So, as most of my readers know, I'm rather artsy. That being said, I wrote a short play called "Antique." And while writing the play is awesome, I have the opportunity to bring "Antique" to life on the stage at the New Play Development Workshop in Orlando this summer, which is infinitely more awesome than simply writing a play that no one will see. I'm really excited about this and I hope that you are also. However, there's a catch... I mean, isn't there always a catch? So, getting myself and my play out to Orlando and finding lodging during Orlando's peak tourist season is expensive. As a result, I need help raising the money to get to the New Play Development Workshop, to afford lodging in Orlando, and to pay the other costs associated with seeing "Antique" staged. In order to raise these much needed funds, I have created a kickstarter project, which you can view here:
http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/780924337/antique-a-new-short-play
Please, if you are able to donate money toward my project, do so. You will be part of the birth of this new play onto the stage, you'll be supporting the arts, and that's something that you can feel good about. And if feeling good about helping this play get to the New Play Development Workshop isn't enough for you, I'm also offering some really great rewards for people who donate money to my kickstarter project. My fundraiser expires in 18 days and I still need to raise $960 in order to meet my goal. (Also, I should mention that kickstarter is an all-or-nothing venture. If I do not succeed in raising my goal amount, I do not receive any of the money pledged to my project.)
So this is it. Here I am, asking you to please go look at my kickstarter project and pledge money to this project if you feel so inclined. Help me bring "Antique" to life on the stage. I promise you won't regret it.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Monday, April 2, 2012
Fragments of Love
In late 2010, I put out a call on my blog, The (Word) Inferno, for artistic contributions for THE LOVE PROJECT, a project that I have yet to finish. Once the blog entry was posted, I proceeded to advertise my project on twitter, my username being @StarOfSavannah, by linking my tweets back to my blog entry on THE LOVE PROJECT. The call was answered by writers, artists, poets, musicians, students, business people, teachers, and many others from around the world. While the project is far from complete, this blog entry offers fragments that will be included in the final version of THE LOVE PROJECT.
What is love?
How do you define it?
Below are original writings, videos, and artworks created by people from around the world to reflect their understanding of love.
OneWomanRunning, @owr, an avid reader, writer, and chronicler of her days in England, submitted her blog post, "A Few Little Thoughts on Love."
Rich, @graffitipoet, a poet from Canada, sent his blog entry, "Love is Like Wii Boxing."
Michael Sanders, @MDwightMichael, a former Performance Studies student at LSU, offered this poem: "Return to Sender."
Silia Hatzi, @SJHatzi, a Greek poetess and entrepreneur, offered this bit of micro-poetry, which links to her video, "Dandelion Wish."
Paul Nadolny, @OddlyStarry, a dreamer and star gazer situated in the Northeastern United States, offered his untitled micro-poem.
Miriam Claire, @MiriDunn, a Canadian poetess offered a poem comprised of many smaller poems she had tweeted in her blog post, "The Love Project."
Katherine Downey, @kado56, an Irish writer, artist, and lexicographer, provided these beautiful images:
Navin Sasikumar, @NavinSasikumar, an witty writer from India who is currently living in Pennsylvania while working on his Master's degree, offered a blog post titled "A Little Thing Called Love."
Nancy Boozeneck, @MaltaGoddess, a lover of love from Malta, offered this tweet.
Osmar Jardim, @OsmarJardim, a humorous wordsmith from Brazil, offered this tweet.
John Nixon, @TheSupercargo, a writer, illustrator, and (ex)teacher in Sweden, offered his blog entry, "Together in Cordoba."
And my perception of love, well, here it is:
And here...
And here...
So there you have it, a few of the fragments of what will eventually be THE LOVE PROJECT. If you would like to contribute to THE LOVE PROJECT, please see my original post detailing the requirements of contribution and then submit your entry to me @StarOfSavannah. I will gather submissions through May 30, 2012, so if you missed the submission deadline the first time around, you have a second chance to submit. I hope to assemble THE LOVE PROJECT into its final form by the end of the summer.
Thank you, and remember, "All you need is love. Love is all you need" (The Beatles).
What is love?
How do you define it?
Below are original writings, videos, and artworks created by people from around the world to reflect their understanding of love.
OneWomanRunning, @owr, an avid reader, writer, and chronicler of her days in England, submitted her blog post, "A Few Little Thoughts on Love."
Rich, @graffitipoet, a poet from Canada, sent his blog entry, "Love is Like Wii Boxing."
Michael Sanders, @MDwightMichael, a former Performance Studies student at LSU, offered this poem: "Return to Sender."
Silia Hatzi, @SJHatzi, a Greek poetess and entrepreneur, offered this bit of micro-poetry, which links to her video, "Dandelion Wish."
Paul Nadolny, @OddlyStarry, a dreamer and star gazer situated in the Northeastern United States, offered his untitled micro-poem.
Miriam Claire, @MiriDunn, a Canadian poetess offered a poem comprised of many smaller poems she had tweeted in her blog post, "The Love Project."
Katherine Downey, @kado56, an Irish writer, artist, and lexicographer, provided these beautiful images:
Navin Sasikumar, @NavinSasikumar, an witty writer from India who is currently living in Pennsylvania while working on his Master's degree, offered a blog post titled "A Little Thing Called Love."
Nancy Boozeneck, @MaltaGoddess, a lover of love from Malta, offered this tweet.
Osmar Jardim, @OsmarJardim, a humorous wordsmith from Brazil, offered this tweet.
John Nixon, @TheSupercargo, a writer, illustrator, and (ex)teacher in Sweden, offered his blog entry, "Together in Cordoba."
And my perception of love, well, here it is:
And here...
And here...
So there you have it, a few of the fragments of what will eventually be THE LOVE PROJECT. If you would like to contribute to THE LOVE PROJECT, please see my original post detailing the requirements of contribution and then submit your entry to me @StarOfSavannah. I will gather submissions through May 30, 2012, so if you missed the submission deadline the first time around, you have a second chance to submit. I hope to assemble THE LOVE PROJECT into its final form by the end of the summer.
Thank you, and remember, "All you need is love. Love is all you need" (The Beatles).
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Noun
Only breathing in thick air and listening for signs of life,
Stymied flowers force their blooms underground, retreating from
The silence of the torrential rains, too loud to make a sound.
Repairing facades of clapboard houses with hot glue and tissue paper
As though this was a reasonable solution to our problems, while
Comprehending the inadequacies of it all and acknowledging the
Inequities of this life and of your conceptions of kindness.
Symphonies of melancholy play to the tempo of my beating heart as it
Measures out the loneliness found in lost flowers and broken houses.
Stymied flowers force their blooms underground, retreating from
The silence of the torrential rains, too loud to make a sound.
Repairing facades of clapboard houses with hot glue and tissue paper
As though this was a reasonable solution to our problems, while
Comprehending the inadequacies of it all and acknowledging the
Inequities of this life and of your conceptions of kindness.
Symphonies of melancholy play to the tempo of my beating heart as it
Measures out the loneliness found in lost flowers and broken houses.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
The Time Traveller
He stood there looking tired, dirty, and strung out. His pupils were black pin-pricks located at the center of hazy eyes, an indication that he was back on the pills. We all knew the signs, but when each one of us is confronted by every single red flag, we tend to look the other way because sometimes it's just easier to ignore the facts. His tattered shirt was not a fashion statement, but rather a symbol of his status, or lack thereof. He was a twenty-seven year old man who had spent the last decade of his life working in kitchens, learning the trade of restaurant cooks. And he was good at it, except when he was high, which these days seemed to be all of the time.
Someone somewhere in the kitchen called out for some couscous. It never appeared though. Several minutes passed by and another person called out for the couscous. More minutes passed by. He just kept standing there staring at the nothingness, which seemed to consume his field of vision. He was present, but not accounted for.
"Where's my goddamn couscous?" a server shouted.
Finally, he moved, though his movements were sluggish and mechanical. He pulled a plate off of the top of the line and threw it in front of him. Next, he dumped a dish of microwaved couscous onto the plate and even as it began to fall apart, losing its form, he never once seemed interested in the work that he was performing. He handed over the plate of couscous, which lacked any meaningful presentation and then moved to put another dish of couscous into the microwave, immediately forgetting that mere seconds earlier he had completed this very task.
Hours later he claimed to have blacked out. His memory of the last 4 hours, he said, was gone. He had not been at work in the kitchen. Instead, he had been traveling through time and space, searching astral planes for a meaningful existence. His search had proven to be fruitless, much to his dismay. He told us nothing about the other wheres and whens of his travels, which led all of us to believe that he was lying to us. We believed, as we always had, that he had simply been too high to function normally. After all, who believes a junkie when he says that he is a time traveller? More to the point, who believes anyone who claims to be able to dance across time and space? Certainly none of us would profess to give such a generous benefit of the doubt to anyone who could not provide us with undeniable evidence in support of their claim.
Some hours later as I was sitting at the bar feeling sorry for myself he sat down beside me. Minutes passed in silence. I didn't even bother acknowledging his presence because I would have been obligated to speak to him about his drug addiction and I was, quite frankly, too tied up in my own problems to want to take time out of my day for him. It is selfish, I know. As I considered standing up and wandering around the building in search of a kindred soul, he turned his head and looked at me. It was growing increasingly harder to ignore his presence, and so I returned his gaze.
"I met the other you," he said.
"The other me?" I smirked incredulously.
He nodded.
"You mean like a doppelganger?" I asked.
He laughed a hard laugh. It sounded like wind blowing over dried reeds on a steely grey day in November. I hadn't been expecting it and it took me by surprise.
"No, it was you. There are a lot of other yous, but I only met one of them. You are a lot alike."
"This is absurd! There is not another me out there."
"Yes, there is. I met her when I was travelling today. You'd like her, I think. She doesn't wallow in her self-loathing," he said quietly.
"What?!" I was offended.
He didn't say anything in response, and so after few seconds passed I continued to speak to him, "I don't wallow in self-loathing. And I don't think there is another me out there. I think you are insane. Either that, or you are high. So which is it?"
He smiled, "Neither."
"Whatever!" I said as I moved to leave.
"I knew I shouldn't have told you," he said shaking his head.
"Lay off the drugs."
"Please, wait!" he implored me. Something in his voice was heartbreaking. It was as though every loneliness in the world had surfaced in those two words and he offered all of it up in his plea. How could I say no? So I turned around and faced him.
"What?" I asked.
"He's not worth your time. You know that he isn't. So does he. You're better than that."
"Who?" I asked.
"You know who I'm talking about. She told me about him. He's an image, a character. You've taken his best qualities and amplified them in your image of him and you've managed to ignore everything else about him, but he's a real person and he's more than the sum of his parts. You're doing him a disservice and you're doing a disservice to yourself, too. You don't respect him. If you did, you couldn't break him into parts and pieces. You'd want all of him. And he doesn't respect you."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I lied. I didn't want to admit that he was right. Further, I was puzzled by his knowledge of this particularly troubled relationship in my life.
"He lies to you. He isn't interested in you in the long run. All he wants are the bragging rights to that notch in his bedpost and once he's secured those bragging rights, he'll be gone. You're a novelty to him, nothing more."
"You don't know what you're talking about," I told him indignantly.
"What are you doing with him? At twenty-one he's no better than a child," he pressed.
"I'm not that far removed from twenty-one."
"Don't kid yourself. You are. And you've been an adult for much longer than you've been a child. You know better than this. She, the other you, told me to remind you of this before you waste anymore of your time and affection on him. He doesn't deserve you."
I didn't know what to say, so I just stared at him as the anxiety of this conversation twisted by stomach into knots.
"Has he ever taken you out to dinner? A movie? A real date? Does he call you just to hear your voice?" he asked.
"No."
"Does he lie to you?"
"Yes."
"And you know it, but you just let it happen."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because."
"That's not good enough. Why?"
I didn't want to continue this conversation with him. I felt like I was following him down the rabbit hole and I was afraid of what I'd find there. I stood up and turned my back to him. Even as I inhaled deeply, I felt the defeat creep into my spine, twisting it ever so slightly. Everything felt heavier. I was on the brink of acknowledging my own worthlessness as I took a step forward.
"She told me to tell you that someday you'll be loved. Don't feel worthless, because you aren't," he said almost tenderly.
I stopped, one foot in front of the other, not turning around, "And how does she know all of this?"
"She's you in a decade. And she's happy now. You'll be happy someday, too."
I smiled at the thought of my future self being happy. Maybe he was high. Or maybe he was insane. Or maybe he was telling the truth. It no longer mattered to me whether this was the truth or a fantasy. I had hope that someday I would be happy. I walked away from him in silence, never bothering to turn around.
The next day at work we were informed that he had passed away in the night from a suspected drug overdose. Sometimes I entertain the briefest of thoughts that he isn't dead, but that instead, he is dancing across time and space, enjoying another where or when where he is happy, too.
Someone somewhere in the kitchen called out for some couscous. It never appeared though. Several minutes passed by and another person called out for the couscous. More minutes passed by. He just kept standing there staring at the nothingness, which seemed to consume his field of vision. He was present, but not accounted for.
"Where's my goddamn couscous?" a server shouted.
Finally, he moved, though his movements were sluggish and mechanical. He pulled a plate off of the top of the line and threw it in front of him. Next, he dumped a dish of microwaved couscous onto the plate and even as it began to fall apart, losing its form, he never once seemed interested in the work that he was performing. He handed over the plate of couscous, which lacked any meaningful presentation and then moved to put another dish of couscous into the microwave, immediately forgetting that mere seconds earlier he had completed this very task.
Hours later he claimed to have blacked out. His memory of the last 4 hours, he said, was gone. He had not been at work in the kitchen. Instead, he had been traveling through time and space, searching astral planes for a meaningful existence. His search had proven to be fruitless, much to his dismay. He told us nothing about the other wheres and whens of his travels, which led all of us to believe that he was lying to us. We believed, as we always had, that he had simply been too high to function normally. After all, who believes a junkie when he says that he is a time traveller? More to the point, who believes anyone who claims to be able to dance across time and space? Certainly none of us would profess to give such a generous benefit of the doubt to anyone who could not provide us with undeniable evidence in support of their claim.
Some hours later as I was sitting at the bar feeling sorry for myself he sat down beside me. Minutes passed in silence. I didn't even bother acknowledging his presence because I would have been obligated to speak to him about his drug addiction and I was, quite frankly, too tied up in my own problems to want to take time out of my day for him. It is selfish, I know. As I considered standing up and wandering around the building in search of a kindred soul, he turned his head and looked at me. It was growing increasingly harder to ignore his presence, and so I returned his gaze.
"I met the other you," he said.
"The other me?" I smirked incredulously.
He nodded.
"You mean like a doppelganger?" I asked.
He laughed a hard laugh. It sounded like wind blowing over dried reeds on a steely grey day in November. I hadn't been expecting it and it took me by surprise.
"No, it was you. There are a lot of other yous, but I only met one of them. You are a lot alike."
"This is absurd! There is not another me out there."
"Yes, there is. I met her when I was travelling today. You'd like her, I think. She doesn't wallow in her self-loathing," he said quietly.
"What?!" I was offended.
He didn't say anything in response, and so after few seconds passed I continued to speak to him, "I don't wallow in self-loathing. And I don't think there is another me out there. I think you are insane. Either that, or you are high. So which is it?"
He smiled, "Neither."
"Whatever!" I said as I moved to leave.
"I knew I shouldn't have told you," he said shaking his head.
"Lay off the drugs."
"Please, wait!" he implored me. Something in his voice was heartbreaking. It was as though every loneliness in the world had surfaced in those two words and he offered all of it up in his plea. How could I say no? So I turned around and faced him.
"What?" I asked.
"He's not worth your time. You know that he isn't. So does he. You're better than that."
"Who?" I asked.
"You know who I'm talking about. She told me about him. He's an image, a character. You've taken his best qualities and amplified them in your image of him and you've managed to ignore everything else about him, but he's a real person and he's more than the sum of his parts. You're doing him a disservice and you're doing a disservice to yourself, too. You don't respect him. If you did, you couldn't break him into parts and pieces. You'd want all of him. And he doesn't respect you."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I lied. I didn't want to admit that he was right. Further, I was puzzled by his knowledge of this particularly troubled relationship in my life.
"He lies to you. He isn't interested in you in the long run. All he wants are the bragging rights to that notch in his bedpost and once he's secured those bragging rights, he'll be gone. You're a novelty to him, nothing more."
"You don't know what you're talking about," I told him indignantly.
"What are you doing with him? At twenty-one he's no better than a child," he pressed.
"I'm not that far removed from twenty-one."
"Don't kid yourself. You are. And you've been an adult for much longer than you've been a child. You know better than this. She, the other you, told me to remind you of this before you waste anymore of your time and affection on him. He doesn't deserve you."
I didn't know what to say, so I just stared at him as the anxiety of this conversation twisted by stomach into knots.
"Has he ever taken you out to dinner? A movie? A real date? Does he call you just to hear your voice?" he asked.
"No."
"Does he lie to you?"
"Yes."
"And you know it, but you just let it happen."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because."
"That's not good enough. Why?"
I didn't want to continue this conversation with him. I felt like I was following him down the rabbit hole and I was afraid of what I'd find there. I stood up and turned my back to him. Even as I inhaled deeply, I felt the defeat creep into my spine, twisting it ever so slightly. Everything felt heavier. I was on the brink of acknowledging my own worthlessness as I took a step forward.
"She told me to tell you that someday you'll be loved. Don't feel worthless, because you aren't," he said almost tenderly.
I stopped, one foot in front of the other, not turning around, "And how does she know all of this?"
"She's you in a decade. And she's happy now. You'll be happy someday, too."
I smiled at the thought of my future self being happy. Maybe he was high. Or maybe he was insane. Or maybe he was telling the truth. It no longer mattered to me whether this was the truth or a fantasy. I had hope that someday I would be happy. I walked away from him in silence, never bothering to turn around.
The next day at work we were informed that he had passed away in the night from a suspected drug overdose. Sometimes I entertain the briefest of thoughts that he isn't dead, but that instead, he is dancing across time and space, enjoying another where or when where he is happy, too.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Where is my representation?
So, I'm thinking about the Boston Tea Party. If I remember correctly, the slogan was, "No taxation without representation," or something like that, and by "something like that," I mean to say that this was most certainly the slogan. No taxation without representation. I'll say it again. No taxation without representation! And now I'm wondering about representation. Sure, there are senators and representatives from my state, and sure, I get a vote, but I wonder, who is really, and I do mean really, representing me? I mean, who is representing me as a grad student living in Louisiana at the poverty line? Who is representing me as a woman who was born in rural Pennsylvania? Who is representing me as an artist who sees beauty in everything, while still knowing that all beauty is subjective? Really, who is representing me? Those people in Congress are so far removed from me and my life that they might as well be the characters in a fairy tale. And the President, well, I definitely don't think he can relate to me in the way that I would like to be related to. And here's the thing: I can write letters to these people, my representatives, until my hands cramp up, but the only people who will likely read those letters are over-worked and under-paid interns. And these interns will likely throw my letters away as soon as they have managed to type my address onto a form letter thanking me for my initial letter. And this form letter will then be mailed to me post haste (or not). But really, who cares about me? About what I want? Who is standing up for me on Capitol Hill saying, "Well, there's this woman named Savannah who lives in Louisiana, but was originally from rural Pennsylvania. Did you know that she knows how to milk cows? Anyway, she's an artist and a graduate student and she's living at the poverty line. She's just struggling to get by. And so, as we consider this debt deal, let's keep in mind how our decisions might affect her life. Will she be able to continue going to school if we do away with subsidized stafford loans for graduate students? Or will this put her in a position where the debt of graduate school buries her? We don't want to see her default on her loans, or anything. So, while we consider this, can we keep her in mind? Thanks." But really, I know that there is no one on Capitol Hill who is standing up for me. And so I guess now I'm wondering, is this just another case of taxation without representation? And if it is, what can I do to be better represented?
Sunday, July 17, 2011
As I drove
It has been raining off and on for days now, and so there is a perpetual fine mist about the air. I hadn't noticed the mist until I was driving back to my apartment sometime just after midnight tonight. I rolled down my driver's side window to let the Louisiana night into my car. The muggy air slid over my face like a wet, warm blanket. The roads were empty except for roadkill and the occasional car, and in complete honesty, I was happy for it. My mind was free to wander as I drove. It wasn't until I reached Antioch Road that I realized that the air was full of visible water vapor. My lonely car drove down the road, dodging the muffled halos of light from street lamps that lined the nearly straight piece of pavement. A beautiful, whitewashed fence stood guard over open fields that stretched into the darkness of the night. Something about this place, this road, these muted orbs of light, this proud fence, made me feel like I had fallen asleep and woken up within a dream. It was so beautiful that I had trouble believing that such a place existed in real life. Even more interesting was the way that driving down this stretch of road made me feel as though I was the only soul on Earth, as though no one else existed and I had found the Garden of Eden. At the same time, I felt connected to this place, like I was reliving a memory. It was a strange experience to feel as though I was in a dream, while simultaneously feeling as though I was experiencing deja vu, as though I'd been here before. And for just a second, that strangeness made the world a magical place full of merging potentials and memories.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Old Poetry That Should Win Me The Award For Disturbingly High Amounts of Post-Teen Angst
Silence for J. Alfred Prufrock
From the oil slick ocean
To the dark pebble beach
The mermaids, they watched
Singing each to each
When along came the man
They despised above all others
Stumbling distantly down the beach
Dragging a woman behind him.
The mermaids grew quiet
Watching with somber disdain
As J. Alfred Prufrock shook the woman
Who cried out in pain
Then through the yellow fog of the October night
The shining gold orb, like a dead man’s dull eye
Appeared from J. Alfred’s pocket, his faithful watch and chain
As though holding time could possibly save his life.
These mermaids, they watch him with muted disdain
As J. Alfred replaces his watch and his chain.
Then frantic and panicked he pulls up a sleeve
Checking the time pieces on each arm
Four by four
Then sounds the alarm:
Time is running out!
Does he dare to eat a peach?
Thirty-four women he’s brought to their sea.
All of them he fears.
All of them he needs.
Each woman comes from the dark London streets,
From dirtied, wooden shacks
Where frescos by Michelangelo are tick marks on walls
Counting lustful engagements.
Tonight he won’t be alone
For time is running out!
He must slash their throats,
Soft flesh surrounds the gaping wound,
As they gurgle and tremble
Beneath the bleeding moon.
Then to the sea he tosses
The bodies, still murmuring with life
And he watches gleefully as the sea
Steals their last breath.
Their lives to save his own.
No, tonight… tonight he won’t be alone.
“What pollution is this?”
The mermaids, they screech
As from tar black waters
They pull the pit of his peach.
In his loneliest nights, J. Alfred implores them
To sing him a song,
But the mermaids deny him
Casting their angry eyes across the sea.
So he sings to himself,
Crooning songs of the utmost despair,
His anthems of drowning, death and decay
Like the Devil’s soul, bared
Touch the ears of the mermaids
Like ice picks to eardrums.
The mermaids, they dive deep down
Cursing that J. Alfred, the Ripper,
Had ever come
To their beach.
Knight in (Shining) Armor
Sobriety was never his strongest suit.
Intoxication was in his armored flask.
He rode the White Horse down the road
It was three years gone before he even looked back.
Once clear blue eyes, now murky pink glazed,
Stole my heart and swept me off with him,
My knight in (shining) armor now wears
Armor, like his eyes, darkening and dimmed.
Selfishness has become his constant shield
While addiction is the dull sword he waves
He’s forgotten to care for other’s souls
As long as the source of his ailment is safe.
And me, the lady he swears he loves
In his moments of sobriety,
I question how he can care for or love anyone
When he lives his life so selfishly.
Oh, there was a time, his lifetime ago,
When he was my knight in (shining) armor,
But as intoxication tarnished him
I realize that he is my knight no longer.
I wait in my tower patiently,
My tired blue eyes watching the end of the day.
The sun is setting on this fairytale nightmare.
His armor, not shining as he staggers away.
The Faceless Man
And the faceless man walked on
Rustling the hanged bodies in the trees
As he walked through the forest of
The Dead
In search of me
Muttering:
Running out of time
Running out of time
In search of Goodwill Industries
To recycle my belongings
God said to give up
Worldly possessions
To prove devotion
Mantra repeating:
Running out of Time
Like a Buddhist monk
Meditating to find
Heightened Awareness
I search for Jesus
In my dreams
But the Grinch swears that
He’s dead
Hanging in a tree
With a swollen face
And pecked out eyes
Because I’m running…
Running out of time
With Jesus dead
Is there salvation?
I ask the green, green Grinch.
He smiles his Grinchy smile
Running out of Christmas?
Stealing Christmas?
Stealing Christ
Out of time?
And so I run
Back in time,
To a place before God
Let Jesus die
In a tree, in midwinter
Where the faceless man,
Hooded, cloaked reaper,
Stands and waits for me.
Wagging a long finger
He sneeringly says,
I told you that you would
Run out of time!
And you have.
Oh, you have!
Gleefully stated:
You’ve run out of time!
The Silence of Us
It’s like the wet snow falling
Muting my crunching footsteps,
So that my ears hear nothing
But the deafening ring
Of quiet. And so that my eyes
See nothing, but hazy white.
All of this nothingness, hanging
In the air around me,
Well, it’s like wet bras and panties
And other unmentionables on a clothesline
In the rain.
Rotting and molding and festering
And stinking.
Especially the stinking of the words
That got lost somewhere in my throat
Choking me like a piece of food
Lodged halfway between my mouth
And my stomach,
Causing my eyes to tear and bulge,
Unable to even whisper that
I might be dying here.
Warring Factions
The embers
Illuminate our faces,
Set like stone.
And the fire burns,
The way an angry sun would kiss
No words will be uttered tonight.
The silence hangs thick
As a wet blanket,
Threatens to extinguish
Us.
Wanderlust
Feeling that wanderlust again
A nomad by nature, and in my own skin
Still not quite happy in this world,
Like it’s time to shed this shell, serpent that I am
There’s something missing
Something crucial, like the difference
Between Transubstantiation and Consubstantiation
Forget that the principles are identical in the end.
It’s enough to claim a saved status for one
Leaving the other damned
And somewhere purgatory waits for me
Turn the cards that fate lined up
Not quite sure how to interpret the images,
But he tells me that I’m on my way
The stars don’t lie
How could they without mouths to speak?
Follow the North Star to destiny’s path
Quench my thirst
And leave this place behind.
Defining Your Perfection
Considering the fact that we are perfect for each other
I wonder if you know what perfect means?
While you are busy treading on me, doing as you please
I emulate the Hell in which I live.
And in rare moments of earthly Purgatory,
I am transfixed by the artist's eyes, not yours.
They are the trustworthy color of faded blue jeans,
Worn down by years of wear and tear... and caring.
Oh, and how the artist cares for me!
There is a connection for us to plug into
Like the last puzzle piece fitting into the seascape.
We are artists and prisoners of tortured lives together, yet apart.
Common ground is large enough to run upon it,
As though we were two halves of the same person, incognito.
When I lose focus of the artist's eyes
You are again drilling holes through my soul.
What about this is perfect to you?
Dying Embers
Dying embers like molten lava
Flowing into the pit of the bonfire
Set the mood
Imagine that it is only wood
That burns in this pit?
Imagine?!
And so I watch the wood
Turn from a solid to a liquid
Burning away to nothing and
I wonder where you have gone.
Looking away from the fire
Is little help.
Smokey dark night.
And then I see you.
I love you, you know.
You don't reciprocate.
It's the end, you say.
Wish I could explain it
But I can't.
Instead we go home
Climb inside of our warm bed,
Two warring factions
Lying side by side
Angry in the dark.
No sweet talk.
No touching.
No "I love you"s.
The only thing here is anger and distance.
Lying here in this bed with him,
Is the first time in my life
That I've ever felt so
Utterly and completely alone.
From the oil slick ocean
To the dark pebble beach
The mermaids, they watched
Singing each to each
When along came the man
They despised above all others
Stumbling distantly down the beach
Dragging a woman behind him.
The mermaids grew quiet
Watching with somber disdain
As J. Alfred Prufrock shook the woman
Who cried out in pain
Then through the yellow fog of the October night
The shining gold orb, like a dead man’s dull eye
Appeared from J. Alfred’s pocket, his faithful watch and chain
As though holding time could possibly save his life.
These mermaids, they watch him with muted disdain
As J. Alfred replaces his watch and his chain.
Then frantic and panicked he pulls up a sleeve
Checking the time pieces on each arm
Four by four
Then sounds the alarm:
Time is running out!
Does he dare to eat a peach?
Thirty-four women he’s brought to their sea.
All of them he fears.
All of them he needs.
Each woman comes from the dark London streets,
From dirtied, wooden shacks
Where frescos by Michelangelo are tick marks on walls
Counting lustful engagements.
Tonight he won’t be alone
For time is running out!
He must slash their throats,
Soft flesh surrounds the gaping wound,
As they gurgle and tremble
Beneath the bleeding moon.
Then to the sea he tosses
The bodies, still murmuring with life
And he watches gleefully as the sea
Steals their last breath.
Their lives to save his own.
No, tonight… tonight he won’t be alone.
“What pollution is this?”
The mermaids, they screech
As from tar black waters
They pull the pit of his peach.
In his loneliest nights, J. Alfred implores them
To sing him a song,
But the mermaids deny him
Casting their angry eyes across the sea.
So he sings to himself,
Crooning songs of the utmost despair,
His anthems of drowning, death and decay
Like the Devil’s soul, bared
Touch the ears of the mermaids
Like ice picks to eardrums.
The mermaids, they dive deep down
Cursing that J. Alfred, the Ripper,
Had ever come
To their beach.
Knight in (Shining) Armor
Sobriety was never his strongest suit.
Intoxication was in his armored flask.
He rode the White Horse down the road
It was three years gone before he even looked back.
Once clear blue eyes, now murky pink glazed,
Stole my heart and swept me off with him,
My knight in (shining) armor now wears
Armor, like his eyes, darkening and dimmed.
Selfishness has become his constant shield
While addiction is the dull sword he waves
He’s forgotten to care for other’s souls
As long as the source of his ailment is safe.
And me, the lady he swears he loves
In his moments of sobriety,
I question how he can care for or love anyone
When he lives his life so selfishly.
Oh, there was a time, his lifetime ago,
When he was my knight in (shining) armor,
But as intoxication tarnished him
I realize that he is my knight no longer.
I wait in my tower patiently,
My tired blue eyes watching the end of the day.
The sun is setting on this fairytale nightmare.
His armor, not shining as he staggers away.
The Faceless Man
And the faceless man walked on
Rustling the hanged bodies in the trees
As he walked through the forest of
The Dead
In search of me
Muttering:
Running out of time
Running out of time
In search of Goodwill Industries
To recycle my belongings
God said to give up
Worldly possessions
To prove devotion
Mantra repeating:
Running out of Time
Like a Buddhist monk
Meditating to find
Heightened Awareness
I search for Jesus
In my dreams
But the Grinch swears that
He’s dead
Hanging in a tree
With a swollen face
And pecked out eyes
Because I’m running…
Running out of time
With Jesus dead
Is there salvation?
I ask the green, green Grinch.
He smiles his Grinchy smile
Running out of Christmas?
Stealing Christmas?
Stealing Christ
Out of time?
And so I run
Back in time,
To a place before God
Let Jesus die
In a tree, in midwinter
Where the faceless man,
Hooded, cloaked reaper,
Stands and waits for me.
Wagging a long finger
He sneeringly says,
I told you that you would
Run out of time!
And you have.
Oh, you have!
Gleefully stated:
You’ve run out of time!
The Silence of Us
It’s like the wet snow falling
Muting my crunching footsteps,
So that my ears hear nothing
But the deafening ring
Of quiet. And so that my eyes
See nothing, but hazy white.
All of this nothingness, hanging
In the air around me,
Well, it’s like wet bras and panties
And other unmentionables on a clothesline
In the rain.
Rotting and molding and festering
And stinking.
Especially the stinking of the words
That got lost somewhere in my throat
Choking me like a piece of food
Lodged halfway between my mouth
And my stomach,
Causing my eyes to tear and bulge,
Unable to even whisper that
I might be dying here.
Warring Factions
The embers
Illuminate our faces,
Set like stone.
And the fire burns,
The way an angry sun would kiss
No words will be uttered tonight.
The silence hangs thick
As a wet blanket,
Threatens to extinguish
Us.
Wanderlust
Feeling that wanderlust again
A nomad by nature, and in my own skin
Still not quite happy in this world,
Like it’s time to shed this shell, serpent that I am
There’s something missing
Something crucial, like the difference
Between Transubstantiation and Consubstantiation
Forget that the principles are identical in the end.
It’s enough to claim a saved status for one
Leaving the other damned
And somewhere purgatory waits for me
Turn the cards that fate lined up
Not quite sure how to interpret the images,
But he tells me that I’m on my way
The stars don’t lie
How could they without mouths to speak?
Follow the North Star to destiny’s path
Quench my thirst
And leave this place behind.
Defining Your Perfection
Considering the fact that we are perfect for each other
I wonder if you know what perfect means?
While you are busy treading on me, doing as you please
I emulate the Hell in which I live.
And in rare moments of earthly Purgatory,
I am transfixed by the artist's eyes, not yours.
They are the trustworthy color of faded blue jeans,
Worn down by years of wear and tear... and caring.
Oh, and how the artist cares for me!
There is a connection for us to plug into
Like the last puzzle piece fitting into the seascape.
We are artists and prisoners of tortured lives together, yet apart.
Common ground is large enough to run upon it,
As though we were two halves of the same person, incognito.
When I lose focus of the artist's eyes
You are again drilling holes through my soul.
What about this is perfect to you?
Dying Embers
Dying embers like molten lava
Flowing into the pit of the bonfire
Set the mood
Imagine that it is only wood
That burns in this pit?
Imagine?!
And so I watch the wood
Turn from a solid to a liquid
Burning away to nothing and
I wonder where you have gone.
Looking away from the fire
Is little help.
Smokey dark night.
And then I see you.
I love you, you know.
You don't reciprocate.
It's the end, you say.
Wish I could explain it
But I can't.
Instead we go home
Climb inside of our warm bed,
Two warring factions
Lying side by side
Angry in the dark.
No sweet talk.
No touching.
No "I love you"s.
The only thing here is anger and distance.
Lying here in this bed with him,
Is the first time in my life
That I've ever felt so
Utterly and completely alone.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
The LOVE project: A Collaboration
Interested in collaborations? Yeah, me too. In fact, Jon Powles' (@JonPowles on twitter) project, in which he sewed together micropoetry written by various authors on twitter to create lyrics to a song, has captured my interest. I think that his project is genius and I cannot wait to hear the performance of the song. That said, I am interested in creating a collaborative project, too. I would like to use twitter as a platform to find others who might be interested in contributing to this project. Please know that you will receive proper recognition for your contributions. Unlike Jon Powles, I do not intend to make music, though there might be a musical component to this project. Instead, I am interested in creating a creative multimedia project, which could include written prose, poetry, spoken word, music, sculpture, paintings, sketchings, film, photographs, performance, etc. The topic of this collaborative project is love. If you are interested in being a part of this collaboration this is what you must do: 1) Create your contribution (ALL WORKS MUST BE ORIGINAL AND OWNED BY YOU), 2) Put your contribution on the internet (i.e., blog, youtube, twitpic, twitter, etc.), 3) Send me a link to your contribution via twitter (I am @StarOfSavannah), and 4) You must give me permission to use it in this collaborative project. Please know that if you send me a contribution I may use any part of it, or all of it in this project. Once the project is completed, I will put it on the internet, giving credit to all contributors.
BUT WAIT! That's not all!
Once the project is completed, I intend to analyze the methods used to complete the project and I hope to write a scholary essay on the ways in which twitter has made creative collaboration at a global level possible. I also hope to be able to analyze the limitations of this type of collaboration and consider the potential opportunities that twitter can offer in the future.
Now that you know what I'm hoping to accomplish, are you interested in contributing to this creative collaborative project? I can only hope so.
Questions that might help to get you started: What is love? What does love mean to you? Where can you find love? How does love look, smell, feel, etc.? What do you love? Who do you love? If love were a color, what color would it be?
I hope that you'll contribute to this project. Remember, you can send any type of artistic contribution as long as it is your original work and it pertains to the theme of this project. Further, remember that you must give me written permission to use your contribution in this collaborative project. All artists retain full rights to their works. Finally, if you're interested in participating in this project, remember to use twitter to send @StarOfSavannah a link to your work. Deadline for submission for this project is December 10th, 2010.
BUT WAIT! That's not all!
Once the project is completed, I intend to analyze the methods used to complete the project and I hope to write a scholary essay on the ways in which twitter has made creative collaboration at a global level possible. I also hope to be able to analyze the limitations of this type of collaboration and consider the potential opportunities that twitter can offer in the future.
Now that you know what I'm hoping to accomplish, are you interested in contributing to this creative collaborative project? I can only hope so.
Questions that might help to get you started: What is love? What does love mean to you? Where can you find love? How does love look, smell, feel, etc.? What do you love? Who do you love? If love were a color, what color would it be?
I hope that you'll contribute to this project. Remember, you can send any type of artistic contribution as long as it is your original work and it pertains to the theme of this project. Further, remember that you must give me written permission to use your contribution in this collaborative project. All artists retain full rights to their works. Finally, if you're interested in participating in this project, remember to use twitter to send @StarOfSavannah a link to your work. Deadline for submission for this project is December 10th, 2010.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Hope
Emily Dickinson once said, "Hope is that thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without the words and never stops... at all." I think that's a beautiful description of hope, though perhaps not quite accurate. Perhaps it was accurate for her. After all, hope represents something different for each of us, thus, it is only logical to consider the possibility that perhaps hope is represented differently to each of us as well.
Hope is something that I carry with me everywhere that I go. Even in my darkest hours, my hope of better days exists. I have never been utterly and completely hopeless and my heart hurts for the people who are. It must certainly be a terrible thing to experience -- the loss of hope. I wonder, what must go wrong in a person's life for them to abandon all hope for improvement in much the same way as a sailor might abandon a sinking ship. Or to twist the question about, what could bring a person to decide to cling to a sinking ship when there are lifeboats within their reach?
I hope. Even now, I hope. I hope for so many wonderful things that some days I think that I might explode with optimism.
Silly as it may seem, what I hope for the most is to find you... whoever you are and wherever you are. I don't believe that I know you yet, but one day I hope to know you. One day I hope that you'll fill me up with happiness and love and that I will do the same for you. I know that you're out there somewhere and I'm hoping hard that I will find you soon.
Hope is something that I carry with me everywhere that I go. Even in my darkest hours, my hope of better days exists. I have never been utterly and completely hopeless and my heart hurts for the people who are. It must certainly be a terrible thing to experience -- the loss of hope. I wonder, what must go wrong in a person's life for them to abandon all hope for improvement in much the same way as a sailor might abandon a sinking ship. Or to twist the question about, what could bring a person to decide to cling to a sinking ship when there are lifeboats within their reach?
I hope. Even now, I hope. I hope for so many wonderful things that some days I think that I might explode with optimism.
Silly as it may seem, what I hope for the most is to find you... whoever you are and wherever you are. I don't believe that I know you yet, but one day I hope to know you. One day I hope that you'll fill me up with happiness and love and that I will do the same for you. I know that you're out there somewhere and I'm hoping hard that I will find you soon.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Quiet
I like when the world is quiet,
Which it seldom seems to be.
Oft discordant.
Oft too loud.
Plagued by warmongers' hate speech.
Anti-everything,
Anti-you and anti-me.
This is the world that I've grown up in:
A world that knows no peace.
I am old enough to understand this,
Old enough to know what it means.
I am young enough to change it,
To stand apart in peaceful mutiny.
I will not acquiesce to the status quo of war,
For I like when the world is quiet.
"There is only you, and you are but a thought." -- Mark Twain, The Mysterious Stranger Manuscripts
Which it seldom seems to be.
Oft discordant.
Oft too loud.
Plagued by warmongers' hate speech.
Anti-everything,
Anti-you and anti-me.
This is the world that I've grown up in:
A world that knows no peace.
I am old enough to understand this,
Old enough to know what it means.
I am young enough to change it,
To stand apart in peaceful mutiny.
I will not acquiesce to the status quo of war,
For I like when the world is quiet.
"There is only you, and you are but a thought." -- Mark Twain, The Mysterious Stranger Manuscripts
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Is this culture shock?
I guess I never stopped to think about how moving 2150 miles from the place I've called home for much of my life would affect me. I've done so much traveling around the US that I've become accustomed to the instability, or so I thought. What I didn't realize is that this is an entirely new type of instability. In the past, whenever I traveled to a new place, I always knew that I would be returning home, that this new place was not going to be my new home. Being in a new place becomes a much easier experience when you know that you are just a part of the transient population and that this isn't a long term situation. And there is something about the simple enjoyability of being a member of a transient population that I've always loved.
When I moved to Louisiana, I thought that I would find the same enjoyability in moving that I do in traveling, and for a time I did. However, it's now occurring to me that I am not a member of the transient population here, that this is my new home, and I've lost the comfort I take in knowing that I can always go home. I think that I am finally being affected by culture shock. And homesickness is really setting in.
In effect, I've had to recreate myself and begin building a life for myself from almost nothing. I've left my large network of friends and acquaintances behind and I often find myself working much harder to make friends than I would have in Pennsylvania. I mean, making friends and being social has always been a natural and easy thing for me, but in Louisiana that's not the case. There are a different set of rules and requirements to make friends here. And signals that meant one thing for me in Pennsylvania have an entirely new meaning in Louisiana. Navigating social activities has become something of a chore and it's completely exhausting to present myself as a potential friend to someone when at this very moment, I'm not even sure that I know who I am or what I want. That's not to say that I'm giving up, because I'm not. I'm just frustrated and tired and occasionally, I'm lonely.
I miss my old life in Pennsylvania. It wasn't always an easy life, but it was comfortable. I had a routine and I almost always knew what I could expect. Here, I am unsure of almost everything. I feel like a piece of driftwood being tossed around in the sea. I'm sure that after a certain amount of time I will adjust to life here and be comfortable again, but for now, I just pine for my memories of ease and comfort.
When I moved to Louisiana, I thought that I would find the same enjoyability in moving that I do in traveling, and for a time I did. However, it's now occurring to me that I am not a member of the transient population here, that this is my new home, and I've lost the comfort I take in knowing that I can always go home. I think that I am finally being affected by culture shock. And homesickness is really setting in.
In effect, I've had to recreate myself and begin building a life for myself from almost nothing. I've left my large network of friends and acquaintances behind and I often find myself working much harder to make friends than I would have in Pennsylvania. I mean, making friends and being social has always been a natural and easy thing for me, but in Louisiana that's not the case. There are a different set of rules and requirements to make friends here. And signals that meant one thing for me in Pennsylvania have an entirely new meaning in Louisiana. Navigating social activities has become something of a chore and it's completely exhausting to present myself as a potential friend to someone when at this very moment, I'm not even sure that I know who I am or what I want. That's not to say that I'm giving up, because I'm not. I'm just frustrated and tired and occasionally, I'm lonely.
I miss my old life in Pennsylvania. It wasn't always an easy life, but it was comfortable. I had a routine and I almost always knew what I could expect. Here, I am unsure of almost everything. I feel like a piece of driftwood being tossed around in the sea. I'm sure that after a certain amount of time I will adjust to life here and be comfortable again, but for now, I just pine for my memories of ease and comfort.
Friday, May 21, 2010
The mutterings of a sleep deprived girl
It's late night here. Or maybe it's early morning. Is this what they call the pre-dawn hours? I suppose the time of day doesn't really matter though. What matters is that I'm sitting here, alone with my thoughts, in a room that feels more like a prison than a sanctuary. And I'm lonely. I'm not often lonely, though when loneliness strikes it always seems to find me at night when everyone else is happily dreaming. Even my cat is comfortably snoozing at my feet. Maybe if I hadn't drank so much coffee today, or was it yesterday already, I'd be able to sleep too.
I'm not being fair though. The coffee that I drank is only partially responsible for my wakefulness. Mostly, I am plagued by racing thoughts that follow one after the next, as though attached to each other like a train. The worst part is that these thoughts have little substance. They aren't important. I am not awake in the middle of the night because I am solving some great mathematical equation, or because I have just composed the next Moonlight Sonata. No, I'm awake because of thoughts like these: "I wonder if they have a lot of mosquitoes in Louisiana," and, "How many germs and how much bacteria does chlorine really kill when it's used in a public swimming pool?" and "Why does my ionizer make that annoying hissing noise even after I've cleaned it?" Why is it that these are the questions keeping me awake at night?
I'd play my guitar to help me relax, but it's almost four in the morning and I don't think that the other people who live here would take kindly to rock 'n' roll interrupting their slumber. I'd paint in the basement, but it appears that I am out of paint thinner right now. I'd read a book, but that would only give my mind more material to think about. So instead, I'm blogging, which doesn't seem to be helping much either. Rather than moving smoothly through my mind, my thoughts seem to have become a jumbled, tangled mess.
I suppose that my thoughts will fade away as I drift off to sleep. Until then, I will wonder if I should repaint my toenails with a bolder shade of silver glitter. I'll wonder if my impending move to Louisiana will give me the change of venue that I have been craving. And I'll wonder exactly how many hours of sitting in a car I can endure before my legs begin to tingle, cramp or ache.
I'm not being fair though. The coffee that I drank is only partially responsible for my wakefulness. Mostly, I am plagued by racing thoughts that follow one after the next, as though attached to each other like a train. The worst part is that these thoughts have little substance. They aren't important. I am not awake in the middle of the night because I am solving some great mathematical equation, or because I have just composed the next Moonlight Sonata. No, I'm awake because of thoughts like these: "I wonder if they have a lot of mosquitoes in Louisiana," and, "How many germs and how much bacteria does chlorine really kill when it's used in a public swimming pool?" and "Why does my ionizer make that annoying hissing noise even after I've cleaned it?" Why is it that these are the questions keeping me awake at night?
I'd play my guitar to help me relax, but it's almost four in the morning and I don't think that the other people who live here would take kindly to rock 'n' roll interrupting their slumber. I'd paint in the basement, but it appears that I am out of paint thinner right now. I'd read a book, but that would only give my mind more material to think about. So instead, I'm blogging, which doesn't seem to be helping much either. Rather than moving smoothly through my mind, my thoughts seem to have become a jumbled, tangled mess.
I suppose that my thoughts will fade away as I drift off to sleep. Until then, I will wonder if I should repaint my toenails with a bolder shade of silver glitter. I'll wonder if my impending move to Louisiana will give me the change of venue that I have been craving. And I'll wonder exactly how many hours of sitting in a car I can endure before my legs begin to tingle, cramp or ache.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Kenneth Burke's Dramatism: Overview and Application
What better way to begin a story than at the beginning? But which beginning is worthy of the reader’s careful eyes? After all, there are potential beginnings to stories coming to existence every second of every day. How should anyone know which story to tell, or where a story really begins? It seems that there are so many questions that need to be answered, but let’s not waste our time with those questions. Instead, allow me to tell you a short story of my own invention, which may or may not begin at the beginning.
I walk out of the door and onto a small bus with comfortable chairs. There are televisions buzzing with static in a quiet way overhead. This bus is already nearly full with people chattering to one another. In less than five minutes we will be on our way. I don’t know the destination of this bus, nor do I care. I just look forward to the beginning of a new adventure, as this one has grown tiresome. I pull out my iPod, slip my ear buds into my ears and blast classical music into my brain. As the Moonlight Sonata plays and the bus begins to move forward, I drift off to sleep. The darkness envelops me like the arms of an old friend and the conscious world drifts away. I am standing alone against a blank canvas that is mine for creating and somewhere above me Barber’s Adagio for Strings begins to play its melancholy strains. I pick up a paintbrush, dry and soft, and begin to paint the nothingness into something.
The brush moves with the sound of the strings, long slow strokes of disembodied enchantment. The mood a soft blue, a quiet sadness in the tone offers a look at a somber world in the process of becoming. Then the brush strokes shorten, not quite staccato, and whites and yellows dot the background of what will surely be a masterpiece. I close my eyes and let the music guide me. My hand moves across the canvas, as though a dancer sashaying across a stage. The haunting music builds… crescendo… and hold. I tremble. Sustaining the note… release and rest… and then, pianissimo. As the song ends, the brush falls from my hand and disappears. My muscles pull my eyelids upward and light floods into my pupils. They constrict and I can see what I have created. The canvas of this dream? A quiet nightmare of horror and sadness. An interrupted New York City skyline bathed in blue with smoke billowing in the place where the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center once stood confronts me. Is it really September 11th again?
A story of a dream, which reflects a day I will never forget, is the story I have chosen to share. Yet, this story, as all others is significant. While it seems to be a small story of nothing more than a dream, it might be so much more when considered through the lens of Kenneth Burke’s dramatism.
Kenneth Burke’s dramatism became a part of communication theory in the late 1950s. However, even before dramatism was acknowledged by the field of communication, Burke was using the word, “to describe what he saw going on when people opened their mouths to communicate” (Griffin, 2009, p. 289). Burke concerned himself with the drama of life. In order to better understand this drama, he went on to define the term identification as it pertains to dramatism and he created the dramatistic pentad.
Burkean identification is the ability for a speaker and the audience to connect with each other through such things as, “physical characteristics, talents, occupations, experiences, personality, beliefs, and attitudes” (Griffin, 2009, p. 209). It was Burke’s belief that a speaker could not persuade his or her audience without identification, which could work to unify and/or divide depending upon the cause of the speaker. In accordance with Burkean identification, I, as the speaker, have expectations that the reader(s) of my story, the audience, will be able to identify with me. In particular, I play upon the idea that my readers and I will be able to relate to one another through the shared experience of falling asleep and dreaming, through the shared experience of remembering the September 11th, 2001 terrorist attacks on New York City, through the shared experience of listening to Samuel Barber’s “Adagio for Strings” and through the shared experience and talent of painting. If my audience is able to identify with me on the basis of our common ground, our shared experiences or similar talents, then perhaps I will be able to persuade them to see the verisimilitude of my story.
Further, Burke’s dramatistic pentad is “a tool to analyze how a speaker attempts to get an audience to accept his or her view of reality using five key elements of the human drama – act, scene, agent, agency, and purpose” (Griffin, 2009, p. 291). It was Burke’s belief that when a message used one of the five elements more than the other elements, or when a message placed more stress upon one of those five elements than it did upon the other elements, that the speaker’s worldview or philosophy would be revealed. Based upon the pentad, my story can be analyzed to find out how I attempted to get my audience to accept my view of reality, and my story can be analyzed to reveal my worldview or philosophy.
Act considers what is done, or what has taken place. In my story there were three acts. The first act was the boarding of a bus, the next act was falling asleep, and the final act was the creation of my dream.
Scene considers when and where the act is taking place, thus giving context to the act. In my story there were two scenes. The first scene is the scene of the crowded bus bound for an undisclosed location. The second scene is that of my dream, which is described as a canvas in various stages throughout the progression of the dream. The canvas goes from being a blank canvas to becoming the interrupted New York City skyline.
Agent is the person who is performing the act. Within my story, all acts were performed by only one agent: me. Though often I was carrying out an action using only one part of myself, such as my hand or my eyes, in my story.
Agency considers the means the agent employs to carry out the act. There were several types of agency within my story. First, I walked onto the bus. Then, I used music to help me fall asleep. Once I was asleep, I used music to help me create my dream by painting on a canvas.
Purpose is the speaker’s stated goal or the speaker’s implied goal of the story or address. While there are no clear goals of the story, I could argue that there were two implied goals of this story: reminding my audience of the September 11th attacks in New York City, and encouraging my audience to believe that we create our own dreams out of memories, symbols and sensory experiences.
Simply based upon this analysis, it is possible to argue that the pentad has revealed my philosophy or worldview to be a commitment to realism or pragmatism, as I do favor the elements of act and agency. I, however, disagree with that. Knowing myself as I do, I find myself quite often avoiding pragmatism. Quite often I enjoy the most complicated and least practical means of arriving at my destination, whatever or wherever it might be. But, I digress…
So you, dear reader, did you experience identification? Did you accept my story as a view of my reality? How did my story make you feel? Using Burke’s pentad, what did your analysis of my story yield? And what does my story make you think of me?
References
Griffin, E. (2009). A first look at communication theory (7th ed.).
New York, NY: McGraw-Hill.
I walk out of the door and onto a small bus with comfortable chairs. There are televisions buzzing with static in a quiet way overhead. This bus is already nearly full with people chattering to one another. In less than five minutes we will be on our way. I don’t know the destination of this bus, nor do I care. I just look forward to the beginning of a new adventure, as this one has grown tiresome. I pull out my iPod, slip my ear buds into my ears and blast classical music into my brain. As the Moonlight Sonata plays and the bus begins to move forward, I drift off to sleep. The darkness envelops me like the arms of an old friend and the conscious world drifts away. I am standing alone against a blank canvas that is mine for creating and somewhere above me Barber’s Adagio for Strings begins to play its melancholy strains. I pick up a paintbrush, dry and soft, and begin to paint the nothingness into something.
The brush moves with the sound of the strings, long slow strokes of disembodied enchantment. The mood a soft blue, a quiet sadness in the tone offers a look at a somber world in the process of becoming. Then the brush strokes shorten, not quite staccato, and whites and yellows dot the background of what will surely be a masterpiece. I close my eyes and let the music guide me. My hand moves across the canvas, as though a dancer sashaying across a stage. The haunting music builds… crescendo… and hold. I tremble. Sustaining the note… release and rest… and then, pianissimo. As the song ends, the brush falls from my hand and disappears. My muscles pull my eyelids upward and light floods into my pupils. They constrict and I can see what I have created. The canvas of this dream? A quiet nightmare of horror and sadness. An interrupted New York City skyline bathed in blue with smoke billowing in the place where the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center once stood confronts me. Is it really September 11th again?
A story of a dream, which reflects a day I will never forget, is the story I have chosen to share. Yet, this story, as all others is significant. While it seems to be a small story of nothing more than a dream, it might be so much more when considered through the lens of Kenneth Burke’s dramatism.
Kenneth Burke’s dramatism became a part of communication theory in the late 1950s. However, even before dramatism was acknowledged by the field of communication, Burke was using the word, “to describe what he saw going on when people opened their mouths to communicate” (Griffin, 2009, p. 289). Burke concerned himself with the drama of life. In order to better understand this drama, he went on to define the term identification as it pertains to dramatism and he created the dramatistic pentad.
Burkean identification is the ability for a speaker and the audience to connect with each other through such things as, “physical characteristics, talents, occupations, experiences, personality, beliefs, and attitudes” (Griffin, 2009, p. 209). It was Burke’s belief that a speaker could not persuade his or her audience without identification, which could work to unify and/or divide depending upon the cause of the speaker. In accordance with Burkean identification, I, as the speaker, have expectations that the reader(s) of my story, the audience, will be able to identify with me. In particular, I play upon the idea that my readers and I will be able to relate to one another through the shared experience of falling asleep and dreaming, through the shared experience of remembering the September 11th, 2001 terrorist attacks on New York City, through the shared experience of listening to Samuel Barber’s “Adagio for Strings” and through the shared experience and talent of painting. If my audience is able to identify with me on the basis of our common ground, our shared experiences or similar talents, then perhaps I will be able to persuade them to see the verisimilitude of my story.
Further, Burke’s dramatistic pentad is “a tool to analyze how a speaker attempts to get an audience to accept his or her view of reality using five key elements of the human drama – act, scene, agent, agency, and purpose” (Griffin, 2009, p. 291). It was Burke’s belief that when a message used one of the five elements more than the other elements, or when a message placed more stress upon one of those five elements than it did upon the other elements, that the speaker’s worldview or philosophy would be revealed. Based upon the pentad, my story can be analyzed to find out how I attempted to get my audience to accept my view of reality, and my story can be analyzed to reveal my worldview or philosophy.
Act considers what is done, or what has taken place. In my story there were three acts. The first act was the boarding of a bus, the next act was falling asleep, and the final act was the creation of my dream.
Scene considers when and where the act is taking place, thus giving context to the act. In my story there were two scenes. The first scene is the scene of the crowded bus bound for an undisclosed location. The second scene is that of my dream, which is described as a canvas in various stages throughout the progression of the dream. The canvas goes from being a blank canvas to becoming the interrupted New York City skyline.
Agent is the person who is performing the act. Within my story, all acts were performed by only one agent: me. Though often I was carrying out an action using only one part of myself, such as my hand or my eyes, in my story.
Agency considers the means the agent employs to carry out the act. There were several types of agency within my story. First, I walked onto the bus. Then, I used music to help me fall asleep. Once I was asleep, I used music to help me create my dream by painting on a canvas.
Purpose is the speaker’s stated goal or the speaker’s implied goal of the story or address. While there are no clear goals of the story, I could argue that there were two implied goals of this story: reminding my audience of the September 11th attacks in New York City, and encouraging my audience to believe that we create our own dreams out of memories, symbols and sensory experiences.
Simply based upon this analysis, it is possible to argue that the pentad has revealed my philosophy or worldview to be a commitment to realism or pragmatism, as I do favor the elements of act and agency. I, however, disagree with that. Knowing myself as I do, I find myself quite often avoiding pragmatism. Quite often I enjoy the most complicated and least practical means of arriving at my destination, whatever or wherever it might be. But, I digress…
So you, dear reader, did you experience identification? Did you accept my story as a view of my reality? How did my story make you feel? Using Burke’s pentad, what did your analysis of my story yield? And what does my story make you think of me?
References
Griffin, E. (2009). A first look at communication theory (7th ed.).
New York, NY: McGraw-Hill.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
The wolves
I have kind of been living inside of my own personal Hell recently. (Searching for a personal Jesus is harder than it looks, I might add.) In any case, as in any life, there are ups and there are downs and you have to take the good with the bad. I have come to realize this to be one of the most important lessons I've ever learned. Regardless, in a recent email, I was fortunate to receive encouraging words and this tidbit of Native American wisdom. I am sharing it here:
One evening a Cherokee elder told his grandson about the battle that goes on inside of people. He said, “My son, the battle is between the two ‘wolves’ that live inside us all. One is Unhappiness. It is fear, worry, anger, jealousy, sorrow, self-pity, resentment, and inferiority. The other is Happiness. It is joy, love, hope, serenity, kindness, generosity, truth, and compassion.”
The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf wins?”
The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”
I don't know much about wolves, but I hope that in my life, I've managed to choose the correct wolf.
One evening a Cherokee elder told his grandson about the battle that goes on inside of people. He said, “My son, the battle is between the two ‘wolves’ that live inside us all. One is Unhappiness. It is fear, worry, anger, jealousy, sorrow, self-pity, resentment, and inferiority. The other is Happiness. It is joy, love, hope, serenity, kindness, generosity, truth, and compassion.”
The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf wins?”
The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”
I don't know much about wolves, but I hope that in my life, I've managed to choose the correct wolf.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
A Conflict: Reality versus Romantic Ideals.
The songs written about love that lasts forever, about lovers being wrenched apart, but vowing to remain true to each other, about a heart being devoted to one person for all of eternity, are the epitome of romantic. They are beautiful and terrible all at the same time. They speak of heartache and rescue in the same breath. These songs speak volumes to the apparent magnitude of humanity's capabilities to love and be loved. They are songs of faith -- a faith that all things will be restored to their proper order as long as love is true and prevails. I'd like to think that these songs speak the truth, that if I just continue to love, that everything will be restored to its proper order, and I will be rescued by my true love and we can love each other forever. Yet, with my somewhat jaded perceptions of the world, skewed as they may be, I just can't seem to wrap my head around the idea that love will prevail and I will be able to ride off into the sunset with my knight in shining armor. Isn't it human nature to doubt? And aren't we all inherently selfish creatures? And what if love becomes synonymous with hurt? When it hurts to love, is love even worth the effort? And how far will blind faith get me? But, non-God, I want all of it! I want the songs to be true. I want to love and be loved and to be rescued and to be held forever.
At this point, I am forced to battle myself. My understanding of reality is at odds with my want of these romantic ideals to win out. I cannot have my reality and these romantic ideas together because they conflict with each other. The reality that I've grown to accept is that humans are fickle, that they are emotional and easily confused. Most times, humans are conflicted, torn between an idea, an ideal, an emotion, a word, a phrase, an action. And love exists in so many forms, though it isn't a tangible thing. Moreover, in my understanding of reality, humans are capable of loving more than one person in more than one way. They are even capable of being in love with more than one person at any given time. And when that happens, a heart cannot be given fully to any one person, though pieces of that heart are devoted to each party involved. Yet, this reality conflicts with the romantic notions presented in these songs. And it is this conflict, which makes it so hard for me to buy into the idea that these songs have any validity at all. All of this just makes me want to scream:
Does love, as the songs describe, truly exist? And if it does, when is it my turn to find it? And will it hurt? And can it really last forever, when nothing else seems to? Or if such a thing doesn't exist, why does the entertainment industry perpetuate the idea that it does? Why give people false hope? Why? And when? When is it my turn to find all of this?
But wait, look at me! Again, true to my selfish nature, this has become all about me. But what if it isn't meant to be about me? What if I've got it all wrong? What if it isn't about being loved, as much as it's about loving another unconditionally? I am so confused.
The truth is that I do love, and I am in love with someone, and I am confused and horribly conflicted. And now I find myself further at odds with my perception of reality, and my irrational want of a non-existent idea. If only ideas weren't so appealing! If only reality wasn't so convincing! But really, was this ever about my head at all? I rather think it is more likely entirely a matter of my heart. All I know for sure is that I love, I am in love, and I am loved in return. Shouldn't all of that be enough?
Run by Snow Patrol
I'll sing it one last time for you
Then we really have to go
You've been the only thing that's right
In all I've done.
And I can barely look at you
But every single time I do
I know we'll make it anywhere
Away from here.
Light up, light up
As if you have a choice.
Even if you cannot hear my voice,
I'll be right beside you, dear.
Louder, louder
And we'll run for our lives.
I can hardly speak, I understand
Why you can't raise your voice to say.
To think I might not see those eyes
Makes it so hard not to cry
And as we say our long goodbye,
I nearly do.
Light up, light up
As if you have a choice.
Even if you cannot hear my voice,
I'll be right beside you, dear.
Louder, louder
And we'll run for our lives.
I can hardly speak, I understand
Why you can't raise your voice to say.
Slower, slower
We don't have time for that.
All I want is to find an easier way
To get out of our little heads.
Have my heart, dear.
We're bound to be afraid,
Even if it's just for a few days,
Making up for all this mess.
Light up, light up
As if you have a choice.
Even if you cannot hear my voice,
I'll be right beside you, dear.
At this point, I am forced to battle myself. My understanding of reality is at odds with my want of these romantic ideals to win out. I cannot have my reality and these romantic ideas together because they conflict with each other. The reality that I've grown to accept is that humans are fickle, that they are emotional and easily confused. Most times, humans are conflicted, torn between an idea, an ideal, an emotion, a word, a phrase, an action. And love exists in so many forms, though it isn't a tangible thing. Moreover, in my understanding of reality, humans are capable of loving more than one person in more than one way. They are even capable of being in love with more than one person at any given time. And when that happens, a heart cannot be given fully to any one person, though pieces of that heart are devoted to each party involved. Yet, this reality conflicts with the romantic notions presented in these songs. And it is this conflict, which makes it so hard for me to buy into the idea that these songs have any validity at all. All of this just makes me want to scream:
Does love, as the songs describe, truly exist? And if it does, when is it my turn to find it? And will it hurt? And can it really last forever, when nothing else seems to? Or if such a thing doesn't exist, why does the entertainment industry perpetuate the idea that it does? Why give people false hope? Why? And when? When is it my turn to find all of this?
But wait, look at me! Again, true to my selfish nature, this has become all about me. But what if it isn't meant to be about me? What if I've got it all wrong? What if it isn't about being loved, as much as it's about loving another unconditionally? I am so confused.
The truth is that I do love, and I am in love with someone, and I am confused and horribly conflicted. And now I find myself further at odds with my perception of reality, and my irrational want of a non-existent idea. If only ideas weren't so appealing! If only reality wasn't so convincing! But really, was this ever about my head at all? I rather think it is more likely entirely a matter of my heart. All I know for sure is that I love, I am in love, and I am loved in return. Shouldn't all of that be enough?
Run by Snow Patrol
I'll sing it one last time for you
Then we really have to go
You've been the only thing that's right
In all I've done.
And I can barely look at you
But every single time I do
I know we'll make it anywhere
Away from here.
Light up, light up
As if you have a choice.
Even if you cannot hear my voice,
I'll be right beside you, dear.
Louder, louder
And we'll run for our lives.
I can hardly speak, I understand
Why you can't raise your voice to say.
To think I might not see those eyes
Makes it so hard not to cry
And as we say our long goodbye,
I nearly do.
Light up, light up
As if you have a choice.
Even if you cannot hear my voice,
I'll be right beside you, dear.
Louder, louder
And we'll run for our lives.
I can hardly speak, I understand
Why you can't raise your voice to say.
Slower, slower
We don't have time for that.
All I want is to find an easier way
To get out of our little heads.
Have my heart, dear.
We're bound to be afraid,
Even if it's just for a few days,
Making up for all this mess.
Light up, light up
As if you have a choice.
Even if you cannot hear my voice,
I'll be right beside you, dear.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
The Kismet Edict
And fate decreed
"'Twas meant to be!"
The words from lush lips fell,
Tumbling toward the dirt.
Spun sugar, the web ensnared us,
Captured all our lives and bound us.
"You are mine, my dear."
The song she sang,
Keening high, so sweetly,
Shattered eardrums,
Cochlea, anvil and hammer.
"I am no prisoner of yours!"
To move along so freely,
Liquid, flowing, and seething,
Like molten rock carving paths
Of destruction through healthy life.
"I'll create my own destiny."
But destiny had chosen prior:
"'Twas meant to be!"
Choices, free enterprises,
Human agency didn't matter
As the world turned 'round its axis,
Fixed to a shining star.
"You are mine, my dear."
"'Twas meant to be!"
The words from lush lips fell,
Tumbling toward the dirt.
Spun sugar, the web ensnared us,
Captured all our lives and bound us.
"You are mine, my dear."
The song she sang,
Keening high, so sweetly,
Shattered eardrums,
Cochlea, anvil and hammer.
"I am no prisoner of yours!"
To move along so freely,
Liquid, flowing, and seething,
Like molten rock carving paths
Of destruction through healthy life.
"I'll create my own destiny."
But destiny had chosen prior:
"'Twas meant to be!"
Choices, free enterprises,
Human agency didn't matter
As the world turned 'round its axis,
Fixed to a shining star.
"You are mine, my dear."
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Allowing my mind to wander
The empty road laid out before me, stretching the great expanse of my life, or at least stretching itself between Reading and Lancaster. Sparklehorse was playing through my car speakers and the window, halfway open, allowed the warm night air to rush into my car. I was traveling 65 mph down 222 North headed for home. Every few miles a green sign would pass, almost anonymously, almost, but not quite. These signs heralded exits to towns I knew by heart. And in between these green signs stood obnoxious orange signs announcing "Caution: Road Work Ahead. Left Lane Closed." And yet, I knew that these signs were lies. There was no road work happening on 222 at 2:27 AM. There never was. And really, why should there be? It's 2:27 in the morning, for Chrissakes!
The fog rolled in, the dotted white line blurred by my speed, the small white reflecters stuck in the road glowed faintly, all serving as lonely reminders of the quiet of the night. Every now and again, I'd pass a set of headlights traveling in the opposite direction, but mostly, I was alone in the night. And being alone was perfectly fine by me. Being alone on that longish drive home allowed me time to think.
65 mph down 222 North and I allowed my mind to wander:
So this is it? This is where I'm at? This is my life? Somehow, I thought there would be more than this. In fact, I'm certain that there must be more than this. I was sure that I'd find happiness sooner or later. Well, really, I was sure that I'd find happiness soon. And here I am, still searching. What am I doing? Or rather, what am I doing wrong?
Is bartending really so bad, though? I mean, it has it's moments where it's really not so bad. I'm getting paid to hang out and talk to people while they get drunk, which isn't a bad gig. How many other people can say that their job is so relaxed? And sometimes I think bartending is worth all of the frustration simply because of the ridiculous stories I've accumulated from my years as a bartender. I could write a book about the antics of the drunk people I've served. But then I stop to think about those very same drunk people and my headache resumes. GAWD, they are so terrible! But who am I to talk? As a bartender, I'm likely to be one of the worst bar patrons when I'm on the other side of the bar. I'm drinking to get drunk, to forget it all. I know the loopholes and will use every single one of them if it means that I can imbibe more alcohol. Sure, I'll tip well and I won't argue if I get cut off, but there is some truth to the statement that bartenders are the worst bar patrons.
Like I said, I allowed my mind to wander....
Then I was taking my exit and the scenery changed along the twisty road. A few more minutes to think was all that the rest of this ride afforded me.
People can be so terribly rude sometimes. And so often they are inconsiderate of the feelings of others. Are we really so selfish, all of us? Isn't there anything we can do? I don't want to be so selfish. I'd never call myself altruistic, but I don't want to be so selfish either. Perhaps I am a happy medium of sorts. Is there a happy medium?
My hand hurts. How the Hell did I cut it open and why is it still burning? Maybe I got lemon juice in it. That's possible.
Will I ever find my happiness? I mean, really? I feel like I'm getting older and that's because I am. I don't feel as young as I once was and it feels like maybe I'm doing something wrong. I don't want to do this wrong. I want to live life the right way, the way it's meant to be. I feel like an old soul and I intend to get it right this time so that I can finally rest. I mean, really, really rest. I want to be done. I want to return to starseed and starshine.
Maybe my happiness is waiting in another place. Maybe it means I'm supposed to leave here and find my destiny elsewhere. It just feels like I'm meant to be doing something so much larger than what I'm doing here and I can't help but wonder if I'm limiting myself by staying in Reading. What else is out there? Who else is out there? Where would I go?
And then it was time to reign in my mind, to stop the wandering, because I had reached my final destination: home. And I'll admit, my home has never felt less like my home in my entire life. I felt the dread in the pit of my stomach as I realized that I'd arrived to this loathsome place yet again. And it was almost like the dread was an indicator that perhaps it's soon time for me to move on. As I closed my car door and headed for the front door of my house, I found myself pondering one simple sentence, provided to me on Twitter by @bobwoodcock: "Home is where the suitcase is." I think he was correct in saying so, in fact. Home is not where my heart is, for my heart travels with me. My nomadic, little heart has the wanderlust nearly constantly. I've never felt more free than when in transit, than when I move around, than when I am exhilerated by the adventure of a new and strange place, which allows me my anonymity. In fact, I think, perhaps, home is where the suitcase is.
The fog rolled in, the dotted white line blurred by my speed, the small white reflecters stuck in the road glowed faintly, all serving as lonely reminders of the quiet of the night. Every now and again, I'd pass a set of headlights traveling in the opposite direction, but mostly, I was alone in the night. And being alone was perfectly fine by me. Being alone on that longish drive home allowed me time to think.
65 mph down 222 North and I allowed my mind to wander:
So this is it? This is where I'm at? This is my life? Somehow, I thought there would be more than this. In fact, I'm certain that there must be more than this. I was sure that I'd find happiness sooner or later. Well, really, I was sure that I'd find happiness soon. And here I am, still searching. What am I doing? Or rather, what am I doing wrong?
Is bartending really so bad, though? I mean, it has it's moments where it's really not so bad. I'm getting paid to hang out and talk to people while they get drunk, which isn't a bad gig. How many other people can say that their job is so relaxed? And sometimes I think bartending is worth all of the frustration simply because of the ridiculous stories I've accumulated from my years as a bartender. I could write a book about the antics of the drunk people I've served. But then I stop to think about those very same drunk people and my headache resumes. GAWD, they are so terrible! But who am I to talk? As a bartender, I'm likely to be one of the worst bar patrons when I'm on the other side of the bar. I'm drinking to get drunk, to forget it all. I know the loopholes and will use every single one of them if it means that I can imbibe more alcohol. Sure, I'll tip well and I won't argue if I get cut off, but there is some truth to the statement that bartenders are the worst bar patrons.
Like I said, I allowed my mind to wander....
Then I was taking my exit and the scenery changed along the twisty road. A few more minutes to think was all that the rest of this ride afforded me.
People can be so terribly rude sometimes. And so often they are inconsiderate of the feelings of others. Are we really so selfish, all of us? Isn't there anything we can do? I don't want to be so selfish. I'd never call myself altruistic, but I don't want to be so selfish either. Perhaps I am a happy medium of sorts. Is there a happy medium?
My hand hurts. How the Hell did I cut it open and why is it still burning? Maybe I got lemon juice in it. That's possible.
Will I ever find my happiness? I mean, really? I feel like I'm getting older and that's because I am. I don't feel as young as I once was and it feels like maybe I'm doing something wrong. I don't want to do this wrong. I want to live life the right way, the way it's meant to be. I feel like an old soul and I intend to get it right this time so that I can finally rest. I mean, really, really rest. I want to be done. I want to return to starseed and starshine.
Maybe my happiness is waiting in another place. Maybe it means I'm supposed to leave here and find my destiny elsewhere. It just feels like I'm meant to be doing something so much larger than what I'm doing here and I can't help but wonder if I'm limiting myself by staying in Reading. What else is out there? Who else is out there? Where would I go?
And then it was time to reign in my mind, to stop the wandering, because I had reached my final destination: home. And I'll admit, my home has never felt less like my home in my entire life. I felt the dread in the pit of my stomach as I realized that I'd arrived to this loathsome place yet again. And it was almost like the dread was an indicator that perhaps it's soon time for me to move on. As I closed my car door and headed for the front door of my house, I found myself pondering one simple sentence, provided to me on Twitter by @bobwoodcock: "Home is where the suitcase is." I think he was correct in saying so, in fact. Home is not where my heart is, for my heart travels with me. My nomadic, little heart has the wanderlust nearly constantly. I've never felt more free than when in transit, than when I move around, than when I am exhilerated by the adventure of a new and strange place, which allows me my anonymity. In fact, I think, perhaps, home is where the suitcase is.
Monday, March 16, 2009
El Torero, You Are So Cruel
Oh, the romanticism in bull fighting! It's a sport! It's entertainment! It's an artistic display of death! In most Spanish speaking countries, it is a great event drawing stadiums full of specators. And for many people world-wide, there is a great parallel drawn between Georges Bizet's Opera Carmen and bull fighting, for obvious reasons. Perhaps this helps to romanticize bull-fighting.
Maybe it's just me and maybe I'm being ethnocentric, but living in America, growing up as a semi-privileged middle class white kid, I can't quite grasp the concept of bull fighting as romantic. In fact, as far as I understand it, bull fighting is the rough and violent equivalent to playing with your food. It's a cruel sport. It's inhumane. Where is the entertainment in watching a poor animal, in this case, a bull, being tortured and injured until it is so weak and defenseless that it cowers before the Torero waiting for him to finally ease its pain with his shining sword? How is this considered romantic? How is this ethical?
I understand that these bulls are raised for the slaughter, but don't they deserve a humane death with as little pain and suffering as possible? Don't they deserve compassion? How can anyone justify putting a bull in a ring, teasing it, stabbing it multiple times in the neck, and making it suffer before finally killing it in the name of human entertainment? Maybe it's just because I don't understand the culture, but I can't wrap my head around bull fighting. Everything about bull fighting goes against the nature of the event. People cheer, throw roses at the Torero, clap and laugh. The Toreros are adorned with brightly colored outfits and red capes. The Picadors spear the bull in the neck with spears of vivid celebratory colors. If a person weren't paying attention to this event closely, it could be mistaken for a party, a celebration, a happy occassion. Rather, this event is the massacre of a bull.
Watching a bull bleeding, hurting, heaving its last breath as it falls to the ground is horrible. However, watching a crowd cheer and the Torero strut around celebrating his victory over the bull is worse.
I say in opposition to bull fighting, "El Torero, please stop! Grant the bulls a quick death with little suffering. El Torero, you are so cruel. Where is your compassion?"
Maybe it's just me and maybe I'm being ethnocentric, but living in America, growing up as a semi-privileged middle class white kid, I can't quite grasp the concept of bull fighting as romantic. In fact, as far as I understand it, bull fighting is the rough and violent equivalent to playing with your food. It's a cruel sport. It's inhumane. Where is the entertainment in watching a poor animal, in this case, a bull, being tortured and injured until it is so weak and defenseless that it cowers before the Torero waiting for him to finally ease its pain with his shining sword? How is this considered romantic? How is this ethical?
I understand that these bulls are raised for the slaughter, but don't they deserve a humane death with as little pain and suffering as possible? Don't they deserve compassion? How can anyone justify putting a bull in a ring, teasing it, stabbing it multiple times in the neck, and making it suffer before finally killing it in the name of human entertainment? Maybe it's just because I don't understand the culture, but I can't wrap my head around bull fighting. Everything about bull fighting goes against the nature of the event. People cheer, throw roses at the Torero, clap and laugh. The Toreros are adorned with brightly colored outfits and red capes. The Picadors spear the bull in the neck with spears of vivid celebratory colors. If a person weren't paying attention to this event closely, it could be mistaken for a party, a celebration, a happy occassion. Rather, this event is the massacre of a bull.
Watching a bull bleeding, hurting, heaving its last breath as it falls to the ground is horrible. However, watching a crowd cheer and the Torero strut around celebrating his victory over the bull is worse.
I say in opposition to bull fighting, "El Torero, please stop! Grant the bulls a quick death with little suffering. El Torero, you are so cruel. Where is your compassion?"
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