Ego.

Burning Man - Trey Ratcliff

"You should have just enough ego so that you don't walk into the street and get hit by a car." 

TED GONDER

Genius.

"Here's To The Crazy Ones. The misfits. The rebels. The trouble-makers. The round pegs in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They're not fond of rules, and they have no respect for the status-quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify, or vilify them. About the only thing you can't do is ignore them. Because they change things. They push the human race forward. And while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world - are the ones who do."

-Apple Computers

Old Vices, New Friends

Written reflection has been hard to come by these days--I've been talking a lot and writing down little. So I thought I'd exercise my languid thought and externalize my stream of consciousness. I'm a little out of touch.

There are three overarching ideas that have become entwined with my synapses, dominating my perception, relationships, and distracting me from econ. Today, I'll talk about one of them.

1) ROLE PLAY.

The idea of roles in the midst of diminishing social circles. I had my 17th breakdown on a Saturday night in the middle of November, when I realized that I was alone. Our social relationships are undoubtedly what anchor us to life--to living. And if we're so disconnected, if nobody actively remembers or is thinking about us, whats to say that we even exist? Everybody who lies outside of our extended network and line of consciousness, don't matter because we can't conceptualize them. We have no idea that they're out there. We don't know if the things they do affect us or not. And even if we could potentially care, we're none the wiser. So what does that mean for someone who is not in anybody's circle--at all? If nobody knows they exist, if they don't exist in thought, do they exist in life? With the exception of genius and those who have found purpose through obsession of pursuing their passions, most of us live for those around us. And if there's no one around us and if we're not brilliant...then what?

I had my 18th breakdown when I realized I was alone during a time when I was supposed to be the least alone: college. The formative years. The best years. This is supposed to be the height of the relationships we can be apart of because we are surrounded by like-minded and hungry individuals, who came to an institution to broaden our worlds, and inclusively, our networks. After this it all goes downhill. We go out into the workplace and suddenly we're surrounded by a much more insular society; the cohort of our coworkers that we connect to is smaller. And after that, then what? Who are we surrounded by then? Your immediate family? Is this why people have children? To make sure that they are important and needed. To make sure that they can be conceptualized. To make sure they do in fact exist to at least one other person.

So I went through my quarter life crisis and then I learned something else, something that keeps me sane. I realized that as my social circles become smaller, the number of roles I play also decrease, and I become more whole. In highschool, I spread myself between social groups and played a different role and function in each. The older I get, as my friendships solidify, the role I play across social groups is increasingly the one and the same, which lends to my sense of identity. This then builds stability. And now I'm here. I may have a tighter circle of close friends--but I'm starting to know who I am. I think this is why some great actors go crazy. They can fit into so many roles; they are simultaneously everyone and nobody.

I strongly believe that well-defined roles are a crux to social life and productivity. Especially in a business, if you understand your function then you'll know how to proceed, in which your motivation and accountability are derived not only from achieving the end goal, but from self. Businesses in which stakeholders are unsure of their role, reach a stasis, always waiting for someone else to initiate and delegate need-based instead of role-based tasks (which if well understood ultimately shouldn't need to be delegated or enumerated). Thus, progress moves much slower and only proceeds when it is forced--always a step behind instead of two steps forward.

I think this is enough for one day. The two reflections to come:

2) POWER PLAY.
"The trinity of power, private interest and relationships"-Phil Muggins

3) AND HOW IT ALL PLAYS OUT.

Problems and progress and the road to innovation

City of Big Shoulders

CHICAGO by Carl Sandburg
     HOG Butcher for the World,
     Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
     Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;
     Stormy, husky, brawling,
     City of the Big Shoulders:
They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I
     have seen your painted women under the gas lamps
     luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it
     is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to
     kill again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the
     faces of women and children I have seen the marks
     of wanton hunger.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who
     sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer
     and say to them:
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing
     so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on
     job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the
     little soft cities;
Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning
     as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
          Bareheaded,
          Shoveling,
          Wrecking,
          Planning,
          Building, breaking, rebuilding,
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with
     white teeth,
Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young
     man laughs,
Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has
     never lost a battle,
Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse.
     and under his ribs the heart of the people,
               Laughing!
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of
     Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog
     Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with
     Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.

College, the new standard American Dream

In the middle of winter quarter, I had a discussion with one of the students at Gary Comer Youth Center about the benefits of a college education. It prompted a long discussion and essentially I told him that I personally do not believe college is for everybody, but if you decide that a college education isn't for you, then you better be at least 5 times as smart, interesting, and determined as any college graduate to even stand a chance. In other words, if you intend on being successful, you can bypass college with the prerequisite that you are exceptional.

That said, I honestly believe that education is the answer to most of the problems a child from a troubled background faces. Education is the easiest tool to initially show a child that he/she can succeed, and that affirmation in itself is just as, if not more so, empowering than the act of acquiring knowledge.

Every success a child has in the classroom (eg. doing well on a test or answering questions correctly in class), every time a child is explicitly told that "they are right", eventually translates to self-confidence which translates to self-worth, a powerful notion that may not be readily passed on to children esp. those of troubled families and backgrounds. This self-worth helps insulate a child from social pressures and has the potential to keep a child off the streets, with school and books as a refuge. I strongly believe that success and confidence are intrinsically linked. All you need is conviction to go places.

So my obvious goal as a tutor, is to ensure that every child receives a quality education through sufficient fostering and provided resources to secure self-worth so that they can have a bright and healthy future.

But here's the twist:

I got to thinking: what would happen if every child really did get that amazing education, pursued a college degree, and landed a secure career? Would there be enough white-collar jobs to go around? What would happen to blue collar-jobs, etc. that perform an integral function of society? Even if this were achievable, would an entirely college-educated population be beneficial? Or does the natural pecking order of the world exist for a reason?

And apparently my midnight ramblings that are mildly apocalyptic, are actually a reality. Six months later, WSJ posted this article, in which  Lauren Weber poses the question "Do too many young people go to college?" and four education experts debate it.

I wonder how many years of schooling these experts went through and their current salaries...

Over the past few decades, the social standards have been steadily raising the bar. A college education is the no longer the means to an end, but the end, the new standard American Dream. And K-12 education responded accordingly. With AP classes, IB programs, and college prep schools, schools teach kids to the test for one goal alone: so they can get to college.

I believe that schools should not necessarily ask their students "How smart are you?" but rather "How are you smart?" Thus, fostering an individuaI's strengths and talents, and helping them make an informed decision about pursuing college. I accept that a college education isn't for everyone and I genuinely think one can be successful without it. But again, you have to be pretty freaking exceptional (take Steve Jobs, Bill Gates, and even that fucker, Mark Zuckerberg)--not just comparable, but better than your college-educated peers. Otherwise, a college degree is a surefooted way to at least match the competition, which as the article discusses, is more and more of the competition. That said, it makes it hard not to pursue a secondary education precisely because everyone else is, making those who don't look pretty bad in comparison.

So educational costs are doomed to increase by the law of demand. And I'm sure it'll continue to go up as long as stats support that people who go to college make more money. It's impossible to tackle the problem on cost alone, because cost is a function of demand; the lower the cost, the more people would attend; parallelly, the high cost forces a student to analyze whether college is actually right for them. In which case, it makes sense to continue to increase tuition, even if it's not preferable. I would love to know the number of universities/colleges in the US over time to see if volume is in conjunction with increased demand, and if it is, if the ideal "market price" matches up with the actual going rate of a college education. It would also be interesting to see if all schools are drastically increasing tuitions, or if it's only a select few.  And lastly, the first ten years of a college grad's returns v. their student debt.

All in all, I still think it's better move to go to college but it's really up to an individual and whether they think the cost- and the risks that accompany it- is not only a viable investment but if it aligns with their career goals, or, not. For most people, intellectual fulfillment is secondary, either by principal or necessity, to making a living and being financially independent.

I want every child to be successful and definitely graduate from highschool if nothing else. But from there on, how that success is defined, should be entirely up to an individual. It is crucial for a child to have an open mind as it is for a teacher to remain objective and avoid pushing their own opinions on a child in order to foster individual thinking, which I still think is the real root of the problem. Schools shouldn't teach to a test, but help develop a child's individual talents. Maybe then college wouldn't be inundated with people who don't do well enough to stay, and innovation and entrepreneurship would be revived in America's youth. But what do I know? I'm not an expert, I don't have a PhD; this is just what I think, so take heed.

America's Pretty Pluralism

REFLECTIONS.
On Freshman Year:

I ought to have done this earlier. Two weeks was just enough time to turn sentimentalities into uncomplicated memories neatly tied together with a string of cliches. Get ready for it. Maybe there wasn't that much to be sentimental about in the first place. Or maybe there is. But I remember walking away from school with a mixture of sadness for what can't stay the same and incredible hopefulness for the changes to come. For the first time in years, I feel ambitious. All of a sudden, I'm not thinking about who I'll disappoint but what I want. In college, away from home and away from my past, the only person I ever had to worry about, the only feelings I ever had to take into account were my own. So I simultaneously gained substance and also gained a lot of room to do a lot of stupid shit. Never miss an opportunity to fuck up, do I? Go hard or go home, right? Not an applicable cliche? YOLO (always an applicable cliche). That said, there were some lows. Disappointment cuts deep. Can't decide if not being able to remember my worse nights makes it better, or not.

But there were also some highs (lolololololol). I spent eight months getting to know an incredible city, living on a beautiful campus, with beautiful people. And when I take that into consideration, I really can't complain; I am so incredibly lucky. Every day I spent in Chicago was a privilege--an expensive privilege, but completely worth it. I often measure (and perhaps incorrectly so) experiences by aesthetics, the people I encounter, and the stories they share with me. By those standards, in the words of Noah Shaw, this was the best year of my life and I really just can't stop myself from being grateful.

On Bonnaroo:
It's amazing how these crazy fuckers can blend into society so flawlessly once they reemerge into it. Places like airports. So many different people that they all look the same regardless--America's pretty pluralism. If it weren't for the subtle traces of mud on their shoes and the camping equipment on their backs, I'd never know they just came from a place that can be aptly described as a present day Woodstock.
Time stood still at Bonnaroo--in which time is adjacent to thinking and thinking adjacent to responsibility. I think if I stayed any longer, I'd be perpetually lost: floating, drifting, flying. But in a much less unbearable or ominous way than how I used those words in the past. I'm not weighted down by anything, but instead of feeling purposeless, I barely notice. There's nothing around to remind me that gravity exists, that burdens need to be carried. In the past, the trouble was not knowing which burden to bestow on my shoulders, lacking purpose while searching for fulfillment in a deliberate world. But at Bonnaroo, there are no burdens, just dirty hippies--and the only time you're living in is the present. It's nice as long as you don't realize.
Now that I'm conscious of it, I'm not sure I'll ever go back and enjoy it as much.

"I found my identity in God."
I read that somewhere today.
"I found my identity in God."
I read that and then I couldn't stop thinking:
How do you identify with something
That, you and I--we--as human beings,
are incapable of ever understanding or knowing,
If you find your identity in God,
Then you don't know where your identity is.
Even if we are made in His image,
We still don't know what he actually looks like.

But while I'm here being a cynic, picking apart a person's identity,
Other people have real problems.
The students I am privileged to tutor and interact with at Gary Comer Youth Center are really truly incredible people. The promise they have is unbelievable. The promise every child has is unbelievable. They've been through so much and they just take it. When the rich and privileged suffer, they'll let you know about it; they feel entitled to something, like the rest of the world is indebted to them. But these kids carry their burdens like it's apart of them and if you ask them if anything's wrong, nothing comes to mind. It's actually incredible.

"The question should never be "How smart are you?" but "How are you smart?""

I'm excited to see how these students grow and become young adults. I almost wish there was a bigger age difference between us so I could measure their growth with a sharper eye.

Dating Advice

Gravity-Defying Land Art by Cornelia Konrads

"If you date a boy, you'll be treated like a child. If you date a prince, you'll feel like a princess. If you date a gentleman, you'll be treated like a lady. But whatever you do, never, never date an asshole because the only thing he'll do to you is make you one."

-My mother

Friday Night Poetry Club, Part 3

Insomnia and restlessness can be a source of inspiration. Had a night of culture and I might be trying to drag it out longer than I should.
Regardless, I wrote another poem. Clearly I have too many feelings for my own good.

Untitled

I'm afraid of blood.

Or at least I think I am

Or at least I wish I were.

I wish I were afraid of blood but I think I’m just indifferent towards it.

Indifference is the disease I acquired as an emotionally scarred preteen--

In which "emotionally" is a euphemism for acne,

Formally known as the Holden Years, (which is a play on words on the Golden years and Holden Caulfield, just in case you didn't get the reference.)

I found indifference while

Lying in bed, wondering why the world wasn't any different,

Trying to decide if it was reassuring or devastating that

The world is as stubborn as my mother, my sister, me,

Refusing to spin in any other direction besides forward

Unwilling to commend or rebuke my direction of travel.

But,

What is "forward"?

If I go forward, to the right, three times, suddenly I’m backwards

And history has a tendency to repeat itself.

So the world and me must have a lot in common:

We never stop spinning,

Maybe to our own demise.

Except instead of forward, I only spin out of control.

But maybe that's what it actually means to move ahead.

For lack of a better word, we settled upon "forward"

And for lack of a better feeling, I settled upon apathy.

From ages twelve to nineteen,

I’ve never loved anything more than indifference.

Clutching my poorly sewn quilt of apathy and cynicism

Stitched together by resin treated strands of polyester,

My misshapen security blanket became my second skin--

My only skin.

Maybe that's the reason why I’m not afraid of blood, but wish I were.

Instead I’m only afraid of my lack of fear,

Because blood is the color of life,

Blood is the color of passion,

And the only shade that matters.

I'm afraid that when I prick the synthetic fibers that make up my skin,

All I’ll find is a sea of indifference--

Watered down red paint masquerading as blood,

Too thick in some parts, too thin in others,

Worse than any sickle celled nightmare

Because even sickle cells require passion to emanate.

I'm afraid that if I prick my skin,

Nothing will come out because

Every drop of Red #40, interspersed with my life

Was already absorbed by my indifference.

And if my blood runs dry, then I might as well be dead.

But more than anything, I’m afraid that if I prick my skin,

I will bleed the tears, pains, and sorrows that run through my veins,

I will bleed the joys, laughs, and smiles that keep my heart pumping

I will bleed every boy I ever loved and-slash-or hated,

Every smell that reminds me of my mother's home cooking,

Every instance that ever made my hands clammy,

Every sound that made me raise my voice—

More than anything I’m afraid that if I prick my skin, I will bleed--
I will bleed red hot hemoglobin blood,

And I won't give a fuck.

I am the world's greatest externality.

Everything is meta. Meta is meta, which is meta. Fuck that shit.
I love storms. But I can't fall asleep to them. I have a paper to write. Cool story, Hansel.

"Unfortunately, all languages deteriorate. They become more and more shallow until there's barely anything left."

-Harry Obst

White House Interpreter

Harry Obst, the White House German Interpreter for seven US presidents (from Johnson to Clinton) was not an "amazing speaker for an eighty-year old," he was an amazing speaker, period. He manipulated the English language beautifully--even though German is his mother tongue. He divulged a fresh yet intimate perspective into the presidency, while weaving in wit and charm, instantly lending familiarity. 

But, Harry Obst doesn't have a Wikipedia page. Isn't it funny how almost all relationships are mediated through some digital medium? I believe Harry Obst is a great man who lived a rich life who has enough stories to show for it, but can I actually measure greatness without a fully documented Wiki spread? Probably not. At least not with confidence. At least not with immortal confidence. Today he's great. But tomorrow I might not remember his first name without that digital file that acts as both a record and a promise that he did in fact do all of those great things.

Mr. Obst claims the English language is deteriorating; natural born citizens don't know basic grammar rules (guilty), slang and IM-speak plague our daily speech, and words that shouldn't be are constantly being invented and then used. Sentences have been reduced to acronyms (YOLO so YMAWSYB--which stands for "you might as well save your breath," coined by yours truly). Words have been reduced to emojis. And the people behind them are nothing but icons, bad prof pics, and poorly written Twitter biographies. Words are falling apart but so are the individual and our interpersonal relationships. And naturally, I want something or someone to blame.

Personally, I think the digital era is the culprit on both accounts. According to Facebook, I have as many friends as there are Urban Dictionary entries. So why am I always alone? Oh right, because facebook friends aren't real people, they're internet pages filled out by real people. (THANKS A LOT FOR THAT FALSE SENSE OF SECURITY, MARK FUCKERBERG!) I'm literally always plugged in. GChat. Facebook. Twitter. Texting. BBM. Ping. Skype. Hangout. Pinterest. Instagram. Blogger. Tumblr. Youtube. Myspace (lol). The world has never been smaller, shrunken by the seemingly infinite modes of communication. I can connect with anybody in seconds and yet I've never felt so distant from people. This somewhat novel versatility of communication has lent itself to incredible mobility. And with mobility comes incredible distance. I can go to the far reaches of my internet provider's service area, and I will never be quite alone. As long as my phone doesn't die. As long as I don't lose signal.

How does this affect face-to-face interactions (and no I'm not talking about FaceTime)? No matter who I'm physically with, I'm always talking to somebody else. The majority of my relationships are held together by a thin rope made of binary code. We take talking for granted--we take people for granted because we know they'll always be there even when they aren't. As of late, when I do talk to people face-to-face, it feels breathy, chatty, forced, empty, like, you know what I mean, that's awkward, wait what, but actually, good talk. Luckily, if we don't have a meaningful conversation in person now, we can always talk it out later on Gchat, where I can write and rewrite and edit and copy and paste exactly what I wanted to say. I can take my time responding and pretend like I was just away from my computer. But no matter how much I give away on the internet or through my text messages, there will always be something between us. Whether it's my phone or my computer, there is a physical barrier, let alone physical distance, between us that is not conducive to intimacy. This is worse than knowing someone superficially. Superficial, by definition, means being near the surface. Our relationships today are at best a mediated superficiality, a superficial superficial, n-times removed from the origin.

Language is deterioriating--both in form and significance--and yet it is proliferating--both in form and signifiers. Language, the great mirror of society.

Sleeping is Giving In

Insomnia, that dirty fucker. Can't sleep, decided to clean out my inbox and consequently found a lot of old essays I wrote for school or college applications. Tempted to post some up (you call it narcissistic, I call it efficient archiving). I also rediscovered a great poem featured in one of my fave movies: Harold and Kumar. It's a love poem hehe.

The Square Root of 3 by Dave Feinberg

I’m sure that I will always be
A lonely number like root three

The three is all that’s good and right,
Why must my three keep out of sight
Beneath the vicious square root sign,
I wish instead I were a nine

For nine could thwart this evil trick,
with just some quick arithmetic

I know I’ll never see the sun, as 1.7321
Such is my reality, a sad irrationality

When hark! What is this I see,
Another square root of a three

As quietly co-waltzing by,
Together now we multiply
To form a number we prefer,
Rejoicing as an integer

We break free from our mortal bonds
With the wave of magic wands

Our square root signs become unglued
Your love for me has been renewed

Prompt: Describe the voice of a loved one.


When asked to describe my mother’s voice, I'm actually describing my mother. If there’s one thing to pinpoint my mother it's her voice. When she speaks English, people tend to think that my mother’s actually shouting, but that’s because they haven’t heard her shout, yet. Two steps away from being shrill, my mother’s voice will always be that of a saleswoman—loud, confidant, exuberant, demanding, and playful. It grows with her excitement, and it should be known that she gets excited by talking. Frequently overlapping, or overpowering, someone else’s, my mother’s voice is looking for a fight but won’t take no for an answer. Her English is a living record for the places she’s been: vowels from Sheffield mixed in with a pleasant Midwestern drawl and an underlying Chinese accent.


But it’s her Chinese that epitomizes her the best. When my mother speaks Cantonese, her voice does become shrill. It sounds as if nothing else in the world is happening because my mother stopped it with her voice. Or like a little boy just discovered a twelve-piece drumset and he really really likes the cymbals. Every syllable is bursting with energy that is then transposed into hand gestures and pacing.


And yet, I’ve never heard anyone else speak Mandarin so beautifully. Like poetry, or music, every word is clean and crisp, while maintaining a certain softness. She has a perfect Beijing dialect, meaning she doesn’t have one, making her Mandarin universal. Hearing her speak Mandarin makes me wish I remembered more.


My mother’s voice is painted red; alive with passion, full of fighting love.

String Theory

A million different strings,

From a million different angles,

Hand-sewn by needlepoint, radiating from every pore of my poor body.

Each pulled taut by who- or what-so-ever;

Inmobility is an understatement.

But I’m still here,

Held together by the reverberating tugs of expectation.

Constantly in the shadow of what I could be—

The shadow of a—

World, constructed by me and those around

Me.

“Who am I?”

Is not nearly as pressing as  “What will I be?”

When I grow up, I—

No, they—no, I—no, we

Want—

What?

We want.

But when

A million different strings,

From a million different angles,

Let go, tired of waiting for a shadow to move on its own,

Then what?

A million different strings,

Tied in million different knots—

Freedom can be just as paralyzing.

That is—

Until my body feels something besides pressure,

Until my legs can carry my own weight,

Until my weight measures only me,

Until I stand, walk, run in a singular direction,

Away from the shadow I helped to shade,

Until the only shadow left is the one I leave behind

Me.

Until then.

Friday Night Poetry Club, Take 2

Honey Traps

by Francesca McMahon
Old Harlow, UK

Then our mother found herself
abandoned in the fallow years
of schools, church halls, playgrounds,
swimming pools. Her sons chased
other sons, endlessly, like mice
on a wheel. Us girls caught her heels,
bound her ankles with name tape,
hair ribbon, skipping rope. At dusk,
hands doused in dishwater, discordant
noise from miniature instruments
tortured her ears; under her breath
she counted days - years and years
of them - stolen from her own life.

More and more she saw the answer
in the future, when we would all leave
home, or run away. She planned
to celebrate: set light to the oven,
solder the iron, smash up the plates.
Saw herself swimming through a tide
of spilt milk, towards freedom.

Now the future has arrived she sits alone
in a room full of people; suffers
the steady chiming of a granddaughter
clock. At four, like a cuckoo, she opens
the door, calls our names - plain ones,
long out of fashion - into the street.
The girls whisper, afraid she is a witch;
the boys point, sometimes throw sticks.
No matter. She would call those same
names over the whole world
if she thought it would bring us back.

We hold out our hands, but she sees
through us, knowing we are not the children
she is looking for, knowing we are lost to her.

Since my readership has grown exponentially, I'm blogging. For you.
Fact: All college freshmen have at least one thing in common: alcohol.
I've decided that the easiest conversation to have with strangers my age is fratting.
Why? Clearly because I'm a fratty fratty frat star. Revel in it.
I lost my MegaBus virginity this morning. I also wasn't sober, which is probably the only acceptable way to lose my virginity(s)...I think.
It was kinda depressing how after we left Chicago it took the entire seven hours before I saw anything close to a skyscraper (mid-risers in C-bus, the cornerstone of the Midwest). I did, however, spot several cows and trailer parks which isn't something you'd think would go together but oddly does.

It feels so good to be home.

My Night Measured in Productivity.

 HI. 

1:03 am

1:03 am

1:04 am

1:06 am

1:27 am

1:29 am

1:31 am

1:31 am

1:32 am

6:13 am

6:13 am

6:14 am

8:05 am

8:07 am

BYE.

How many cups of coffee do I have to drink until I become an adult?

"Remember, you cannot be both young and wise. Young people who pretend to be wise to the ways of the world are mostly just cynics. Cynicism masquerades as wisdom, but it is the farthest thing from it. Because cynics don’t learn anything. Because cynicism is a self-imposed blindness, a rejection of the world because we are afraid it will hurt us or disappoint us. Cynics always say no. But saying “yes” begins things. Saying “yes” is how things grow. Saying “yes” leads to knowledge. “Yes” is for young people. So for as long as you have the strength to, say “yes'.”

― Stephen Colbert

Daily Bread

Spread your legs like butter upon my body,

My body that is the bread.

Is that a reference to God?

Oh God, oh God,

Hallowed be Thy name.

Hallowed by Thy name.

Oh wait, it doesn't work like that.

Just because I murmur 'God',

Does not make me any closer to Him.

Just because I can feel the swirl of each letter

Upon my tongue—

The hard 'g'

The drawn out 'o'

Taking its time before it reaches a finite 'd'—

God, oh God.

"Come unto me,

All ye that labor and are heavy laden,

And I will give you rest."

Rest.

Rest.

Rest.

The rest of me is spread upon your body,

Like butter,

Upon your body that is the bread.

That is not a reference to God.

That is a metaphor

For sex.

And even though I can shout "God",

Does not make me any closer to him.

Even though I can feel the dread of every letter—

The harrowing 'g'

The punctuated 'o'

An emphasized 'd'

Followed by an even shorter,

Frustrated "Fuck."—

Fuck.

The guilt of finding God

The morning after.

To be, or not to be;

The bread is broken.

This time around my body is the bread

From which you will eat,

From which you ate,

Not for sustenance,

But to temporarily fill a void.

The bread is broken;

I am the bread.

My blood infused with my tears,

Is the wine.

The wine from which no one else will drink.

For who will drink boiled wine?

Hallowed be Thy name--

Fuck that.

Hallowed be My name.

My body will always be the bread,

Even if it is half eaten.

My blood shall be the wine,

Even if the cup is dry.

Hallowed be my name

Because you came unto me,

And I gave you rest.

Spread your legs like butter upon my body,

My body that is the bread.

That is not a reference to God,

That is a reference to Me.

I am the bread;

And the bread is broken.

Friday Night Poetry Club

If... 
by Rudyard Kipling


If you can keep your head when all about you 
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

The Implications of a Liberal Education on One's (Private) Ruminations

Although the intensity of the darkness is a rather compelling argument, wallowing in my own self pity seems too great, too daunting a task to take heed of the darkness and fall asleep. I apologize in untimely advance because I am talking in flowers and am likely to do so for the rest of this post.
I wonder why.
Who am I writing for at this time of...time--for a lack of better word seeing as how I wading in a pool of dangerously murky waters, in which night literally melts into day, and twilight into morning. Who am I writing for? In this tone of voice? It's far from objective. Objective, maybe in the sense that it lacks visible partialness for one side or another (the sides are undefined as I do not know how to define them). And yet, this post is entirely subjective since this is actually a journal entry that belongs to me. And I am choosing to employ a distinct tone of voice that may be only strictly mine. "Strictly" is such a condescending word in this sense, isn't it? Who am I to contend that everything I write here tonight is original? I am  no stranger to the fruitful practice of finding great ideas and then to take, paste, cut, copy, and delete until fringes of ideas become (the framework for?) my own, or at least what I like to think of as my own--but judging by the number of the personal pronoun "I", "my", and "me" this is a highly biased opinion that should be checked for credibility.
Regardless of the background and credibility of the author (yours truly, in case you dear reader has forgotten), this really isn't a journal entry. Not tonight. I traded my douchey hipster Moleskine for my douchey hipster blog. Does that make it different? Clearly. Infinitely. But judging by my past experience, my private journal-journal entries can be just as douchey and flowery as this blog post that's open to the public. In fact sometimes more so. Usually I don't take the time to publish this shit because, again it raises my douche level by a power of infinity. Thus it pains me to admit that even if it were that every thought I choose to publish is somehow entirely original and of my own, tonight this isn't really just for me. I'm also sharing my private thoughts with anyone who can access the internet (aka. the world excluding some of the elderly or skill-less or isolated or resourceless--a statistic without a number that was acquired from the BBC).
I don't know. It's unclear who I'm writing for. But as long as I choose to publish, it is no longer just for me. Hello there Barthes, you're successfully killing me, you dirty motherfucker.
Anyway. Tangents at 5 in the morning are no better received than tangents at any other given time (ie. 6 in the morning, or perhaps 6:30).
Journalling is something that's supposed to help me sort through my life, decompress, de-confound, de-life. Objectify (or perhaps subjectify) but either way to coalesce into physical existence of a word as compared to a thought of theory (a theory  of thought?). Visible objects that exist in the semi-real-digital world seem more digestible than the non-existent entities that are spun entirely in my mind which is guided by a network of synapses and various chemicals.
My mind. My thoughts. The mind. That is why I'm here tonight. Me--the girl who is constantly trying to psychoanalyze herself so that she can create the strongest defenses and justifications against all slander and libel and other true shortcomings. But this isn't just a defense mechanism--these three words facilitates reconstruction in its highest form, reconstruction of self. Mind over matter. Mind over matter. I've willed myself out of anorexia. Obsessive compulsive disorder. Depression. Addiction. Selfishness. Selflessness. I tell myself that I don't have problems and suddenly I don't. It's magic. Signifier and signified. What comes first? Well, in this case the signified. I wish I thought of this two weeks ago, this could've been a kick-ass paper for Media Aesthetics. Once words are written down, do they assume the position of truthfulness regardless of what they actually embody?
If you ask me about my problems in real life, I'll never admit to them. This is the reason why I journal, why I blog. It's confession. To relax all falsifications of existence. In real life, I live to pretend to be so that you, whoever you are, will never see me vulnerable. But in reality, these are the kind of thoughts that go on in my head all day (the kinds that are destined to prove futile for thinking in the first place).
The difference between pretending and being.
Slim to none if I do say so myself.
Mind over matter.
Mind over matter.
What happens when mental capabilities are reached and matter is greater than mind even if it is temporarily?
That produces an unbelievably noticeable bout of inconsistency.
Interesting how inconsistency is my greatest flaw.
Mind over matter, so long as the mind is stronger than the matter.
Currently, the matter is greater than the mind.
"What is the matter?"
"Nothing. I'm fine."
What is the matter?
To say everything is either diplomatic in the sense that it is non-discriminating or immature in the sense that it is melodramatic (the entire world is leaning towards...well you tell me, the entire world).
But to exclude anything, seems like far too dangerous a risk.
After all, if a word can have such great spin, what about an action? An action out of context must be more dangerous than a missplaced word. Maybe. Maybe not.
...
The unbearable lightness of being.
The unbearable weight of pretending.
Mind over matter.
What if there is no matter left?
What is the matter?
Nothing.
...
I'm slightly distressed.