children face the most damaging consequences of the war.

The RUF frequently captures children and indoctrinates them into soldiers capable of killing their own villagers and family. “Commanders often cut the children's arms and packed the wounds with cocaine”* in order to produce crazed, cracked out soldiers unable to fully understand the impact of the actions which they viciously performed. These children are scarred for life; most cannot seek any home or help after removed from the army. However, organizations and homes do exist to help them learn how to be human again. Blood Diamond also shows the dear people who devote their lives to re-raising these children. SOS Children's Villages is a real life example of one of the agencies which aids war torn children.

Anytime anything of value has been found in developing countries, civil war has ensued. One of the surviving villagers of an attacked town in Blood Diamond tells Vandy that “It’s good that they have not found any oil, because then they would be in real trouble.” The Middle East suffers from similar strife as plastered upon the news, though Americans have become calloused to the pain which the people of the region bear. A dear friend of mine noted that his family in Iran dealt with the effects of the oil struggle and religious tension which pollute the political and social climate; hence their escape to the United States. American apathy and greed affects more than Sierra Leone, more than Africa and the Middle East, but extends its reach into every country of the world.

As I sat in the movie, I realized that as I was watching this very movie, somewhere in Africa, a woman was being raped by a soldier, a man was attempting to carry on life with only one arm, and a child was shooting down an innocent villager. And I was simply sitting and watching a movie, enjoying the company of a friend, and planning on relaxing the next day at home. I fell into the category of the ignorant American despite my university education and “social awareness” derived from an introductory Sociology course. Had I ever cared if the small diamond in my ring came from a conflict source?

During the middle of the movie, Maddy Bowen, the journalist, begins to write an article about Vandy’s struggle and his reunification with part of his family. Archer teases her about the tear-jerking tale. Bowen retorts angrily that “yes, it might make a few people cry, and maybe one will even write a check, but it is not going to solve anything.”

Perhaps this article will do nothing other than get you to watch the movie Blood Diamond and support Hollywood through ticket sales, but maybe someone might read and begin to do something about it. Change cannot come from one person or a check. It must come from a people; that is, more than one. Therefore, I encourage you to do the following:

1. See the movie Blood Diamond.

2. Read the article referenced in this piece.

3. See the movie Invisible Children also related to the struggles in Africa.

4. Since 65 percent of the world’s diamonds come from African countries,** research Green Diamonds (diamonds from non-conflict sources) and assert that your diamond be Kimberley Certified.

5. Tell others. This may include writing to your congressmen, composing your own blog post, copying this piece onto your own blog or email, or simply conversing with friends.

Do not let this die into the past. Remember what we have come from in order to prevent its propagation in the future. Care.

---

Leave a comment...

* http://www.amnestyusa.org/amnestynow/diamonds.html

**http://www.diamondfacts.org/facts/index.html

Past, Present, Future

2006-12-13T22:40:00.000-08:00

Christmas time brings forth memories of the past, a season for making memories, and hopes of future memories. We ask ourselves questions regarding each tense: Why is he making that funny face in the picture from last year? Whose house should be celebrate at this year? Will our children look back on our photos and comment on our horrible fashion?

This year marked the second Christmas and first anniversary of the friendship of a few of my closest friends and I. This small sampling of photos is to commemorate the past joys, present peace, and future hopes.

The boys' and my Gingerbread house from last year: The Family's House

This year's house with Amanda, because Christmas trees are meant for the roof.

To future alcohol,

To nine years from now,

To people who aren't lame, like us.

Contemplations of Humanity and Nature – November 27, 2006

2006-11-27T14:07:00.000-08:00

It drizzled and showered today. The air filled with a cool, breezy humidity. California’s dry, everlasting summer paused for this particular morning.

Unfamiliar grey clouds shrouded the open sky, but the persistent blue holes attempted vigorously to unveil the earth. The drifting nomads allowed various patches to open and revel in their brief victory, but nature’s curtains then closed once again.

It’s amazing how this shower complimented the arid landscape. Nature leapt alive and danced and thrived for the rest of the day. Not a single thing has grown greener though. In fact, the amber colors of fall have begun to bronze the towering Eucalyptus tress and the tufts of tall, uncultured grass rise from a bedding of brown leaves.

I searched for a spot to record nature’s triumph today and returned to an accustomed point of previous inspiration. To my dismay, I found my coarse wooden balcony bench violated by new garish blue plastic picnic tables. This desecration of organic engineering angered me! Natural, gorgeous, fantastic beauty envelops the woody landscape, but people always seek to improve. Why can’t modern humanity recognize the beauty in antiquity?

---

Leave a comment...

Tag! I'm it!

2006-11-11T23:47:00.000-08:00

I've been tagged.

You've heard of traditional tag, freeze tag, and even phone tag, but a new game has been launched in the blogger community: blog tag. My mother graced me a tag from her after she was tagged by another blogger. (Click here to see her tag post.)

The object of the game is to get to know new people. If you happen across a tagged blog, read about the blogger and then read who they tagged. Networking couldn't get easier.

If you get tagged, as five people at the end of this post shall, write five things about yourself in a post on your blog. These do not need to be spectacular stories of intrigue or romance, but five things that give a bit of who you are. Then, tag five other people and the gift shall go on.

And so, without much further ado:

1. My middle name is Amedea. I received this middle name from my mother and she shares it as well. Further down the family line, her father held the middle name of Amedeo, the male version of the Italian name. This name originates from Amedeo Giannini, the founder of Bank of America, first known as the Bank of Italy. Giannini was an Italian immigrant who began a small bank in order to help the stuggling Italian immigrants in San Francisco. Thus, Giannini rose to the status of an Italian hero and earned many namesakes for his ingenuity and charity. Click here to read a small bio.

2. I was born in Iwakuni, Japan in a small Japanese hospital right off of the Marine base stationed there. My father was stationed in Iwakuni as a Marine helicopter pilot. I lived there until I was three and a half when my family moved back to the United States. I am an American Citizen, as I was registered at the American Embassy, but I have a birth certificate in Japanese as well.

3. Tying into my origin, my only memory from Japan is of a restaurant which we frequented. We called it "The Chicken Shack." Obviously, this is not its real name. I can remember that there were very large drums, and by large I mean 6 feet tall, by the parking lot which you could play with. The restaurant's entrance was an outside area which boasted lush greenery with a waterfall which cascaded into a Koi pond filled with colorful Koi darting and pushing for attention. In my specific memory, we went at night to the Chicken Shack. My father either brought bread or got bread from the restaurant so that my brother and I could feed the Koi. After a bit of joyful fun and splashing, we were seating outside near one of the grill areas where they cooked. I also remember that I could gaze inside at the indoor seating as well. The aroma of authentic Japanese Teriyaki filled the senses. And that is about all I can remember.

4. I am a recovering procrastinator. After years of recognizing my addiction, yet putting off the recovery process to my next essay, I finally put my nose to the grindstone and began the slow trudge to timeliness. Although I have made leaps and bounds this year (I've written two of my required papers for classes at least three days before they were due), I unfortunately succummed to my habit with this post. My mother tagged me ages ago, well, weeks anyways, and I've only now written this post. With perseverance and support, I am sure that I can make it through though!

5. My Myers-Briggs Personality Profile is: ENFJ. This means that I am Extroverted, Intuitive, Feeling, and Judgmental. (Please note: "judgmental" is a psychological term for a decision maker.) I've taken the test numerous times and on occasion I have tested as INFJ or ESFJ. This has only happened two times out of the five times that I have taken the test though. You can read more about my profile here.

And so comes the point at which five more bloggers shall be tagged.

Drumroll please . . .

. . .

. . .

And they are: Mike Morabito, AJ Harbison, Big John, Eleanor, and Helen Wang.

Take some time and read these awesome bloggers.

---

Leave a comment...

Untitled - Summer 2004

2006-10-31T00:15:00.000-08:00

Inspiration hits everyone in different ways. Sometimes what can inspire a person does not even need to pertain directly to the product of the inspiration. Poets do not necessarily write about their muse, but the muse simply arouses the poetry from within.

Over a family vacation in the summer of 2004, I listened to Evanescence's "My Immortal" and a whole story erupted in my mind. The plot was inspired by the musical composicion of the song, not necessarily its words. I envisaged the character so deeply, that I almost began to cry as I wrote the words on the page.

I have revised the piece over the years, but I do not doubt that this is not the final copy. Enjoy and leave a comment. If you would wish to listen to the song as you read, copy "http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YxQrPXPSVhQ" into another window to have the YouTube music video playing in the background.

***

Untitled – Summer 2004

Laramie held Ryan in her arms. His limp body weighed her down as she sank to her knees in grief. She stared into his dark, mysterious eyes as the tears from her own crystal eyes splashed upon his pale face. As he gasped for breath, she scanned his wound. It looked like it penetrated deep into his chest.

Her soft fingers caressed Ryan’s drained and dirty face. “I’m with you. It is okay. We’re going to make it,” Laramie said as she thought the very opposite.

A darkness loomed in her heart that had been instilled from the years of endless nightmares. As her mind flashed to the recurring nightmare, she realized she was now living the nightmare she had always struggled with. The passage of woods, the pressing fear, the sound of impending danger; all these abstract remembrances flowed back into her mind and flooded all of the desperate thoughts of survival, which drowned her hope.

Ryan’s gasp of consciousness and the sound of the advancing attackers’ feet caught her attention again. She gazed into his tearing eyes as he struggled to raise his hand around her neck. Laramie’s crying turned to wretched gasps and she lowered her head next to his. From the corner of her eye she saw the attackers forming a circle around Ryan and her.

Ryan cared not for the surroundings but focused all his labor on whispering the words “I love you” into her ear. He gave the devotion of his heart the faintest kiss upon her ear. Ryan’s head then slumped back against Laramie’s arm.

Laramie’s heart lurched in her chest as she let out one sob of agony as she realized her nightmare was coming true. Now it was her time to die. She wanted to lie down and die beside her love. As she reached for Ryan’s sword that lay on the other side, something whispered in the back of her head, “This is not your destiny.” Her hand paused at the handle of her self inflicted death as a surge of sadness, anger, and strength tingled through her body. Her ring glinted in an unseen light.

Laramie’s tears continued to fall as she grasped the sword and instead of plunging it into her own heart, she rose defiantly in the center of the circle. Laramie raised the sword to the axis of her face and pierced each of the attackers’ souls with the power in her eyes. She yelled as she lunged at the nearest knight and attacked him. With unknown skill, she ably fought and killed each of the knights.

As they swung their swords, she would block each swipe before she would even know it. As her fighting continued, she glanced back to see a strange beast dragging Ryan’s body away.

The distraction kept her from blocking the next blow and it grazed across her back. She yelped with pain and came back to her senses. The anger flared in her eyes as she recognized the attacker who delivered Ryan’s fatal blow. A stare down lasted for a moment in reality, but held the strength of eternity. With a smirk of pride of his face, the last attacker readied his sword and started upon her. Laramie’s smoldering rage unleashed its fullest force upon the throat of the final combatant. The slice severed his head from his neck.

Laramie stopped dead upon the body’s spastic descend to the ground. She looked around at all the bodies strewn around her and she glanced down at her bloodied clothes. Scarlet beads of blood dripped from the white lace.

Abruptly, all her strength drained from her body and out her fingers. Ryan’s sword dropped from her hands and she fell onto her previous spot sobbing from anguish, pain, and fatigue; too tired to even clutch her own body. With a sharp pain against the back of her head, Laramie fell unconscious.

---

Leave a comment...

Flashes of Fall

2006-10-18T15:13:00.000-07:00

Autumn Colors

California with a golden hue
True gold comes only one season a year

Relaxation amid the hustle of class

Warm swirls of sunlight
But cool, yet fragrant winds blow the
traces of stale summer away

Falling leaves and needles cross the vision
Shedding the worries of the past year

Midday amber panes of light across the floor

Rushes of wind fill

the airwaves

of sound

Solid pines stand to wait for winter

Fall; a time to relax, renew, and retrospect

---

Leave a comment...

Too Much of a Good Thing

2006-10-11T23:57:00.000-07:00

Recently, a friend told me about how heavy her backpack weighed. As we sat down in commons to rest between classes, she pulled out her plethora of provisions per idem: one textbook, a laptop, two notebooks, one novel, a wallet, a cell phone, a pack of pencils and pens, and a Bible. All of these materials matter for the completion of her day.

She noted that her back had been hurting her lately though. Although I viewed all of the items and assessed their necessity in my own mind, I asked her if each was indeed vital for that day.

She responded, “All of these things are good things. I just have too many good things.”

Inspiration hit me at that moment and I took a small amount of time to examine my own life, which has recently run me ragged. Indeed, I fill my life with “good things,” but perhaps I do not need all of these things. In further thought, I throw out two clichés, probably much to the chagrin of AJ:

“Acceptance of the good, prevents us from achieving the best.”

and

“Quality versus quantity.”

Letting our lives fill up with good things, let alone the bad things, without evaluating the true quality or necessity of each involvement prevents us from recognizing the best for our lives. As such, take time periodically to survey the things of your life. Unpack your backpack called life. Examine its contents. Take out a few things and store them for later, maybe even never. Remember that one uses a backpack to hold multiple things, but it has limits.

Just as our daily schedules change from day to day, so also, our lives shall develop and change over the course of our allotted time. Look ahead and plan for your next day, but save that extra space for the time when you need it.

The question is: can I follow my own advice?

---

Leave a comment...

Response to "The Cistern - October 2005": A Year Advanced

2006-10-07T19:08:00.000-07:00

Through my posting of a piece which I wrote last year, I see how this period of life changed my outlook on and my responses to uncertainty. This year has been a slow climb up that ladder with many slips and slides down a few rungs, but it gladdens me to notice that I have continued to re-hoist myself up and persist in my climb. One event comprises not the whole event as I perceived it to last year, but each rung denotes a unique challenge of uncertainty. All in all, I have made tremendous progress through this year. The circle of hope beckons me louder than the echoing of dark denial. This ladder shall most likely take years to climb, but with the perpetual progress, maybe the light will not blind me when I reach the top.

---

Leave a comment...

The Cistern – October 2005

2006-10-03T00:03:00.000-07:00

Dampness presses on my entire body. I feel the dank, muddy, curved walls chill my back as I lean against them. Darkness envelops my being. So dark that I breathe chilled darkness.

Tears slide crookedly down my muddied face. My voice cracks between the reserved sobs.

I will not let myself cry.

As I sit in the foul, stagnant water fingering the rope which hangs beside me, I glance up and see the circle of light, my only source of hope. But this hope tastes bittersweet. If I know the truth, it could be good or bad. The hope inspires me to lift myself up, though I slip violently in the slime. I grasp both hands on the rope ladder and begin to ascend.

As I approach the top, I can begin to see the form of a figure. Panic suddenly grips my heart harder than my grasp upon the life-giving rope. Desperation hits and I let go of the rope, falling to a splash on the floor. My climb was not hard, but the prospect of denial instilled such fear that I gave up, deciding to live in denial.

Anger whells up from deep in my heart. Anger at myself, at all. I stand and splash and kick and SCREAM at the top of my lungs. My fists swell from pounding on the walls of my self prison. I gaze once again at the circle of light. The same hope begins to grow again, but I deny it. I shake it out of my body.

I don’t deserve hope. It won’t work out anyways. I will always lose.

Anger and tears return and my soul begins to weaken. I tire of the ups and downs. My body cries with pain, begging to get out of the wretched darkness of self pity.

Though the glimmers from above reach down to my solitude, I hide from their light. One dances across an inscription. I lean over to read it.

“Suffering produces perseverance, perseverance character, and character, hope.”

Hope? I scoff. Hope only led to hurt in the past. Hurt that kept returning as hope shattered.

I begin to evade the glimmers as they bounce around. One glimmer catches me on the hand and I get my first look in ages at the condition of my hands. The nails are jagged, encrusted with dirt and blood from previous attempts of scaling the wall. The glimmer of light then jumps to my face and I fell the warmth of sunlight upon my tight, chapped skin. I breathe warm air, filling my lungs with forgotten vitality. Then as spontaneous as it came, it leaves.

My mind toys with the idea of pursuing it up the shaft. A deep absence and vacuum fills the confinement and my body shivers. The cold air turns to frigid ice, freezing my lungs with each necessary breath. My muscles tighten and cramp and I fold into the fetal position rocking in my pain. The muddy water crystallizes on my ripped clothes, further torturing me.

Then a decision breaks through the ice of denial in my mind. I am breaking the habit of denial and doubt now! I stand up and grab the rope. Each rung that I pull myself to pains my weak muscles. But I press on.

It begins to take longer to raise myself to the next rung as my endurance lags. But I decide to continue. I left doubt in the water on the floor.

As I continue upwards, the temperature increases. I pause and look up. The small circle has grown into an enormous opening filled with bright light. I decide on my words and reactions and continue to climb.

My hand then touches something soft. It feels like grass. My heart leaps, almost pulling my body up with it into the blinding light.

---

Leave a comment...

A Late Reaction

2006-09-25T17:13:00.000-07:00

Nineteen is the nothing age: nothing happens. One might possibly have a birthday party, but one simply turns a year older. At eighteen, the glories of legal adulthood capture the attention. One can legally purchase new items, can vote for the leaders of their city, state, and nation, and can fight for the freedom of one’s country and those of others. At twenty, one leaves the stigma of the “teens” although no new perks warrant the age. And of course, at twenty-one, the privilege to legally consume alcoholic beverages opens new doors, quite literally, to previously exclusive establishments. Thus, nineteen has nothing. In fact, many people that I have chatted with feel very similarly and have even expressed that they, just as I, still felt eighteen despite the year of development.

My mother coined a term in her youth which she called “being there.” This is a moment when you realize that you have reached a point in life which you have been anticipating for a length of time. These moments hit me not at the moment I achieve the aspiration, but usually a while afterwards. The most recent experience of “being there” hit me on a recent Saturday night.

Bringing these two seemingly random paragraphs together, on this particular Saturday night, it hit me that I am nineteen, but more than that, I am an adult. I was dressed up, driving out to LA to eat sushi with a friend (which turned out to be such a fun night I will not forget). I did not only feel like an adult, I consciously conceived that I am an adult. I realized how far I have gotten and had reached a point which I had been striving to reach for years. In an instant, months after my nineteenth birthday, I had arrived. But more than this one realization hit me, I also had so much else in my life to reach towards. A life filled with next steps, new challenges, and further aspirations. As a psychology teacher of mine consistently quoted, “Life is a journey, a process, not a destination.”

For a related topic see:Do You Have a Moment?

---

Leave a comment...

From My Memory In Memory of Others

2006-09-10T17:48:00.000-07:00

For my church's memorial service for the fifth anniversary of the September 11 attacks, I was asked to compose a reading in remembrance. After the reading, our choir sang the song You Raise Me Up, by Brendan Graham and Rolf Lovland. To listen to the song, click here.

Snow-globes fascinate the eyes and minds of children. The white flakes whirl around a plastic skyline and blue sky. Many a New-Yorker viewed these toys in souvenir shops lning their route to work. But the life-size snow-globe of September 11 did not evoke any of the same feelings as the familiar toys. The white flakes were not snow, but memos, contracts, and office paper floating through the turbulent air; the skyline marred by plumes of smoke billowing from the World Trade Center towers. New York was not alone in facing fmailiar sights gone mad. The Pentagon and United Airlines Flight 93 also dealt with situations they hoped only to view second handedly.

While the rest of the nation and world did only view the events of that pivotal day, nonetheless that day affected the entire globe. I am sure that some of you can remember Pearl Harbor and more of you can remember JFK's assassination and the majority of you can remember the Challenger explosion. So also, we will all remember September 11 and where we were when we heard the news.

Myself, I had just recently started my first year of high school. On that morning, my brother and I got ready for school and ten minutes before we left for the bus, my parents turned the news on to find the coverage of the burning towers and Pentagon attack. My family watched in astonishment and right as we left for the bus, the first tower fell. By the time I arrived at school, the second tower had collapsed and the fourth plane crashed in Pennsylvania. In the time of one trip to school, thousands of people died and the global political climate had changed forever.

Upon my return home, after a day of television broadcasts and prayers, the news captivated my attention even more. The stunning and gruesome shots filled the airtime, but interviews with witnesses and family began to air as well. The most soul touching moment of my view of the ordeal aired that afternoon. As a journalist interviewed a woman who had remained near the scene through the day, the woman began to cry so hard, she could not speak. Instead of cutting the broadcast, the journalist immediately wrapped her in his arms and told her that "it would be okay" and that "we will get though this." Any my tears began to fall.

Even in devastation, beauty and love show through. On September 11, our nation united as our name asserts. We strove to raise each other up through our actions and prayers. And through our prayers, God raised us up to stand above mountains fo adversity and walk across seas of turbulence. He raises us up continually to more than we can be, to be with him.

---

Leave a comment...

In View of Katrina's First Anniversary

2006-08-30T17:33:00.000-07:00

Over my spring break from college, I traveled to the hardest hit area of Hurricane Katrina, Pass Christian Mississippi. My Campus Crusade For Christ group and our sister group from another university teamed up and paid our own ways to help the victims after seven months. I would love to share the details of my trip and my return to the area this summer with anyone interested. However, this post is from a piece I wrote on the late night flight home after spending a week there, suffering from lack of sleep, muscle soreness, bug bites, too much caffiene on an empty stomach, and heartache from saying goodbye. And so, flowing from the depths of my heart on April 1, 2006 to you:

***

What can prevail against the wind and rain of the strongest hurricane? What can withstand the force of a widespread flood? What can persevere through intense internal heartache? Love. This word encompasses much more than emotion, but includes all that is in the world. This one word gets us through life and death, joy and pain, inner and outer devastation.

Hurricane Katrina uprooted both trees and lives. Its category five winds destroyed the past historical landmarks, the present livelihoods of residents, and the future prospects of thousands upon thousands. This chaos burdened the hearts of the nation, and more so, completely drowned the hope of the victims. And so, one must ask, how did they survive not only the physical loss, but also the emotional depression? Love.

They lavished love upon one another, received love from the volunteers who abounded with love, and bounced that same love back onto those who gave it to them. This love was communicated not only through verbal blessings and thank you’s, but also through the actions of roofing, dry walling, and instillation. Above all other aspects of love rises one supreme love, a love that gives itself to all whether they accept it or not. This love is God.

God provided for every aspect of my trip to Pass Christian, Mississippi. He gave the money, the time, and the love. He taught me lessons before I left and prepared me for the struggles that I faced while I was there. I fought with inner pain over my trip, but on the last day, God provided. He calmed my heart, told me how much he loved me, and showed me how much others loved me. On my flight home, three different people paid for three different meals for my entire team of 13 people. I never asked them to; they simply felt pressed by God to show us that they loved us and appreciated our work. I was utterly overwhelmed.

God loves each of you to such a great extent, whether you like it or not. I know that he exists, but does not “work in mysterious ways.” He is shouting at the top of his lungs at you. You can see it in the glory of the California landscape after a rain, in the random flowers sprouting amidst the rubble of a wind blown home, and in the faces of those touched by his love overtly and through other people.

And so I encourage you, “Love one another.” Don’t hesitate to give the word. Don’t fear saying thank you to those who touch you. Remember to remember those who care for not only you, but humanity. Say thank you to our troops; say thank you to our doctors and nurses; say thank you to our parents; say thank you to God. Because I assure you, the blessing will impact much deeper and greater than you can imagine.

---
Leave a comment...

Vessel of Vanity

2006-08-26T17:51:00.000-07:00

“Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the Lord is worthy to be praised.” – Proverbs 31:30

A compliment to a person can bounce back as an inadvertent compliment to the giver, or so Mike stated in his own words last Friday night, or rather Saturday morning. Though we teased him about his “vanity” through the “vessel” of another; to his defense, he had been tired the whole night. In truth, I can’t even remember what spurred the comment, but as I sat down to write this piece as commissioned by AJ, originally planned to be satirical or humorous, I remembered a passage from Proverbs, a book of the Bible, touching on this subject.

The final chapter and words of Proverbs devote their finale to “The Wife of Noble Character.” The section begins by commenting on the rarity and value of a wife of noble character. King Lemuel, the author of the section, likens her value to a sum greater than rubies. The progression of description weaves its way through her accomplishments which include charity, security, excellent workmanship, and wisdom. Not only is her family well provided for, but it is well respected throughout the city. Verse 23 says right in the middle of the list, “Her husband is respected at the city gate.” A complimented woman can most definitely be the compliment of a man.

Beauty also exists in the inverse; a complimented man can also be the compliment of a woman. This area of discussion expands through the ages, across cultures, and between religions, too much for one blog. So much stems from a simple joke late one night; one display of the exquisiteness of discourse.

---

Leave a comment...

Descriptions of the Evening – August 22, 2006

2006-08-22T20:36:00.000-07:00

I’m running out of time…

How does one describe the color of the sky at the brink of night? The shimmery blue of the daylight remains but has darkened to a gradient of navy progressing ever darker to the east.

A translucent light emanates from the west as the fading sunlight highlights one side of the airy gray clouds, a true silver lining. The clouds still stand out against the deepening night, renewing memories of the day. Their shadows no longer cast their shade upon the earth as the night has stolen their job. Only their high beauty remains.

Slight sparkles of starlight brighten with the passing minutes. Several issue wishes from the earth of the first evening star. Minds and hearts focus skyward, not only physically, but also mentally on dreams and aspirations.

Within a few minutes, night has completed its swift invasion from the Trojan horse of the bright colors painting the sky from the sunset. Even in the obese amount of artificial light of California, more and more stars appear. They dot the heavens, watching over the earth.

The moon hides tonight as the navy continues to deepen … deepen… deepen… and the world is covered.

---

Leave a comment...

The Hit-and-Run Panda

2006-08-22T13:55:00.000-07:00

“A panda walks into a café. He orders a sandwich, eats it, then draws a gun and fires two shots in the air. ‘Why?’ asks the confused waiter, as the panda makes towards the exit. The panda produces a badly punctuated wildlife manual and tosses it over his shoulder. ‘I’m a panda,’ he says at the door. ‘Look it up.’ The waiter turns to the relevant entry and, sure enough, finds an explanation. ‘Panda. Large black-and-white bear-like mammal, native to China. Eats, shoots and leaves.’”

Have you ever been confused about where a comma is to be properly placed? Then Eats, Shoots and Leaves will help.

Have you ever gotten so frustrated with the incorrect usage of punctuation which runs rampant in our society that you have desired to join an underground militia set on preserving the apostrophe by armed force? Then Lynn Truss is the author for you.

Eats, Shoots and Leaves by British author Lynne Truss swept the British bestseller list and my perception of punctuation along with it. Formerly, I hated punctuation, but with my renewing interest in the English language and the help of this book, I kindled a passion for linguistic expression through punctuation. Imagine that, using non-verbal, non-lexical symbols to convey meaning!

Truss’ fervor, perhaps zealotry, for re-educating native English speakers thrives throughout the entirety of the book, which forces bursts of laughter at random intervals. I literally “laughed out loud” while reading this book.

For a taste of her humor, Truss dedicates the book “To the memory of the striking Bolshevik printers of St. Petersburg who, in 1905, demanded to be paid the same rate for punctuation marks as for letters, and thereby directly precipitated the first Russian Revolution.”

More than humor sets this book apart. Truss first tackles the daunting task of determining positions of apostrophes (for which, there exists a special organization named the “Apostrophe Protection Society”), continues to commas, prances on to the poetic nature of colons and semicolons, differentiates between dashes and hyphens, and vociferates on the variety of other punctuation marks.

After reading this book, if anyone tells you that punctuation plays a minor role to the chosen words of a sentence or passage, you will roar back at their ignorance. Truss quotes Eric Partridge from his book You Have a Point There, that “using colons in your writing is the equivalent of playing the piano with crossed hands.” She disagrees with him, but in my view, his words can be twisted for our own use.

I retort: many piano pieces call for the right of left hand to cross over the other for a brief time. This gives the piece a higher level of difficulty, but also increases the skill required to play it and the artistic presentation produced. Thus, appropriately placed colons, and semicolons alike, display a writer’s skill to the world and place an “air” of sophistication on the sentence.

Even if you have no desire to master the English language, read this book; you will pick up a solid grasp of the basics while getting a good laugh. For the lovers of the English language, read this book; your love will grow and flourish to accent your writing with small, but hearty embellishments. Overall, the panda wins.

In a related topic, check out an article about blogging and punctuation by Jennifer Garrett titled, Eats, Blogs and Leaves .

---

Leave a comment...

Where I got the Dixie from, I don't know!

2006-08-21T18:08:00.000-07:00

Your Linguistic Profile:

70% General American English

10% Dixie

10% Yankee

5% Upper Midwestern

0% Midwestern

What Kind of American English Do You Speak?

Check it out for yourself!

(I also have a new post published below)

Mortality

2006-08-21T17:00:00.000-07:00

English majors are wacky. The nutty professor should have taught Comparative Literature instead of Chemistry. Case and point, one of the English Department’s professors at my university stated that he honestly believes that he will not die. Yes, he believes that since he believes that he is immortal, he is.

Personally, I think he never matured from adolescence. So often, teenagers act as if nothing can harm them; invincibility grips their perception of life. This belief follows well into the twenties as America’s average age for the point of adulthood skyrockets.

Slowly through the years, as abstract reasoning develops, the young adolescent does begin to grasp the idea of time ticking slowly by to a certain point in which their existence will cease. For some, and possibly many, this idea steadily developed; for others, one instance brought it all into focus. Through the past couple of years, the realization of my own mortality has hit me in several sudden thuds, which knock the wind out of my lungs and mind and alert me to the seriousness of life.

My first encounter with the massive concept of mortality crashed into me after receiving my first license - even before my first accident. In September of my junior year of high school, I ecstatically opened a letter from the DMV and read through the rules, instructions, and preconditions regarding my new license. Along with my card, came a small addition: the option of the donor sticker. Would I like to be an organ donor? One small pink dot issued a torrent of questions, all of which regarded a period after life. In my time of decisions regarding college, career, and future, I faced an ever morbid decision. What happens to my body after death?

I knew that after death, my soul would live on, but the body would return to dust whence it came. Why then, would it matter if my organs rotted along with it? Yet the eeriness of parts of myself living in other people almost freaked me out. However, after talking wholeheartedly with my parents, I decided to stamp my identification with a pink seal of life in death.

The second engagement with my mortality collided with me when a raised black F250 did not. My best friend and I had gone to the mall and were returning at night. As we passed through an intersection about a half mile away from our houses, the truck ran a red light and turned left into my passenger side at a good 40 miles per hour. By the grace of God, and I use that phrase literally, my reflexes reacted with precision and speed to avert a fatal crash. Moreover, in the sudden jolt and acceleration, my car, an SUV, remained upright despite the very high roll-over risk of cars its size.

In this instance, not my own life, but the life of my dearest friend occupied my mind. I could possibly have survived, but she would most likely have been killed instantly from the direct impact on her side. This comprehension brought the possibility of death back into my mind. In one instant, I could not only lose my life, but also the lives of my dearest loved ones.

Most recently, the issue of death flipped from the focus of being left behind to that of those I will one day leave behind. Apparently, my credit union offers free life insurance to a certain amount. I received a very random letter in the mail the other day informing me of this service. The depths of my mind produced similar questions once again. Who should benefit after my death? Naturally, I chose a family member, but I faced once more the recognition that I will die one day. Essentially, I have a price placed upon my death. But more than an insurance check is produced with my passing; also grief to my family, but life to some unknown people somewhere in the nation.

These questions do not plague me though, for I found truth and eternal life of a different kind than that of the English professor; life of the spirit. But you, have you considered your mortality? Has the concept of death hit you upside the head yet? Moreover, do you know what will happen, not to your body, but to YOU after your death? I suggest you begin searching.

---

Leave a comment...

Questions of the Leap

2006-08-14T19:52:00.000-07:00

Shall I stand on the precipice for eternity or take the leap to the other horizon?

Will I bound to something new or remain in the comfort of my predictable side?

But is it truly comfort or a truth of pain covered by the allusion of security?

Nothing pursues me on my side, but is this security or loneliness?

Does my destiny lie on the other side or in my place here?

What if another chasm awaits my travel past the other rim?

Shall I walk in partience along the edge for a crossing or leap across in faith?

Is it unwise to take the risk or is there wisdom in the taking?

---

Leave a comment...

Reflections of the Horizon - March 7, 2006

2006-08-07T10:06:00.000-07:00

One of my motives for beginning this blog is to showcase some of my work and collect comments upon the style and content from a variety of sources. As so, I will periodically post a few of my works from previous times. I wrote the piece below earlier this year.

***

I invite the ominous horizon to drift toward my golden sunshine. The clouds of deep blue grey proceed in ranks upon the freely swirling atmosphere overtop my head.

Yet suddenly, a shadow envelops my position as the first advancement of the darkness arrives, and that shadow engulfs also my torn heart. The euphoria from the warmth of the sunlight fades and the chill ices my body and send shivers into my exposed heart. I begin to fear this awful majesty that I had just previously welcomed.

The landscape dulls from the glowing joy it once emanated. The sounds of darkness enhance as the breeze, which once played with my hair, increases and begins to tear it from my head. Only the tall palms can now catch the fading glory of the sun as they rise above the terrestrial gloom and stand in contrast to the approaching storm.

My heart is torn as it yearns for both the past bliss of ignorance yet desires the progression that the storm might bring. I stand in simple wait for the culmination of the ensuing chaos and fear the result of my anticipation. Will the torrential rain issue destruction or initiate new growth and life?

-I pray the latter.

---

Leave a comment...

A New Frontier

2006-08-05T21:40:00.000-07:00

Interestingly enough, my excursion into the new frontier of blogging began on paper with a black pilot G-2 0.7 mm pen. I believe this will turn into a tale of self-exploration more than the sharing of my life, as a true literary masterpice should.

I am a very open person and enjoy sharing my life with others. I do not necessarily believe that the phrase "I can read you like a book" only possesses a negative connotation. Does not one read certain books to enjoy the story, to escape to a distant land, or to further find one's self in the text of the pages?

I have a friend who stated that his true friends are books. A very interesting comment that I wish I had had the sense to ask him to elaborate upon further. He then told me that if I wanted to understand him, I would have to read a book of his. I took the challenge and did in fact learn a great deal about his motivations, thoughts, and view of others. I also rediscovered my joy in disecting the intricacies of philosophy from literature.

To bring this analogy back around, just as books influence our lives from the mother's knee and on, so also we influence the lives of others. We form our own opinions based upon our reactions to the opinions of others. I look forward to you learning about me. I look forward to learning about you. I look forward to learning about myself from you.

---

Leave a comment...