tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102849921207893432024-03-19T01:19:29.474-07:00Destination UnknownAn attempt to reclaim my own sanity through writing and expressing my excitement about the world, past and future. Inspired by western philosophy and inaccurately translated eastern spirituality, I seek what it means for a person to be. Seeking to travel the road of peace and happiness, I have decided to break down the world I was born into, transitioning through Nihilism into Absurdism and into Spirituality. If you want to know more, I guess you'll just have to brave my writings... Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15750123022720169011noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-210284992120789343.post-1508038926052185102017-12-07T09:25:00.001-08:002017-12-07T09:26:39.386-08:00Draft Of An Email Never To Be Sent<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I started writing an email to my mother the other day. I have been having these thoughts about work and money and life and wanted to get them down. As often happens with writing, when it rains it pours, and I poured my heart out. Some of it is specifically aimed at things I've talked about with her, but much of it is simply an exploration of anti-capitalist thought and of my life experience. I don't claim a political label, but everything I've learned to name, I've learned from people who didn't have the privileged of being raised in (messy) simulation of White America's Dream. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">In many ways this message is at schoolmates - from boarding high school and from college. Folks who walked the corridors of old institutions built when white america was a different character and when whiteness was more secure - or at least what's what I've been told by white people. </span><br /><br />--<br /><br /><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">There has always been this expectation, whether inferred, implied, or unconscious, that I do something great with my life. (of course great is subjective but that's allowed in this expectation, it just must be great by some standard) Being raised on dreams of 'you can be whatever you want' and 'go out and make the world a better place' - the people in my life from 0-20 taught me that I needed to do something. To start a company, to find a professional job, to DO something to be proud of. </span></span><br />
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This is what I find toxic about capitalism today.</div>
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You may find some of the words I use here have many definitions, like that one^, but please read for meaning, not for 'correctness'</div>
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My life is given meaning through doing, not being. Life's value is determined by productivity. This framework for meaning - where action and result, cost and benefit, are supreme doesn't support the values I care about. There is no room for vulnerability and honesty, for loyalty and compassion, or for maintenance and healing. </div>
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If I had taken a different path in life I could be a journalist, I could be a scientist, I could be many things, ideas of which stress me out to no end. </div>
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I sit here, in solitude, happy with myself. I find so much value in this heart of mine. My center, my heart has been damaged, it lived for many years in hiding - the world around telling me I didn't need it. The world around me telling me that my heart was a weakness that would be exploited. Instead, I nurtured, protected, healed her. </div>
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I do think my heart is a she. Not all of me has the same gender. </div>
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I think of writing cover letters or pitching articles and my heart races. The act of selling myself has never been something I could do - at least not intentionally. My heart blocks words as they appear in my throat - words that she doesn't agree with. It's a wonder I function at all. </div>
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I'm generally thankful and kinda surprised by how easily I've gotten jobs tbh. Though being white and appearing as a man really explains a lot of that. </div>
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I look out on the world today and see so much pain and suffering. I see resilience and joy too. I see humanity evolving and connecting and its all somewhat overwhelming. Given all of this - I have come to the conclusion that for me to pursue the accumulation of wealth would be immoral. If I were to prioritize my own future over the present conditions of those who are not as well off as I, I would not be able to live with myself. Not in the - quietly hold it in for years in the Yankee tradition - but in the not being able to hold onto my will to live kind of way. </div>
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Its simple enough to me: by birth, I was given extraordinary access to power structures and wealth accumulation opportunities. For me to engage in these practices would be to support a system that thrives on inequality. There is room for one to speak out and work to change things from the inside but the system added that room to control dissension, not to allow for change. </div>
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I made more money this year than I have in any year of my life. I also gave more money this year that I have in any year of my life. some 10% of my income went directly to people and small organizations that needed help. A larger percentage went to bar tabs. It's funny that when I'm working I tend to drink a lot and when I'm not - I can just stop. Not that real sobriety is something I aspire to or think possible, but my need for consumption as stress release is intimately tied to this pressure to perform productivity - trading my subservience for money. </div>
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What I wouldn't do to live a life where my value is seen as independent of my labor. What I wouldn't do to live in a world where those who cannot produce profitable labor are condemned to poverty or death. And yes this happens in our country - what do you think cuts to Medicaid or the ACA mean? I already can barely afford healthcare and I'm doing alright by most standards. </div>
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I don't think I can live up to the standards set out before me growing up. I find some joy in this now, realizing and naming the discomfort I've lived with for a decade feels good. </div>
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At this point in my life, I have no desire to monetize my productivity. I am productive because I want to be and because it makes me feel good. I engage in capitalism because I want to continue this life and its necessary. I believe I will be happiest in my life by separating my value from the productivity capitalism forces me to sell. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15750123022720169011noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-210284992120789343.post-24711732689700959102016-03-24T02:30:00.003-07:002016-03-24T02:30:59.093-07:00Drunken Admissions I don't like my body. I have never liked my body. I am still shocked that some people see it as desirable even. I made major life decisions around my changing my body. I injured myself because I wanted to change my body. The kind of injury that will never heal. The kind of injury that only happens with recklessness or negligence. The kind of injury that I could have prevented, if I didn't feel the need to have a different body. <div>
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I have a square chest and broad shoulders, a thick neck and big head/hands/feet, but short legs. I am built like a bulldog in many respects. I have never been in a fight in my life, but only because I could easily scare people. I hated this. I took steps to change my body. I forced myself to masochistically enjoy being going without food. I got hooked on cigarettes. I refused to exercise. I hoped that forcing myself to become thin would help. I wanted a body that I could love. I lost weight, a lot of it. It hasn't changed much.</div>
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I still long for a body i can love. </div>
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I know I won't get it. </div>
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I'm trying to love this body. </div>
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It deserves love right? </div>
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The same body that has hurt, has harmed, has humiliated, has been hurt, has been harmed, has been humiliated, is worthy of love. Maybe not from anyone else. But from me. If I can't love the only thing that is truly mine, can i really love at all?</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-210284992120789343.post-38709854563738662322016-02-18T23:37:00.000-08:002016-02-18T23:37:16.717-08:00The First Buds of SpringAlthough i don't feel like there is hope for me. I will keep going. Even though looking forward is super hard and most days i just want to curl up in a ball and hide, I will keep going.<br />
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I will wake up and drink the coffee bought on food stamps and write another cover letter for another job application.<br />
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I will make my own food instead of going out and buying food I cannot afford.<br />
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I will do the physical therapy work i need to at least once.<br />
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I will read on a variety of subject matters to keep my brain active.<br />
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I will plan and execute projects - whether alone or with others.<br />
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I will follow my heart and listen to my body.<br />
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I will utilize coping mechanisms for my pain that do not include intoxication.<br />
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I will take steps to invest in my future health.<br />
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I will treat my body and my mind and my soul as I would treat any other's.<br />
<br />
I don't know how I will achieve these goals - it seems like too much even as i write these things. But whatever - fuck it - what else am I going to do? run away? escape from the problems in my head? escape from the problems in my heart? the pain I feel cannot be dealt with in that way. the pain in my body and the pain in my heart are the motivation that gets me out of bed, it is what moves me to do the things i can't not do anymore.<br />
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will I be in recovery forever? is there any state of being 'better' from chronic pain and depression?<br />
<br />
probably not.<br />
<br />
but that is why I get up and do the things I can't not do.<br />
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because there is no life if i don't<br />
<br />
and I'm not ready to dieUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-210284992120789343.post-6370977184219956572016-02-08T02:57:00.003-08:002016-02-08T02:57:57.786-08:00My Truth Rehab is a wake up call. It is a promise and secret.<br />
the promise to face the pain and despair and stigma<br />
the secret that was stored away in a jar in your heart<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
facing the pain of withdrawal is no joke<br />
no words on a screen can<br />
even<br />
come<br />
close<br />
<br />
you look back on the decisions that brought you here<br />
you didn't plant seeds for them to grow into a cage<br />
you just wanted some shade and fruit and<br />
some protection from the wind<br />
so you cared for them - let them grow tall and strong<br />
<br />
you look back on the decisions that brought you here<br />
you look back on the pain that brought you here<br />
<br />
trading an open field for a protected grove<br />
<br />
but its time<br />
time to leave<br />
time to burn this motherfucker down<br />
time to let something new grow<br />
<br />
so you stand up - shake off the dust - and lift your chin<br />
you say with a clear voice that this is not what you wanted to happen<br />
that somewhere along the way protection became isolation<br />
that somewhere along the way your fence became a cage<br />
and you're drowning in foliage<br />
<br />
so you stand up - shake off the dust - and lift your chin<br />
and you know that is not your whole truth<br />
but the one that the world gets<br />
there is another<br />
<br />
the one from way back - before the seeds and the pain<br />
wandering the open fields - naive and free<br />
you saw the cages grow around people<br />
you saw them care for their protective armor<br />
you saw what it means to make yourself safe<br />
<br />
you knew what you were doing<br />
it doesn't mean you could have stopped it<br />
it doesn't mean you are worth any less than any other person<br />
it doesn't mean the things people will say about you are true<br />
but it does mean that you are not powerless<br />
<br />
you. are. not. powerless.<br />
<br />
stuck, fucked, trapped, tricked, twisted, and surrounded<br />
<br />
not. powerless.<br />
<br />
Rehab is a wake up call. It is a promise and a secret.<br />
the promise to stand up tall and ask for a hand<br />
the secret is released from its container<br />
so it can rejoin your heart<br />
so you can begin to heal<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-210284992120789343.post-5174673260072764202016-01-21T13:55:00.000-08:002016-01-21T14:02:43.263-08:00Angst fuck today.<br />
<br />
I want to change my name.<br />
<br />
I want to change my body.<br />
<br />
I want to start over.<br />
<br />
I want to feel like there is something left to discover.<br />
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I want to feel like there is something I could do.<br />
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I want to feel like life is worth living.<br />
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I don't do any of these.<br />
<br />
I can't.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Fuck today.<br />
<br />
I should shower.<br />
<br />
I should brush my teeth.<br />
<br />
I should clean my house.<br />
<br />
I should apply for another job.<br />
<br />
I should go for a walk outside.<br />
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I should make some food.<br />
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I should get help.<br />
<br />
I don't do any of these.<br />
<br />
I can't<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Fuck today<br />
<br />
I need to get help.<br />
<br />
I need to find a job.<br />
<br />
I need to help others.<br />
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I need to do my part.<br />
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I need to change the future.<br />
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I need to save myself.<br />
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I need to do so much.<br />
<br />
I don't do any of these.<br />
<br />
I can't<br />
<br />
<br />
why can't I?<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-210284992120789343.post-73405127824227274872016-01-21T13:37:00.002-08:002016-01-21T13:55:21.297-08:00Trying to Stay WokeSome days I really think I need help.<br />
<br />
Other days I think I need to help.<br />
<br />
I can't let my mind wander without it wandering back to that ultimate thought.<br />
<br />
The last thought I will ever have.<br />
<br />
My survival depends on knowing it is there, but avoiding it.<br />
<br />
So my survival depends on not letting my mind wander.<br />
<br />
But my life depends on my wandering mind.<br />
<br />
Without that, who am I?<br />
<br />
...<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
Nobody<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
Nothing<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
My only redeeming quality<br />
<br />
Is that I want the world to heal<br />
<br />
That I see the systems in play<br />
<br />
holding me back, holding us all back<br />
<br />
so I fight against the system<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
but sometimes<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
I think the system is throwing up an illusion<br />
<br />
a false flag that I fight against<br />
<br />
buying, mistakenly, into its success.<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
do I fight the system?<br />
<br />
or<br />
<br />
do I fight for the system?<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
in facing such doubt<br />
<br />
why go on?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-210284992120789343.post-40621052920208797522016-01-14T18:17:00.000-08:002016-01-14T18:17:36.019-08:00Connecting with My Self My ancestors mean a lot to me. They have always meant a lot to me. I feel them with me in my dreams and in my blood and in my heart. In some ways they have always been a source of pain, in other ways they have been a source of love, of knowing, of seeing. Ogsie taught me pain and he taught me pride. Babka taught me grace and taught me compassion. My grandpa taught me selflessness and he taught me humility. My grandma taught me the power of faith and taught me that our family is all we have, even when it's hard to be around them. The lessons I learned from them were just the start though, connecting to the past both in books and in my body has shown me a path towards inner peace.<br />
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I am writing this on the eve of my birthday, on the eve of completing my 22nd year on this planet. In my lifetime, the world has changed so drastically that my disorientation is all too common. Just, ask anyone who grew up alongside the internet. It's freaking weird.<br />
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I remember at an early age visiting my great-grandfather. He showed us his favorite thing, an old ham radio set up in his basement. Atop a long desk cluttered with decades of use, boxes filled with strange electronic components were surrounded by wires, antennas and notepads. As I looked into this world, unable to parse what was going on, my great-grandfather explained what it was that kept him coming back down to this dark basement day after day. His friend in Australia, in Russia, in China, in Ireland, in Turkey. Among the hundreds of people that he somehow met by sending morse code out into the world, a few long lasting friendships developed. The warmth in his heart as he spoke of these people and their lives was something I hadn't expected to see that day. Something I aspire to still. Yet, something ultimately separate from my experience with communicating on a global scale. </div>
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Growing up alongside the internet, alongside the development of personal electronics, I can only dream of what the world was like before we were all thrust onto the world stage. But dream of it, I can and must do. For the noise of bombs falling on the middle east, of children dying from pollution all around the world, of bigots shouting hate, it all crowds my mind with pain. Not only pain that these things are happening, but the pain of an empath, knowing where those making decisions are coming from. The story of the white man is one founded in the fire of war, disease, and pain. It is one defined by the fear of losing what has been taken away before. My ancestors survived the dark ages in central and northern Europe through terrible times, only to be tricked into imperialism by those in power. These brave humans, those who managed to survive the formation of our systems of power, were told they had no choice but fight the battles they faced, even when the rulers just kept bringing fights to them. </div>
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My mind flashes to a scene of a blacksmith in rural france, I see my shoulders in his as he brings his hammer down on hot metal. I see his eyes in mine as he guides his son in the process of heating, shaping, and quenching new innovative tools. I see the bravery and pride my grandfather taught me as he faces the local magistrate's messenger. There is a war breaking out over some small parcel of land far away, and an army is being formed. The blacksmith, his hand protectively on his son's shoulder, knows what this means. He must go to war, for if he doesn't his son will have to. If he refuses on both counts, his livelihood will go up in smoke. His son sees the pain in his father's eyes, but knows not of the sacrifices to be made. As the years go by, his pain turns to anger and fear, he spends his time at the forge hammering with his father's shoulders, cursing the magistrate for breaking his family, cursing his father for abandoning him, cursing himself for letting it all happen. Still he works and grows and survives, against all odds. This is the system in which my ancestors fought to survive. This is the weight that my shoulders have born for generations. </div>
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My mind flashes to a scene in a dark forest grove. A small shelter is tucked into the underbrush along one side, the only sound is the fire in the center of the clearing. A body lies on the ground, feverish and grimacing, covered by a thin blanket and wet cloth on the forehead. A slow figure walks slowly from the shelter to the ill, chanting under her breathe. With great care she sits next to the figure, presenting a bowl to drink from. When the figure cannot bring themself to consume it, she lifts their head and feeds the dark bitter liquid to them. They manage to consume the drink, and she lets their head rest back on the ground as she quietly begins telling them the story of the forest spirits who cultivate the herbs and flowers used as medicine. She tells them, although they are barely lucid staring up at a starry moonless night, that she has known and loved these spirits for years, so they share their knowledge with her. Only by realized that we are no different than the spirits or the flowers, can we all thrive together - she whispers - half to herself and half to those who might be listening. Her heart aches for the pain suffered by the figure on the ground, but she doesn't let it hamper her efforts to help. She sits quietly by them through many nights like this before they slip into stillness, she knows they have reconnected with the world for good, never to be back in the body on the ground. This is the wisdom of my ancestors, and of all of our ancestors. This is the heart which pumps our blood, working to make every moment count before returning to the world. </div>
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I love my ancestors as I love my self. Not because they are perfect, but because they are not. Because they have struggled and survived and when possible thrived. As the system defined success, when they won, they did so atop the bodies of others. I know not who among my ancestors hated this trend as much as I do, but I feel in my heart that I am not the first, nor will I be the last. I carry with me the wisdom and pain of the ages, I carry with me the suffering of my people and the suffering my people have inflicted. I carry with me the wisdom to know that I am not powerless to change the world around me, and that this life I have been given shall be used for good. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-210284992120789343.post-87642293724457486352015-11-29T22:41:00.000-08:002015-11-29T22:41:06.960-08:00The colors I bleed<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">IT’S IN MY VEINS</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">as my painted nails curl into my palm</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">head bowed in shame</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">with eyes of glowing thunder</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">the depths of my heart</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">splayed on the table like rotten meat</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">CAN YOU FUCKING IMAGINE?</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">my gut searches for a target for the rage</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">my heart knows nobody but me deserves it</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">so I sit alone, hurting nobody but myself </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">thankful for at least that</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">at least nobody is suffering by my hands</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">at least i can pretend so</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">for those who see something in me</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">there is no protection</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">only the me</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">overchill to compensate for the violence</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">anti-competitive to compensate with adrenaline</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">but these don’t counter the cruelty in my heart </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">there is no counter for cruelty of the heart </span></div>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">even when it manifests as self-care</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-210284992120789343.post-80314897719545566722015-11-12T11:45:00.001-08:002015-11-12T11:45:14.089-08:00Raised OnlineI'm pretty tired of hearing about 'Millennials' and how this ~facinating~ generation is \insert_generic_critique\. There are so many opinions out there about me, about my peers, while not even really listening to what we are saying.<br />
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<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
I recently heard an interview on PRI in my car. (A tool I have mixed feelings about owning, while articles like <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/news/wonkblog/wp/2014/10/14/the-many-reasons-millennials-are-shunning-cars/">this</a> try and explain my feelings to me) Anyways, this interviewer had two doctor types people on the show. One of them was convinced that the increased use of screen and technology hampers development in young children and is in the process to maiming me and my friends. The other doctor type, of course another guy, was challenging the first's studies by trying to separate causality from correlation. The specifics of this story don't really matter. Every few months, a new study comes out claiming to understand some important component of how progress is taking place, either for good or bad. Who is this decided by though?<br />
<br />
'When science is reduced to the think-piece, there is clearly something wrong with this generation'<br />
<br />
'When science can be translated into accessible language, this generation is showing itself to be the best informed generation yet'<br />
<br />
Rarely do the articles written about the studies explain the nuance and limitation of these studies, something so common online that its easy to forget nuance exists. Everything is a sign of some grand narrative of generational turnover and tension. This is some bullshit. Trying to figure out one trend that generations are going through only holds up to scrutiny if you believe that humans are defined by their generation. In a world interconnected by instant communication and globalization, the nuances of culture, ability, family, education, location, etc define how people engage with each other. There is no truth out there that will allow someone to understand what it is like to be raised online. Just as there is no one upbringing AFK, there is no one upbringing plugged in.<br />
<br />
I don't remember using a computer for the first time. I remember learning how to type on a keyboard when I was 6. We wrote stories into these keyboards with a glorified calculator screen and an usb plug. You had to scroll through your work a few lines at a time, and every time a new text entry was started, it cleared the memory. Thinking back, this was one of my first experiences with creative writing. I got my own computer at age 8 or 9. I only remember this because I discovered porn and /accidentally/ masturbation at 9 in my room. I discovered torrenting and the anarchist's cookbook around this time too. I was never very social online, rarely participating in forums or chatrooms. Opting for reading content instead. Nevertheless, I was raised online. Not so much in my early years, not as much as my younger brother, born when I was 6, but I can't remember a time when I didn't have access to a computer.<br />
<br />
As an aside, I know that I am incredibly lucky that this was my experience, I never experienced poverty until I moved across the country to college, and even now, if I needed to I could ask my parents, older brother, uncles, aunts, and grandparents for some money. I am very grateful for this fact, but to say that my life is spectacular for somebody born into comfortable whiteness would be inaccurate.<br />
<br />
I guess what I am trying to say here is that I don't see tech as something foreign. I don't like the term IRL 'in real life' because it equates online-ness with falseness. My computer is essential to me as a person. Essential to how I engage with the world. Most of the people I know, myself included, have had existential crises about just this fact, have deleted social media accounts, have realized their desires and have rejoined the rest of us online. This anxiety about authenticity - a buzzword without much meaning - and realness runs deep in us raised online. It was instilled into us by teachers, parents, and even by peers. Our cultural inertia devalued the experience we had as some of the first people to be raised online.<br />
<br />
As our parents and elders watched us grow up online, they tried to figure it out. They still are trying to figure it out. Why do you think that studies to 'figure out millennials' still get funding? Its not like science isn't a political endeavor. Ask any grant writer, getting funding is no easy task. I guess what I am trying to say is that there is no truth out there.<br />
<br />
Why do you think the x-files has such a massive following? We long for the days when evil was a group of men in a smokey room. We long for the days when the Truth was Out There. We long for the days when all one needed was a room full of files, a charming smile, and the will to find the truth. We long because we have absorbed nostalgia for days we never even knew.<br />
<br />
I guess what I'm trying to say is that there is no way to understand a generation from the outside, I think, until that generation has started to fade. But, even as we all know this, still ache for the Truth out there to be confirmed to denied by the next study.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-210284992120789343.post-39168187726819719622015-04-08T20:10:00.000-07:002015-09-01T08:19:59.806-07:00the violence in my blood<p dir="ltr">[This post was never finished and from some time ago. After rereading it so many times, I know it serves the purpose it was intended to.]</p>
<p dir="ltr">i am beginning to understand something about myself. something that is in my blood. something that was passed down to me through stories, genes and social conditioning in general. It was the reason i played a lot of competitively physical sports growing up. It was the reason i began, an continue to, have an unhealthy relationship with substances. It has defined my dysphoria with masculinity. It is still a part of me. It is something that I will never quite get rid of, but hopefully I can learn to live with it better.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Imagine the classic scene of the person strapped down to a chair in some evil lair. Their eye's clamped open forcing them to see what it in front of them, a wall of screens. Images flicker between split second static transitions. short videos and images reflect of the pupils of the person, as they can't help but bear witness to this barbarism. </p>
<p dir="ltr">I close my eyes sometimes, and see those screens, flashing violence and pain. Some days, I can turn this down until I go the whole day without seeing it. Other days are not so nice. The static fills my brain until the only thing left are the images, the thoughts, the feelings. Violent Painful Rage. It lives in my heart and occupies a space in my thoughts that I have tried, and failed, to quiet.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I first tried to indulge these instincts with sports, and with fighting. As a child me and my brother fought a lot. I  played soccer all year round for 6 years, and another 5 years of soccer alternated with tennis, then lacrosse. When I was able to, I played football and wrestled, the most violent sports I could find. I would lose myself in moments that felt like life or death. Regularly going up against people a foot taller than me, and much heavier. The euphoria of the fight still haunts me, I know no bliss more pure, more intense, than reversing a headlock in the 5th minute of a match against someone 3 years older and 40 pounds heavier than you. Just writing this, my palms are sweating and my heart is beginning to beat faster.</p>
<p dir="ltr">ultimately, this didn't actually help satiate my urges. Sure, during the seasons I was playing the sports I was usually too tired to feel angry, or do much of anything else to be honest. During the off seasons, or during my dreams, or in painful moments, those images still came to me. Even stronger now that they tasted the sweet nectar of rage. These moments were especially profound when I remembered back on the events my freshman year of high school. Where I was publicly humiliated for getting caught smoking weed. That's a story for another time, but it certainly didn't help me feel like the community I lived in wanted me there.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I dropped sports, suddenly and without much remorse. Not only was it not good for my mental health individually, but the culture of the teams I was on were pretty disgusting. I never paid it much mind, as I never was close to the kids on the teams who were loud, well-liked, and horrible human beings. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Next I tried to silence these instincts with drugs. First weed, then alcohol, then cigarettes, then harder stuff. They would work, but never quite like I wanted. </p>
<p dir="ltr">[To be continued when something new works]</p>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-210284992120789343.post-34714837979543388792014-06-05T13:14:00.001-07:002014-06-05T13:19:05.498-07:00The Male Feminist<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: center;">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Empathy is not particularly elusive. It only requires an earnest quest to understand and act on that understanding. The problems women face in this world require the engagement of all the world’s people.“It’s very important for everyone to be a feminist.” "</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent;"> </span> <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2014/06/02/opinion/blow-yes-all-men.html?smid=fb-share&_r=1">source</a></blockquote>
</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<div>
I really appreciate the simplicity of this call to arms. In this moment in time, violence against women is on the minds of most Americans. For some of us, it has been on our minds for years, or longer. There is a certain amount of truth to be said of the soundbite above, and it is enticing to those who don't know how to move forward in chaos of the national media circus. But in reality, this is not much different from saying that the only thing needed to counteract privilege is to become aware of it, and while that is definitely the first step along the way, it is easy to overlook the depth and seriousness of the issue when everybody is telling you there is an easy solution. It is easy to say that you're not of those kinds of people, but really changing who you are comes as a result of dedication and discipline. </div>
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<a name='more'></a><br /></div>
<div>
There is no /easy/ solution to the misogynistic, homophobic, transphobic, xenophobic society in which we live. One big reason for this, is the consistent advantage given to white straight cis males with 'good' education within the realm of business. No wonder! They have been at the top of the food chain for, a long long time. Too long. Long enough for any threat to activate the elaborate justifications for beliefs that serve their purposes. This is where education really comes into play. In our post-modern world, meaning is relative and the ability to justify defines our intellectual caste. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In most schools, especially in middle and high schools, essays are not written to express some legitimate thought or feeling, but learn to compose the most valid argument for any point. We learn to write to defend our beliefs, but our beliefs about literature or history or whatever are usually made up on the spot, or chosen from a list of beliefs that are harder to defend, and not worth the effort. Much of the time, an hour on spark-notes, and a few hours on the essay is all the effort given.<br />
So when somebody has the ability to craft elaborate justification for any belief, or is bombarded by these justifications throughout their development, it is no wonder their reaction is not to question them, but defend them. For most, they are taken in as the legacy of the adults, the traditional path to walk. This path is one of relative ease and comfort, if the emptiness and homogeneity can be dealt with. </div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"<span style="background-color: #ccccdd; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px; text-align: center;">Yes, there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run, </span><span style="background-color: #ccccdd; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px; text-align: center;">There's still time to change the road you're on.</span>" </blockquote>
The sad and hard reality is that it will take years and years and years for the top tier of our society to unpack their privilege and understand the extent of the corruption of their own moral compasses. In the long run, we can move towards a better tradition of thought and we can move towards awareness and action. For these two things are necessary for straight-cis-white-males to realize the harm being done at their feet, but it is not an easy path. It is not anything simple. It requires a complete re-evaluation of every memory, of every moment, of every interaction, of every grade, of every job interview, of every aspect of what makes a person a person. There will be pain. There will be grief, and regret, and embarrassment, and anger, and relief, and hope, and help. But there is nothing simple about being a male feminist, about being a Caucasian civil rights supporter, about being an LGBQT ally. It takes miles being walked in the shoes of another. It requires years of talking with and reading work from a community that you will never truly be a part of. It takes perseverance. It takes strong motivations. And most of all, it requires that we prepare those starting down this path for the journey ahead, not that we smooth over the troubles to make it easier for a group of people who have made every aspect of modern life as easy as possible for themselves already.<br />
<div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-210284992120789343.post-34021900431354565672014-03-26T23:56:00.000-07:002014-03-26T23:56:41.847-07:00 a new directionI've been going about this all wrong. Its easy to get caught up in the appearance of, the show of, the communication of identity. Swept up in what I thought a gender-queer person was 'supposed' to look like.<br />
<br />
Aesthetic principles have ruled my life. I like to think that I resist power, something I a have resisted because of my privilege. I could always tell that I was treated differently than other people. I used to dream about how when everybody else turned around they lost their human form. They would melt away into dripping sludge golem. Then, as I slept each night they would meet and discuss the roles they would play for me the next day; a math teacher, ice cream salesperson, my mother, my dad, and not but certainly not least my brother. He was the architect. My brother has always been to me the personification of /systematic/. When I first pondered on my own privilege as a male-presenting, white, well-educated human being I had the most incredible flashback. I was sitting at the counter of my house, except I was looking down on myself as my family came in one by one and upon leaving my field of vision transformed back into their 'true' selves, communicating on another level literally behind my back. Since then, I have been quick to incorporate it into my conscious self, to be mindful of the connection I have to this idea. I have spent a long time realizing that I have done a lot better. <br />
That fear lives as deep inside me as my comparatively old hallucinations; an experience always brought on by fever or induced ~sickness~. Exploding in scale, like a balloon, the pressure of the air fighting me back for each square inch, my chest seizes and I can't breathe. The next thing I know, all the air has been let out. The air wins out, cramming my whole expanded self back into my self for just an instant before taking its sweet revenge. There is no baseline to return to any more, other than brief moments of lucidity, just a continuous cycling battle of pressure, sucking the life out of me.<br />
That's why NOLS was such a life changing experience. I started to see the power of life; something that was not an artefact of humanity, but of all life. Still, in the human world, our social environment, defines a large part of who we are. Humanity, in many ways, has become obligately social. It is incredible how strong an evolutionary force the company of others has become. <br />
<br />
Anyways... Gender is more than appearance. Gender is about social interactions, and in our society people take their cues from appearance much of the time. I have always tried to downplay the importance of my appearance. I know this is a point of privilege, but it is not necessarily bad, I must own my privilege by giving it up, but I think that all people should be able and free to dress however they want, and I want to dress like me. Poorly fitting clothes, typically male, but not exclusively. I want to express my non-conformity through nail polish and eye-liner and lipstick and my hair style. If I were a female-bodied person, I would be a tom-boy. That is just me. Deal with it. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-210284992120789343.post-5887166027961346922014-02-26T09:29:00.002-08:002014-02-26T09:29:49.769-08:00Is this how I get better? It is 9:30 in the morning. I have already had more depressive, masochistic, suicidal, and pessimistic thoughts than I could bear, at least on most days. But there is something about today...<br />
Each time my stomach started to turn due to the self-hatred of my current thought, I stopped it. I stopped everything really. I stood in place, looked around myself, actively remembered why I am here, what I am doing, the goals I have, people that matter to me. <br />
It seems to be working pretty well. At the very least this technique will get me through the week. I might end up drinking myself 6 feet under then though, I don't know yet, I guess we will just have to see. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-210284992120789343.post-87110923759151969332014-02-21T09:32:00.000-08:002014-08-24T13:32:08.065-07:00War Memories I'll Never Have<p dir=ltr>I really wanted to be a soldier.<br>
I will never become a soldier.<br></p>
<p dir=ltr>Growing up I heard story after story after story about the brave souls who gave their lives for the freedom of others. That was pretty much all my grandfather talked about, oh and how he used to be poor. He was the last of the men in my family history to go to war for this country, a tradition that started 150 years ago. Stories of war heroes so firmly engrained in my mind, scenes from war movies play through my mind's eye as I laid awake at night. Only, it is me, I am taking cover as bullets fly over my head. Advancing up hills and through bushes, we charge toward the enemy position. Planes flying overhead dropping napalm and shells on nearby objectives. It all feels so real. The smell of the gunpowder, the rumble of the explosions, the deafening sting of gunshots, the pain, the blood, the screams, the death. All of seems so real to me, even at an early age I knew it. I knew an experience of war.	</p>
<p dir=ltr>At first I thought this meant I should join the military, that I was destined to fight. But I realized that I didn't need to, that the war memories I'll never have taught me enough to mourn the tragedies of war, to mourn the sacrifice of my ancestors, and to hold them up proudly such that future generations well not need to. </p>
<p dir=ltr>I have always been a soldier. <br>
I am just now finding my own orders to follow. </p>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-210284992120789343.post-80760814369087898312014-02-19T21:29:00.000-08:002014-02-19T21:29:07.989-08:00Wow I had some stuff on my chest (a work in progress)What is the self? <br />
Does it matter at all if it exists?<br />
tonight, i have been stuck in my mind, zooming in and out, from the experience of thinking my thoughts, to viewing them from way above. At the same time disjunctive and cohesive; continuous but with some 5th or 6th power variables.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
This all started with X, X is a really important person in my life. Our relationship was kinda thrown out the window a few weeks ago, and to be honest, I am not handling it well.<br />
<br />
X has a new partner who they are pretty serious about. I envy them. Both of them actually.<br />
<br />
We are still in love. And I see them pretty often, but it is really hard. I don't want to be with anyone else. But being with me is not good for them. <br />
<br />
I am buried in my own mind. Everything has gotten so fucking BIG. nothing is the thing I first thought it was. Doors, tables, friends, professors, homework, money, nothing is safe. Nothing is comfortable. Sometimes the prospect of walking into a room filled with desks, choosing one to sit at, taking off my jacket, tucking it carefully under my chair making sure to not impose on the space of the person who isn't going to sit next to me, its all just too much. I have found respite in consuming myself with taking notes during lectures, this helps, I no longer have to interact with the material, with the space, with the people, I just have to transpose the words coming in my ears to the page. Yet... I am still there, stuck in one spot for 50 minutes at a time. My skin crawls. The roar of the pressure of my socks on my ankles consumes the room. I am stuck. I cant move. What is happening to me?<br />
<br />
I now weight less than I did in 8th grade. But then I was like 5'4, now 5'7, and 21 years old, I am shrinking day by day. I am wasting away. I fear having an eating disorder, so I eat obsessively. I eat so much more than most the people around me, <br />
<br />
Who am I?<br />
<br />
is the person have been acting as over the year my self?<br />
<br />
Camus would say that we are the sum of our experiences. But what defines our experiences? We as people define the way we interact with reality. And memories change every time we look at them again.<br />
<br />
Why is individualism even useful? How has it survived for so long just out of the field of public vision.<br />
<br />
Individualism has taught me to become an 'introvert'. It has taught me to look inside my 'self' for all of life's answers, on top of the questions worth asking. But that has resulted in me getting stuck! I dug a hole in my brain that now my blinds my eyes.<br />
<br />
I need to live with people.<br />
I need to live with people.<br />
I NEED to live with people.<br />
I need to live with PEOPLE.<br />
I need to LIVE with people.<br />
<br />
Who is this I that NEEDS? What happened to self-dependence? to independence? to freedom? to the fucking AMERICAN DREAM?<br />
<br />
This has been the year when I realized exactly what kind of person Thoreau was. I idealized him for most of the last 5 years, but what kind of human being was he? A perfectionist. closed off and stuck, searching blindly for a way out. Well he found one, he thought. And he made solid progress, in many ways the things that he wrote down will go down in history. Yet, the pain he caused during his life was pretty incredible.<br />
<br />
Is pain really that bad of a thing? Does not pain inspire change? Does not pain strip the silver linings off the memories already fading, conserving reserves of good things so that many more can come to be. Only to be stripped again.<br />
<br />
Nevertheless, from what I have read, it is clear that the grand epitome of Thoreau's life isolated him from the world and tore the intravenous love dripping into his blood out of his arm. <br />
<br />
Basically, I am sick of defining myself, of only doing what is comfortable, and of being in this body.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-210284992120789343.post-73825037849802977582014-02-17T08:51:00.002-08:002014-02-17T08:51:23.119-08:00Mornings are a challengeIs the smile put on and worn like a pair of heels worth the work? This morning I doubt I have the energy to pull it off today, sadly all to common these days. My stomach is oscillating between cramps and loud noises, and I can't get warm. This is at least partially due to my heat being off, but nothing is separate, it is all part of my self. A self that is self-destructive, in pain, uncomfortable, burnt out, and struggling to maintain movement.<br />
<br />
But that is only half the story. <br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
My self is also naked, honest, searching, feeling, victorious, and present. Things I have gotten better at (not perfected) this year: being emotionally present, communicating necessary things, recognizing my strengths, breaking free of my own control, getting out of my own space, getting out of my own head, reaching out for help, offering my help to those around me.<br />
<br />
I am grateful for the following people:<br />
AC<br />
DRZ<br />
LC<br />
TP<br />
MR<br />
<br />
Overall, I am nervous about this thing. Its a thing that has been building for years now. I... I don't know... Well, I do, but saying it is hard. This guy, he slept over with me over the weekend. It was fun and innocent, for now. I prob should have expressed more to him, but I was overwhelmed by the reality of the situation. Like, I have been looking up to him as this character in my head for a long ass time. But the thing is, I think we are super compatible. Because many of the things I imagined about him are, in reality, more relatable to myself than I could have imagined. <br />
I just want to tell him this. That I really want to see him as a person, not as the character I have been fantasizing about for ever. <br />
<br />
Oh well, I should finish today's homework... Here's to a wake and write, lets hope it cleanses my chi for today.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-210284992120789343.post-62147287024855898012014-02-02T14:34:00.000-08:002014-02-02T14:34:06.552-08:00Feels TodayThis is how it must end.<br />
this must be what needed to happen all along.<br />
I... love you so much but know that I am not what you need right now.<br />
<br />
I don't challenge you, don't excite you, and don't help you anymore<br />
You have watched me grow up as I have watched you, so now all that is left is to leave the home in search of the next phase of life. The phase of life where we are 'together' is over. It has to be. My heart is aching like it is over, and I feel like I've been dumped. <br />
<br />
We got in over our heads. We were actually about to move in together, planning a life together. That was never supposed to happen. How did that happen?<br />
<br />
All I know is that you are by far the most important person in my life today, while your life seems to be growing away from mine. I grew my life around you for a long time, and you grew yours tangential to me. You have told me many times that it bothers you how easily you can abandon your own life for the sake of another person's. I thought I was aware of it, but I was wrong. I didn't realize how integral you had become in my life. How much I depended on you.<br />
<br />
So I sit here craving your voice, your touch, your mind. I am trying to not attempt to pull you back into my life. You deserve better than me. I know this. But my stomach is in knots and I am afraid. That I won't be able to move on, that in order for me to move on I will have to entirely give you up, I fear that I will give up myself in the process.<br />
<br />
I want to dedicate myself to school. To fall in love with the process of doing work. I need a project, or many. All the notes and problem sets and journal articles in the world will never replace the support you gave me. I'm dubious that anyone or anything will ever.<br />
<br />
I am going to make hard cider. I am going to make whiskey, I am going to create my window garden, I am going to sell my material goods, I am going to ace O-chem, I am going to think up an amazing thesis idea, I am going to write a really good ES paper, I am going to do a legitimately badass independent project, I am going to rock my qual. I am going to rededicate myself to friends. Eliot, Aaron, Elaine, Brice, Dwayne, Tim, Hanna, and Liana. I am not going to go insane, I am going to survive.<br />
<br />
Am I self centred? probably yes. But I'm at peace with it. I need to realize how important it is to myself that I be able to see people for whole human beings and deal with them on that level. <br />
<br />
But for now I just need to figure out how to deal with you. I need to figure out if we can be friends. I need to figure out how to be your friend. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-210284992120789343.post-6263436023910265742014-02-01T18:35:00.004-08:002014-02-01T18:35:56.468-08:00Mind Space TodayI'm taking a sledgehammer to my brain<br />
nothing is exempt<br />
nothing is safe<br />
freedom at last!<br />
<br />
taking one bottle down from the wall<br />
i drink<br />
red and hot it burns my lips<br />
<br />
perfectly<br />
<br />
the heat starts down in my belly<br />
powering my every breath<br />
seeping upwards, beating against my heart<br />
tasting its goal as it laps up against my brain,<br />
filling my neck with heat<br />
<br />
it is hard to swallow.<br />
<br />
my only hope is that this one final levee holds<br />
the great flood that beats against it threatens<br />
no, promises<br />
to sweep me away on its hemato-waves<br />
into the beautiful darkness of the setting sun<br />
<br />
night is where the devil lays in wait<br />
so i carry my offering of green and glass<br />
in a shaking clammy hand<br />
ready to ignite my offering to the devil<br />
"one more day, i just need one more day"<br />
<br />
those words<br />
painstakingly engraved on the walls of my mind<br />
shatter<br />
<br />
sledgehammer playing out the role of my will<br />
too tired to go on<br />
<br />
I set the tool down, wipe my brow, and look up<br />
the levee stands tall and bowed, a testement<br />
to convictions I once had.<br />
<br />
red, hot, rage splashes my ankle<br />
a wave had crashed upon the lip of the levee<br />
dripping early warnings down into my socks<br />
into my sole, separating me from the ground.<br />
<br />
it is coming.<br />
there is no time to wait.<br />
i must get back to work.<br />
<br />
with one last long breath<br />
the sledgehammer is in the air again<br />
back at the work of undoing<br />
<br />
in hopes that when the bottles of rage<br />
rise above that final levee's wall<br />
there will be no lies left<br />
<br />
in hope that when the flood takes me<br />
down to the red hot depths of the night<br />
i will be ready,<br />
at last,<br />
to say,<br />
"take me" <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-210284992120789343.post-30113146754894983922013-11-09T12:30:00.000-08:002013-12-17T16:57:44.067-08:00Porn: how sex is being used to ruin our kids It seems like I am not the only one who is taking a critical look at
the use of pornography to satisfy the physical urges of young people and
their genitalia, primarily young males. There is undoubtedly a physical
response which could essentially be called addiction to the regular
viewing of modern pornography. When this is combined with a little bit
of neurological understanding about how the brain gets used to
associating images and feelings, then building a mental connection
between the two, it makes sense that young people's understanding of
what is sexy is based on the ridiculous portrayal of sex in porn. <br />
http://www.vice.com/read/cindy-gallop-make-love-not-porn-interview?utm_source=vicefbus<br />
I can't say it better than this person^. <br />
<br />
Or this guy: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gRJ_QfP2mhU <br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
then check out:<br />
makelovenotporn.com<br />
<br />
Also there is this infographic to support the significant of this point.<br />
http://i.imgur.com/4ZFORrf.png <br />
<br />
Also.<br />
http://www.nofap.org/<br />
<br />
<br />
When I say ridiculous, I mean truly terrible. I can think of maybe 1%-5% of porn that does not obey the same standard of acting and directing. Essentially, there is an intro where the actors are in some situation and then they inexplicably start touching and groping each other. There is very rarely any serious flirting or acknowledging of person hood here, just some pre-sex dirty talking. this is the first step in the objectification of sex and its objects: a penis and a female body.<br />
Before I talk about the innate problems with the differences between the gendered object of sex, I want to make a shout out to the obvious power dynamic ubiquitous in heterosexual porn. Its entire focus is to please the penis-owner. Or rather imply such, because the showing of a penis-owner's face or body language (other than the use of hands or thrusting) is strictly taboo. From what I can tell, the proof of pleasure exists in the overplaying of sexual act by the female body. Essentially performing a service for the penis, but rather than the actual sensations being the media, audio and visual stimulation are required to perform the act of pleasuring. So when real life physical contact ends up not being a visual / audio experience, the expectations of visual and audio inputs lead to a strange lacking in the moment.<br />
But here is the worst part: when a person spends years with the only access to physical contact or sexual behavior comes from the internet, it becomes normal; not only normal but desired. And when a male desires something out of his interaction with a female, the result is all to often the content of that desire without the real consent of the female. I am by no means an expert of gender dynamics, but I have observed and read for a few years now, and there is at least one thing I can say: Female-bodied people are taught from an early age to concede their own desires to the desires of the male-bodied people around them. 'Taught' may imply a direct conveyance of information, but there are many ways to teach a behavior. Often times adults will brush off a comment or deliver a reprimand for a behavior displayed by a child without a second thought. But to the child, that was significant. Oh you mean I'm not supposed to like pink? Oh you think its odd that my friends are all female-bodied? Well that doesn't sound good so tomorrow I am going to leave those friends and hang out with the other male-bodied kids. I don't want the teacher to tell my parents that I'm odd. This is form of systematic teaching, or programming humans, that subtly and without recognition, teach kids to behave within the structure of our 'society'. This is one of the driving causes behind the thing called 'rape' culture.<br />
OK, so sex, it took me a long time to realize what i meant to me. I mean, it took me a while to figure out what living meant to me, or breathing, or eating, but sex has taken me longer to figure out. This my be partially due to the fact that I didn't start thinking about it until I was like 12 or so, and that was the period of my life where I would search the internet for answers and examples, which were all porn then. I didn't see anything wrong with it (despite my dad looking at my search history and giving me a stern talk about how porn is 'degrading') for another 6 or 7 years. That is about the amount of time it took me to start to have sex. I specifically remember my first regular partner, with whom I would act out scenes of porn I really liked. I would focus on my imagined audio-visual performance, disassociating from the physical sensations in order to recreate my experience of sexual contact from the previous half decade of experience. The act of disassociating from yourself during a physically intimate moment disrespects the partner and the self, in other words, it is highly problematic.<br />
I have heard from all to many female-bodied friends of similar experience. Typically during experiences where consent was not established and actions were taken that did not align with the desires or expectations of the female-bodied actor. It is ubiquitous in accounts of long periods of sexual abuse, especially when family members are involved. When the person who cares about you most is also the person who does strange and uncomfortable things to you. <br />
Given my experience with sex and with porn I am hugely thankful for my friends and partners who have guided me to see sex as physical intimacy and to recognize and critique the roles we decide to play when being sexual. In many ways, I now feel like I understand role-play foreplay because it provides another perspective and outlet for the sensations and emotions of the moment. But really, I need to figure out how to stop the feedback-loop of watching porn because it is a self-supporting cycle of societal propaganda. And its teachings are effecting the socially insecure more than anyone else. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-210284992120789343.post-32715634497645301252013-11-09T12:28:00.003-08:002013-11-09T12:28:53.184-08:00"Higher" EducationNo, that is not an allusion to a certain favorite herb at college campuses around the nation. Maybe the quotations are more aptly put around 'Education' because the paradigm for education simply does not work in the US. It is just as hard to make a living before or after college. Although most people come out of their respective higher education facility with more knowledge and improved skills, translating that into something to live off of is nearly impossible for the majority of young people. It used to be that college was for those who were to rule over the rest of the ignorant and simple folk, that after a degree from a college, a job was almost guaranteed.<br />
After looking at recent numbers and trends, let alone living through my own specialized 'education', I have realized that the entire way we go about teaching people is flawed. Practical skills have all but been abandoned, and the theoretical aspects are outdated and unhelpful. People have more information, theory, and data at their finger tips than they could ever analyse, yet we still think that teachers can impart theoretical knowledge into children.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
The hardest challenge that faces the child of today is learning how to deal with the over-saturation of reality. From over-population, over-advertisements, over-sarcastic meta-humor (Arrested Development, and The Daily Show), to the entirety of the internet culture; a young person must learn how to decide first what is sincere, then what is informed, then what is believable, then what is provable.<br />
Knowledge used to be found by personal reflection and reason combined with sharing information from one person to another. This model has yet to be abandoned officially, although the last time I learned something profound in a classroom was long ago. Today, the way we interact with information is entirely different. We google things, or look on wikipedia, maybe some other site but the routine is the same. Sifting through massive collections of data is a hard task, especially when looking for a specific pattern.<br />
We use the people around us to collectively provide meaning to all of the noise that we see. The primary impetus for education today, should be learning how to critically and thoroughly engage with information that is provided. How to read an article, no matter to subject matter, pick out the implicit assumptions, and figure out how these assumptions shape the way the article is written. We need to teach kids how to read people and their work. Not just how to read the work itself. Can you pick up a book and figure out what the author is trying to say in it? maybe you can, because that is a primary goal of a lot of English classes that i have been in.<br />
But can you pick up the that same book and figure out who the author thinks he is, and what the author is NOT saying? What the author is taking as a priori truth? What the implications of these beliefs and truths have on the meaning the author is trying to espouse? This is the kind of education that the the bulk of Americans need.<br />
<br />
There are people in positions of power who have for over 100 years, sought to not only tell people things, but engineer a society in which certain things are unthinkable, impossible, and crazy.<br />
The ways that this has been done escape me. I am not that good as seeing through people's intentions. But I see the results. They astound me. It shapes the way we think about gender, about race, about identity, about nationality, about the food we eat, and the stories we read. There are implicit assumptions that give rise to very prescriptive world views, and conflicting ideas that lead to stark paradoxes.<br />
These things can most easily be seen in our government, and national advertising campaigns. Things we subject the youth to from as soon as they can see until they die. In fact, almost everybody in our country grew up seeing ads and propaganda all their life, and if we don't teach future generations to critically interact with this, then all hope of progress is lost. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-210284992120789343.post-87234408328166457322013-11-03T14:43:00.000-08:002014-01-10T12:45:40.761-08:00The Way I Love[Updated]<br />
Polyamory seemed to me, for a long time, as something that was other and strange. I was raised in such a traditional manner that I could not see the content and form of the relationships I had with those around me as anything other than the labels by which I called them. Yet, at the same time, there were relationships that I have had that I could not label. They meant so much more to me than society allowed for. There were adults in my life that I loved and cared for, and I knew they felt a similar way about me, but I was stuck with the labels of babysitter or teacher. There was this unspoken rule, or norm, that I shouldn't have a meaningful and caring relationship with somebody outside my family.<br />
I don't recall exactly when this happened in my life, but I remember that after introducing these people in conversations with friends and peers as their societal labels, I felt like I was cheapening the real connection I had. So I abandoned that practice. I began to, when prompted by a need for conversational context, to label them as someone important to me. "one of the people who raised me" or "an awesome adult I’m close with" became the labels that made the most sense. When I look back on it now, i realize that they were my loved ones, more than many of my extended family members to whom I was supposed to have these feelings for. This realization was the start of my journey questioning who I was supposed to love, and how to integrate the people I loved into my own sort of family.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
fast forward about a decade. <br />
I am in an open relationship. I finally realized that all those feelings i had for those people around me were love. That love was not just something that came before sex. That love was so much more.<br />
I had fallen in love, secretly, with one of my closest friends, and it almost tore me apart before I realized how luck I was to have him in my life, and how I couldn't run away from the feelings inside me, even if that meant that I didn't know who I was any more. <br />
Three years later, as I sit here writing this, I recognize that my capacity for love is much greater than what the traditional conservative society into which I was born allows for. I have loved and still do love many of my closest friends. I have had partners who I have and do love, and I have had partners that were just really fun to be around and with.<br />
Sex and Gender, while very important to how I act, have little to do with my capacity for love, or my propensity for physical intimacy, which are completely different things. The people who I really care for are friends, family, and lovers. The only time I feel like I want to initiate physical intimacy is if I know that my partner wants it, and if I feel like I would enjoy it. The latter be largely defined by the mode of interaction that a person has, I need someone who is gentle but passionate, who can easily flow from submissive to dominant, or at least treat me and be treated as equals, and someone who I can truly communicate with even if no words are spoken.<br />
There are many parts of my life that overwhelm me, and I need a strong and present group of people who I love to support me and keep me from trying to escape. Whether they are a IM or videochat or phone call or a short drive away, without the people who mean the most to me, I could not be where I am today. <br />
To try and prioritize one version of all the love I feel for those around me would be a disservice to myself and to my family, because those who I love make up my family, the people only related to me are 'extended'.<br />
I guess that means that I could label my self polyamorous. And to the layperson, that would give enough of a description of my emotional tendencies that it suffices as a label, but it is not something I identify with. I identify as a human being who derives a lot of happiness and comfort from love and from the people around me. Love is a real and visceral aspect of my life, and without it, I probably wouldn't be alive.<br />
[Update]<br />
<br />
wow... the last few months have held a lot of growth and challenge for me. I wrote this first post while trying to wrap my head around my heart in response to the person ive been involved with for around 2 years now got back to the states after a couple months overseas. The thing is, we have always had an open relationship, so when I started to sleep with another person during the first's travels, I didn't think too much of it. Then we kept sleeping together, and the first's return date loomed closer. I had communicated to both about the other to a small degree, but was kinda paralysed. Communication is not my strong suit, especially about my own feelings.<br />
<br />
ASIDE: fuck my socialization, i feel the pain and anxiety of my early childhood again as I try and open up. I fail. I just hurt. All I can do is go over what I am trying to say over and over without ever moving my lips. I am lucky to be with two incredible people who can often see my pain and help me. Yet it doesn't always mean good communication. I feel the foundation of my self-esteem shake each time I admit to fear, jealousy, or emotional pain. On top of that I feel redundant; I don't understand what these two people find in me that they couldn't see in each other. Thus, I am feeling pretty worthless. In an abstract way, I am really lucky and fortunate and really want to appreciate these people around me. But in a word: Anxiety.<br />
<br />
OK, long story short, the two girls I was sleeping with and opening up to slept together last night. The night before we all slept together and I spent many hours making out and cuddling and touching. But that ended in my crying and putting an end to any sexual contact. I got overwhelmed. It felt like i had taken too much molly; the only analogy I have for what that felt like. I haven't been right since. My belly is in knots, words are caught in my throat, I feel part numb part panicked part trapped. I have never felt this feeling before. I don't know how to deal with myself. As soon as I am alone: my stomach starts rising in my throat and I start to tremble. Just thinking this right now has me sweating and my heart racing.<br />
<br />
I am also lucky for the other people in my life. I got drunk last night with a friend and that was really good, I got some stuff off my chest and we just talked and talked. I don't think I would have made it through last night without him. I just can't stop thinking about them in bed. Some of the things I saw, the way they touched each other, the sounds they made, they seemed so perfect together. They seemed to tap into a part of themselves I am forbidden from. I wish I could see that part of them. But then again, that is just how people work. And it is especially apparent when gender differences are present.<br />
<br />
I don't know what I was expecting out of this, but I just needed to write some stuff down to try and work out what I am going through. But now I'm heading over to hang out with my partners and hopefully communicate and maybe even alleviate some feelings. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-210284992120789343.post-66635363759317070812013-10-19T15:34:00.001-07:002013-11-03T14:40:20.057-08:00Being Counter-Cultural: a how-toIs culture collectively self-imposed? Is there an unspoken cycle of peer pressure and conformity which reinforces our beliefs about the way things work? I started thinking about this a while ago, ever since I came to Reed anyway, and I'm not sure if I have even gotten anywhere. Within a few weeks of being at college, I heard a term I had never experienced before, Stress Culture. hmm... Stress Culture? that sounds like... wait... i have no idea what that sounds like.<br />
<br />
Well two years have gone by since this first happened to me. I now have a pretty good understanding of not only Stress Culture, but also Drug Culture, and Rape Culture. These terms describe an intricately self-organized system of beliefs, habits, behaviors, and customs. This system doesn't have a purpose, it was not designed by someone or even a small group.<br />
<br />
It is the result of years of widespread cognitive dissonance. When we, human beings, hold two contradicting ideas in our heads, we have an incredible ability to justify this dissonance, removing the appearance of contradiction. When hundreds of people do this individually, within their own heads, then talk about it, both online or in person, a system is collectively constructed that holds each belief to be true, ignoring inherent dissonance that started it all.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
In the case of Stress Culture, something I can only talk about based within Reed College, I can say that the primary dissonance that I have picked up on goes something like this: My teachers don't give me absolute feedback about the quality of work I am producing, yet I know that I am an incredibly smart and talented student who should be able to do very well, yet I don't know if I am doing very well or just well, or maybe pretty poorly, yet that is just a reflection of my lack of confidence in my own work, so I must not be working hard enough.<br />
<br />
This might not be very accurate, but this is the way that I have experienced the stress culture at my school. I have been able to keep myself from stressing out too much all the time by focusing my energy on one key component of this way of thinking; 'No matter how hard I work, the reward will not be better if I got through hell to get there'. That has worked for me, but I can't say it will help anybody else.<br />
I have talked to so many people about this, about what specifically stresses them out, it usually is not the work, but their ego's response to being challenged. <br />
<br />
Now the issue of Stress Culture is rather innocuous, it can be harmful, but when compared to Drug and Rape Cultures. Drug Culture arises out of the culturally held belief that when something goes wrong, a person can just injest something and that problem will disappear. It is really hard to generalize about drug culture because we all have just different definitions of drugs, and I won't go in_to that here, but if you'll allow it, ill say; when we take drugs to avoid dealing with problems, typically problems of our own inabilities, we simply push that problem onto our future selves, often making it harder to solve.<br />
<br />
Drug culture, in my experience at college is the foil to Stress Culture. We get stressed out, so in order to relax we do drugs, and in order to make up for the time we spent drugged out and brain dead, we stress ourselves out some more. <br />
<br />
By now, I hope you have picked up on the central point of my analysis of ____ Culture, that its cyclic nature, and tendency to reinforcing, makes these social systems incredibly powerful and difficult to escape. This could not be more true of Rape Culture. By far the most harmful of the examples I have taken. Rape Culture is something that is much larger than a college campus, and I'm sure takes form in many different ways but all that is necessary to break its power over you is to attack the weakest link in the cyclical chain of 'logic'. <br />
<br />
I have had non-consensual sex, both sober and drunk, both with significant others, and with first time partners. In fact, looking back on it, I now realize that when I lost my virginity, I was co-oped into having sex. Not by my partner, but by my own interpretations of the culture in which I was living. I'll spare the details to say that because of the other boys in my freshman year dorm at a boarding school in New England, I was convinced that I hooked up with a girl, that I should try and have sex, because that is 'the whole point'. I couldn't even think about being intimate with another person for well over a year after that night. I was swept up in the powerful nature of Rape Culture, and proceeded to damage not only myself, but presumably my partner that night as well. I have no idea though, because we never spoke after that. Even though we spent the next more than three years at the same boarding school. Since that first experience, I have been rather unable to just jump into physical intimacy without learning how to successfully communicate with the other person. In fact, if i can't communicate with a person, that completely rules out the possibility of becoming physical. But this was my own response to Rape Culture, it swept me up quickly and quietly, without my knowledge and the next thing i knew, I didn't know how I had lost my virginity. <br />
<br />
More than stress, more than drugs, rape and sexual assault regularly cause personal trauma that drastically changes the route of a person's growth. And Rape Culture just makes it worse.<br />
<br />
The foundations of Rape Culture go something like this, according to my personal analysis: explicit consent is a buzz kill so in order to have 'good' sex agreement should be reached without ever talking about it; saying 'no' doesn't mean that everything has to stop, some people want to say no, to try and stop you, it gets them off; being drunk makes this process a lot easier; girls go to parties for the same reason guys do, to get laid; consent can be given when drunk; what’s wrong with buying - or procuring - a couple drinks for a girl to loosen her up, so you can have sex?; etc. Of course it is much larger and more intricate than this. But this conceptualizes a lot of what I was taught about how to meet women, as a white male. <br />
<br />
It can be seen in women as well, the implications of Rape Culture that is. I have met many young and beautiful women and girls who have never needed to buy themselves a drink, they simply go and sit at a bar until some guy offers to buy them a drink, or they will directly approach a guy and flirting ask him to buy her a drink, as if that alone will move him one step closer to sleeping with her. They use the existing paradigm for their own advantage, whether or not these girls or women are more likely to be the victim of sexual assault, I have no idea but I would suspect so. <br />
<br />
So how does one escape Rape Culture? It starts with a couple key realizations, that consent is paramount, transient, and not at all subjective, that communication, whether verbal or not, is necessary to achieve consent, and that without consent, sexual contact is assault. These realizations can not come from the outside. one doesn’t not simply become a feminist by reading about it, and learning how to talk about it, one becomes a feminist by internalizing the issues that harm our society due to the historical and cultural oppression of the rights of the people we call women. <br />
<br />
Where did this feminist thing come from? I thought I was talking about rape culture. In my mind, what it means to be a feminist, is to recognize and try to address personally, the issues faced by women caused by their interactions with society. <br />
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Being a feminist, is being aware and critical of Rape Culture, not superficailly, but internally and personally.<br />
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The implications of escaping these kinds of Culture are wide and varied, but inevitably, they all include a new found sense of awareness. Let alone the knowledge to stop the cycle of violence, on the self, and on our peers, and on those who are less privileged than us. Because when I say us, I mean the white, male, wealthy, educated and all round privileged people, who so often are at the heart of the damage done to this country. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-210284992120789343.post-72982986489720035022013-09-10T17:30:00.001-07:002013-09-10T17:30:08.008-07:00What to do with all that land?http://blog.cleantechies.com/2010/07/06/oil-energy-independence-31-mile-square/<br />
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assuming that we transition fully from petroleum based products to renewable resources, there will be an incredible opening of land. This could mark the beginning of the end for newly opened land in the US. Our country has, at its core, the character of the opportunist. The vast landscapes were taken as property, turning many places (honestly, most places at this point in history) into pure opportunity. the rights to use a space free of human form.<br />
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^ I wrote this a while ago; this just now =><br />
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This change i speak of above means one thing. Opportunity. It may be because of the way I have built myself, accepting the actuality of large scale, endemic, pollution yet refusing to entertain the possibility that this was a fight we could lose. The target of this fight is a lack of understanding. Once a human gets something, it becomes real. Whether an understanding of a physical property or an understanding of an idea like faith, once grasped, removing an idea is neigh impossible.<br />
Anyway, I took to seeing time move by, and change chugging along, but never in the direction I had hoped. Maybe all these decisions were made in offices and buildings and nobody important saw how things worked? Maybe they are all just greedy? Maybe just power hungry?<br />
<br />I realize now that everybody is doing they best they know how to do, that is all. We were all just taught different ways to be successful or to be happy. When we don't realize the world is much more varied than that, we can start to align and self-organize, rather than be centrally organized and controlled. <br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-210284992120789343.post-41431683834900779752012-03-26T23:25:00.001-07:002012-03-26T23:25:47.693-07:00SOPA ALERT 3/26/2012First Megaupload.com now YouTube censorship. Me thinks this documentary might be interesting.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnMK59cXc_PFLiMBMV86qVrBmktBz-fZrFp4KEu68DY8AXLDVtzBhvsYG8aZOxHWE50kYg4zRtJbYlFCjmEE10HUQoqBnznNU61Nm6FraI9NjBraXy-XgVZeBuPgPZVrm6p4ZONVdyJ9s/s1600/RBS-+Inside+The+Bank+That+Ran+Out+Of+Money+-+Watch+Free+Documentary+Online(1).png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnMK59cXc_PFLiMBMV86qVrBmktBz-fZrFp4KEu68DY8AXLDVtzBhvsYG8aZOxHWE50kYg4zRtJbYlFCjmEE10HUQoqBnznNU61Nm6FraI9NjBraXy-XgVZeBuPgPZVrm6p4ZONVdyJ9s/s640/RBS-+Inside+The+Bank+That+Ran+Out+Of+Money+-+Watch+Free+Documentary+Online(1).png" width="640" /></a></div>
<a href="http://www.documentarywire.com/rbs-inside-the-bank-that-ran-out-of-money">http://www.documentarywire.com/rbs-inside-the-bank-that-ran-out-of-money</a>
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I really hope I'm wrong about this<br />
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I think SOPA has already been put into action.<br />
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It failed the congress, but that doesn't mean the tactics it described could not be implemented in another area of the government.<br />
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Right?<br />
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That excuse has been told time after time. Like the private army stationed PERMANENTLY in Iraq?<br />
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I can't say that I'm surprised though. And something tells me nothing is going to happen... nothing that we hear about at least. but then we will just be hearing noise from the government, noise they calculate that we want to hear. "I have absolutely no respect for the government." is something I hear all too often. There is a tremendous burden placed upon the idea of 'government', yet we still elect the same assholes year after year.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-210284992120789343.post-45061918083292075572012-03-14T14:43:00.002-07:002013-11-03T14:45:46.655-08:00An Excellent Excerpt[A secret meeting between a disguised-as-a-cross-dresser FBI agent, Steeply, and handicapped member of a Quebec based terrorist cell, Marathe, atop a desert shelf outside of Tuscan.]<br />
'There is the villain he saw you needed, all of you, to delay this splitting apart. To keep you together, the hating some other. [President] Gentle is crazy in his head, but in this "<i>fault of someone</i>" he was correct in saying it. <i>Un ennemi commun.</i> But not someone outside you, this enemy. Someone of some people among you won history sometime killed out U.S.A. nation already, Hugh. Someone who had authority, or should have had authority and did not exercise authority. I do not know. But someone sometime let you forget how to choose, and what. Someone let your peoples forget it was the only thing of importance, choosing. So completely forgetting that when I way <i>choose</i> to you you make expressions with you face such as "<i>Herrrrre we are going.</i>" Someone taught that temples are for fanatics only and took away the temples and promised there was no need for temples. And now There is no shelter. An no map for finding the shelter of a temple. And you all stumble about in the dark, this confusion of permissions. The without-end point pursuit of a happiness of which someone let you forget the old things which made happiness possible. How is it you say: "<i>Anything is going</i>"?'<br />
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'And this is why we shudder at what a separate Quebec would be like. Choose what we tell you, neglect your own desires, sacrifice. For Quebec. For the State.'<br />
Marathe shrugged. '<i>L'etat protecteur.'</i><br />
Steeply said 'Does this sound a little familiar, Remy? The National Socialist Neofascist State of Separate Quebec? You guys are worse that the worst Albertans. Cuba with snow. Ski immediately to your nearest reeducation camp, for instructions of choosing. Moral eugenics. China. Cambodia. Chad. Unfree.'<br />
'Unhappy'<br />
'There are no choices without personal freedom, Buckeroo. It's not use who are dead inside. These things you find so weak and contemptible in us - these are just the hazards of being free'<br />
'But what does this U.S.A. expression wast to mean, this <i>Buckaroo</i>?'<br />
Steeply turned to face away into the space they were above. 'And now here we go. Now you will say how free are we if you dangle fatal fruits before us and we cannot help ourselves from temptation. And we say "human" to you. We say that once cannot be human without freedom.'<br />
Marathe's chair squeaked slightly as his weight shifted. 'Always with you this freedom! For your walled-up country, always to shout "Freedom! Freedom!" as if it were obvious to all people what it wants to mean, this word. But look: it is not so simple as that. Your freedom is the freedom-<i>from:</i> no one tells your previous individual U.S.A. selves what they must do. It is this meaning only, this freedom from constraint and forced duress.' Marathe over Steeply's shoulder suddenly could realize why the skies above the coruscating city were themselves erased of stars: is was the fumes from the exhaust's wastes of the moving autos' pretty lights that rose and his stars from the city and made the city Tucson's lume nacreous in the dome's blankness of it. 'But what of the freedom-<i>to?</i> Not just free-<i>from</i>? Not all compulsions come from without. You pretend you do not see this. What of child's greedy choices if there is no loving-filled father to guide, inform, teach the person how to choose? How is there freedom to choose if one does not learn how to choose?'<br />
Steeply threw away his cigarette and faced partly Marathe, from the edge: 'Now the story of the rich man.'<br />
Marathe said 'The rich father who can afford the cost of candy as well as food for his children: but if he cries out "Freedom!" and allows his child to choose only what is sweet, eating only candy, not pea soup and bread and eggs, so his child becomes weak and sick: is the rich man who cries "Freedom!" the good father?'<br />
Steeply made four small noises. Excitement of some belief made the American's electrolysis's little pimples of rash redden even in the milky dilute lights of lume and low stars. The moon over the Mountains of Rincon was on its side, its color the color of a fat man's face. Marathe could believe he could hear some out U.S.A. voices shouting and laughing in a young gathering somewhere out on the desert floor below, but saw no headlights or young persons. Steepy stamped a high heel in frustration. Steeply said:<br />
'But U.S. citizens aren't presumed by us to be children, to paternalistically do their thinking and choosing for them. Human beings are not children.'<br />
Marathe pretended again to sniff.<br />
'Ah, yest, but then you say: No?' Steeply said, 'No? you say, not children? You say: What is the difference, please, if you make a recorded pleasure so entertaining and diverting it is lethal to persons, you find a Copy-Capable copy and copy it and disseminate it for us to choose to see or turn off, and if we cannot choose to resist it, the pleasure, and cannot choose instead to live? You say what your Fortier believes, that we <i>are</i> children, not human adults like the noble Quebecers, we are children bullies but still children inside, and will kill ourselves for you if you put the candy without the arms' reach.'<br />
Marathe tried to make his face expressive of anger, which was difficult for him. 'This is what happens: you imagine the things I will say and then say them for me and then become angry with them. Without my mouth; it never opens. You speak to yourself, inventing sides, This itself is the habit of children: lazy, lonely, self. I am not even here, possibly, for listening to.'<br />
Unmentioned by either man was how in heaven's name either man expected to get up or down from the mountainside's shelf in the dark of the U.S. desert's night.<br />
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- Infinite Jest by David Foster WallaceUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0