Twisted Echoes

Dream Scenes

2011-07-21T04:31:00.006-04:00

(Note: these "Dream Scenes" posts may change as I remember more details. I always try to put them in the order that they occurred, but they may not be. As if you care or are even reading this, ha! I "write like I have readers," if you know what I mean.)

- An episode of Arthur about junk food, I think.
- I am in a museum gallery (looked like the one at the Nasher that had the Jazz exhibit). Lamb Chop makes an appearance. My mother mentions "The Song that Doesn't End," (sounding kind of "whatever" and bored overall) and it starts playing. I walk away. My dad is trying to tell me something in that "admitting" style, except I think it was going to be something bad about me because I am really mad at him.
- I'm sitting in an identical room, except apparently I've moved to Hollywood, because I can see on my laptop that I've updated my profile to say that. A girl about my age approaches me, basically saying, "Oh, you moved to Hollywood!"
- It suddenly changes to where I see an (a? I want you to pronounce it as letters, though -- sorry, English major internal debate) FB poll where you can answer if a person is alive or dead (possible this is in my mind's mind's eye too), except it has choices, and one of them is an X. I contemplate what would happen if I changed my profile setting to Dead.
- A flash of my college graduation ceremony.
- I am in a small room at a brown table with a plastic chair. A woman representing the Cold Air Mountain catalog (there was a catalog on the table) is showing me video tapes of Harry Potter, except they have crazy titles called Nililicomium (unsure?) of the [Something], and I thought/maybe said, "It's Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone," but she didn't want to listen and showed me more tapes.
- I am telling my mom various details of my dreams (that I am telling you now -- weird, I know), but she's not listening. I say something to her about the Harry Potter dream, like, "It wasn't even Necromium -- 'death.'" It seems like my dream mother never really cares about the dreams I've just had -- unlike my real mother.

Dream Scenes

2011-06-28T05:21:00.000-04:00

- We drive away from a school, which is supposed to be my former college (in the dream I am the same age), but it looks like my elementary school. I say something about wanting to play a sport (WTF? I hate sports) before fifty years are up, or something like that, with a laugh. I am with my mom in the car, eating a bag of malted milk balls and other assorted goodies, to tide me over, hunger-wise. I open one bag, then finish another from a large stash in the back seat. Meanwhile, we are parked outside a church, with dozens of couples of various sorts getting married, including some people I know from school. Sister Lovey is talking to interesting characters, as she tends to do, overhear something about a guy who wants to donate a prop (Buddhist?, I hear that at some point in the dream) to the church. I am in the car, but at points I get a bird's-eye view of the crowd. I see a large young woman in a dress wearing some type of Pagan crown made of thorns or maybe leaves. I see someone I didn't know was gay marrying a woman. My mom says I can borrow her cell phone for writing (which is a regular phone, not an iPhone or one with a keyboard), and I refuse. I tell her about an iPhone Marriage app, and imagine one with "I now pronounce you" and big buttons below that say "Wife & Husband," "Wife & Wife," and "Husband & Husband" (or maybe Woman & Woman / Man & Man). (I am sure there is already an "app for that." How could there not be?) The gay ones weren't fully visualized in my mind's eye, but the concept was there. Anyway, fun times were had by all. The whole thing was very festive, with both more "traditional" and "alternative" couples.

My mind's eye has a mind's eye. Wild.

Dream Scenes

2011-06-27T06:15:00.003-04:00

- Story about Barack Obama being banned from certain provinces (huh?) around the world. I told my best friend Amanda about this and she was relieved, because she was "tired of hearing about him," or something to that effect, said with a laugh.
- Quote displayed about children being forced to take up the environmental slack for adults, see kids splashing around in the pool with some environmentally-friendly thing. Bill Nye the Science Guy and woman sitting at a news desk. Woman says that by serving the kids Sunny D, they are participating in coddling them, something about the environment. Bill Nye (or could have been woman) says children need more exposure to Draconian images in everyday life, or something to that effect.
- Image of various "service" uniforms lined up.

My brain is political and has a big vocabulary.

Dream Scenes

2011-06-26T05:36:00.005-04:00

- A little history about the making of "Will You Love Me Tomorrow?", the many revisions the song went through. After 1962, revisions to the lyrics were given a moratorium, according to my dream.
- A man who practices Native American religion with his big-lipped, painted-face, exotic but Caucasian wife (truly beautiful, saw a brief snapshot of wife), talking with someone about writing a sex article. Something with cantaloupes or maybe a banana (makes more sense) representing his penis, for humorous value. Witchy old woman talks to him about maintaining their current NA period (I think) sex rituals.
- Snapshot of cast of characters (pencil drawings) who were hitmakers in the 60s and 70s (or around that time) who were nonetheless denied access to restaurants.
- A brief biography of a man who speaks Udu? -- (misspelling of Urdu -- as far as I know, Udu doesn't exist) everywhere, snapshots of him ordering coffee, listening to Internet radio in the language -- told by his best friend.

My brain is weird.

Haiku (A dream I had last night...)

2011-05-23T20:56:00.002-04:00

Interspecies love.
Knocked up by kitty. Does it
mean I like pussy?

Haiku

2011-05-21T17:22:00.002-04:00

"Will our love subside?"
you ask. It will ebb and flow.
Who can really know?

Haiku

2011-05-15T08:53:00.002-04:00

I take you in me--
hurting, but aching to give
my warm, dark wetness.

Haiku

2011-05-12T14:22:00.000-04:00

Let me just say: though
you're not my only song, I
can't stop singing you.

I had a dream in which I...

2011-05-12T14:12:00.000-04:00

...made up a bad new term for sex.

I had a dream that I had gotten an email from a guy who was interested in one of the domain names that me and my mom were selling, only he was sharing way too much personal information. He said that lesbians were more sensitive and he liked to experiment with them sexually. He said he had a lesbian friend that I could meet, and then we would "buff for dunk." Get naked and dunk the man's thing into the woman's thing, I assume? I don't know. It sounds like something Borat would say.

How Do People Stay Sane? (Part 1...more to come)

2011-03-16T14:11:00.004-04:00

I was crazy from October to early February. (Really, although it also makes a good excuse for why I haven't been updating this blog.) This is part of a poem. More later.

How do people stay sane
Keep the firing squad of neurons in their brains
Away from their intact psyches?

Keep away the barrage of automatons
Who, right on cue,
Shred a few strands of self-respect,
Force a few sacred cows
Into the slaughterhouse?

Reason to Write #6

2010-09-07T14:10:00.000-04:00

6. Write to make money.

Reason to Write #5

2010-09-04T14:25:00.001-04:00

5. Write to give someone their due comeuppance. (I did, recently, and it felt good.)

Domain Names for Sale

2010-09-04T14:23:00.001-04:00

These names were all registered by my mom around 2002/2003, and now I am selling them on her behalf:

ellsay.com
greatseens.com
gutsily.com
lowcarbbeers.com
nicotinesolution.com
pluckiest.com
pluckily.com
scriptdl.com
seepeople.net
whatimsaying.com
youbiquitous.com

I am also selling my own names:
CherRocks.com
SmutYourStuff.com
sexual.ms
serchy.com
21stcenturyrock.com
getashrink.com
notmiphone.com
unify.cc
womanfully.com
hornychica.com
clitvibes.com
amusicreview.com
f-er.com
exploresexuality.com

Reason to Write #4

2010-09-01T20:41:00.001-04:00

4. Write because you're bored as hell.

300 Words

2010-08-26T18:40:00.003-04:00

RandomWord.net random word: airy

Light and airy potato chips. She saw a young woman and her boyfriend lounging in a wheat field and munching on the all-natural, organic chips. In a way, it was refreshing to see all these companies compete to develop their “green” image instead of the booty-shaking, irreverent one. But was the portrayal of honesty honest? Or just a marketing gimmick. Of course it was a marketing gimmick. Ads shape culture. But it's true culture also shapes the ads. She knew the degree in Communications would suck the fun out of television viewing. But it didn't always; sometimes TV was more fun because she could do scavenger hunting for certain tropes with one part of her brain and laugh at them with the other. But some people took commercials seriously; they believed that the message was the out-and-out truth, rather than carefully-honed talking points meant to attract eyeballs. Frankly, her degree made her watch more television, not less. Currently jobless, she told people that she worked as a “media consumer” for a non-profit. When asked to explain further, she changed the subject. So it's a job in the service industry, they joked. Well, maybe it wasn't a joke. If she had to sell her brain and eyeballs to the screen so that she could educate and enlighten the masses, then so be it. “Don't trust the media.” But her blog was a part of the media, wasn't it? Another voice lingering in the air, waiting to be caught by anyone. Can a public service be self-serving too? Good and bad? Shades of gray rather than black and white? Well, as long as there are people, there will be media, she thought. Good ideas aren't sold; they're integrated into society and help it “level up,” so to speak.

300 Words

2010-08-26T16:09:00.002-04:00

RandomWord.net random word: hotly

If you say something hotly, that doesn't mean you say it in a sexy voice, she told the class. She hated to reminisce about bygone eras, the “good old days.” More like “good old segregation,” “good old sexism,” or “good old nuclear family.” But there was something unnerving about her students associating everything with sex, even in such an innocent way. It wouldn't forever be so innocent. But children had always talked about sex and giggled over dirty or dirty-sounding words. It was interesting to her that this brand of humor was called “adult” and “mature,” when in fact it wasn't much of either. But there was a risk to such restraint, she knew. Truly mature adults didn't laugh at sex because it was gross or disgusting; they laughed out of recognition. Sex is something that we are all expected to do. The time may come during high-school and then it's over and done with: “Yeah, I've had sex.” Or it may be a tightly-guarded treasure that isn't opened until you've known the person for five years and are engaged in holy matrimony. For her it was somewhere in between. But no matter what time you did it, once you'd done it, you could relate. The asexuals were probably tired of hearing about kissing and licking and sucking and fucking all the time. No matter. They would find their solitude not in the tender embrace of a lover, but in a dark, dirty basement inventing a cheap mass-produced electric car or infinite regenerating corn. It was true that sex took a lot of energy and left its participants out of commission, if only briefly. Oh well. They would show the rest of the world that “doing it” need not mean having sex.

Reason to Write #3

2010-08-26T14:51:00.000-04:00

3. Write to relieve some emotions after a bad breakup.

Reason to Write #2

2010-08-26T14:49:00.001-04:00

2. Write to keep track of your dreams.

300 Words

2010-08-26T14:23:00.005-04:00

RandomWord.net random word: singularly

They had told her she was uniquely qualified for the job. “Singularly.” Yes, but unfortunately, they did not have the resources to hire her. Wasn't that always the way? Here it was: a job that would let all her best skills shine: web design, copyediting, Photoshop, bookkepping, and pouring coffee. If the best person for the job couldn't get it, what did that mean? Should she try again, this time downplaying her college degree, her volunteer work with the women's shelters, and the service trip to France? Maybe all that stuff sounded too snobby and elitist, too upper-middle-class for them. But there was no way to go back in time to “dumb herself down,” so to speak. She had to live as herself: uniquely talented, a shining star, a Jill-of-all-trades who really was a master at most things she tried. And now she was in debt: she would be paying student loans until she retired. Her boyfriend had gone to a technical school. He wasn't employed either, but at least he knew how to fix cars. People would always need their cars fixed. Usually, in-depth analyses of Elizabethan literature were much less pressing. And even if the journals accepted their work, they didn't pay—now or ever. Graduate school would help pass the time and give her more useless areas of expertise. Maybe the economy would improve by the time she got out. Come to think of it, that job had required very little of what she had set out to do with her degree and very much of what she did to procrastinate. Did that mean the degree had no value? Of course not. Because if she hadn't gone to college, she wouldn't have discovered that there was more to life than what she had learned at college.

Reason to Write #1

2010-08-26T14:18:00.004-04:00

Note: These are not necessarily original. :)

1. Write to fill time.

300 Words

2010-08-17T18:12:00.002-04:00

Sure, that dress looks good on you. But does it hug your body? Does it conform perfectly to your butt, giving it a flattering yet subtle lift? Does it appreciate the complexity of your curves, knowing when to flatten and when to enhance? Does it make you say, “Damn, I look good and everyone else better recognize”? Can you improvise your way like a jazz musician through any job interview, dinner party, or PTA meeting? Sure you can, baby. That's what this dress does to you. It's like a drug. Call it LBD if you want: Little Black Dress—but would that really do justice? It may be little, but it does so much. Wine only gets better with experience; so do you. You don't need some hoochie-mama dress—wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am. You need a dress that complements your worldly sophistication and wisdom gained through decades of heartbreak, disappointments, and disasters big and small. This dress don't discriminate, baby. It don't nitpick all your little so-called flaws. Is that what they are? More like experience lines, thought lines. You're not young. But so what? Does everybody have to look young these days? There's a lot to be said for that cool, classic style—the only style that really stays in style. You're a bridge from the past to the future—not just fashion-wise, but life-wise, baby. You cannot be brought down. You are amazing. And you don't have time to waste with dullards—and you don't spend your hard-earned cash on any less than the best, now do you? I didn't think so. Your wardrobe is a reflection of years of investment, not the latest trends. This little black dress needs you as much as you need it—maybe more. Because only on your body can it gain its true potential. You know it. You deserve it.

I have a store

2010-08-16T19:30:00.004-04:00

I have a store online where you can buy the mp3s of the music from my radio show Twisted Echoes. If you're not one of the seven people who's ever listened to my show, it's a hodgepodge of rock, pop, blues, hip-hop, electronica, and et cetera. You can buy a whole album or just one song; each album will usually have 1-3 songs that I've personally listened to and highly recommend. The site uses Amazon to download the songs. If you're so inclined, you can go to the link below:

http://ShopTwistedEchoes.com

5-Minute Poem

2010-08-16T16:21:00.002-04:00

The sky is gray today.
I want to wrap myself
in the haze and sleep.

The air feels thick and somber.
When it rains, the sky
will release its tears.

Nobody says much
on a rainy day.
I am taken back to me,
my mind, where thoughts linger
and sometimes latch onto
my attention.

300 Words

2010-08-16T15:07:00.002-04:00

“He loves me, he loves me not.” It always seemed so silly to her. Of course, the outcome was based on if the daisy had an even or odd number of petals. But her friend Betty took very seriously these games of chance. She saw salt over the shoulder as good luck; Megan saw it as salt on the floor that needed to be cleaned up. Megan wanted a black cat; of course, that was off-limits. Betty painstakingly avoided stepping on cracks, saying goodbye to a friend on a bridge (you'll never see them again), and taking trips on Fridays (you'll meet misfortune on the way). To test how far she would go, Megan whispered the word Macbeth during a presentation of Rent when they were in New York. Betty grabbed her by the hand, and they stumbled through 500 people to get out. Thank God, too. “525,600 Minutes” was already playing through her head like a broken record. What was weird about all this, though, was that Betty considered herself an atheist—a die-hard devotee of Richard Dawkins who had the “Evolve” fish tattooed on her arm. She hadn't gone to church in 15 years, she proudly proclaimed. Was this a replacement for God? Betty wouldn't say. It was unnerving to see someone so rational take such myths so seriously—all the while laughing in the face of psychics, acupuncturists, and feng shui experts. Megan tried to emulate her in the hopes that she would realize the foolishness of her beliefs. But she could never get the formula exactly right. Flag touching the ground? Fine (but maybe because she distrusted the government enough to risk the bad luck). Walking under a ladder? Okay, whatever (she was short). Leaving shoes on the table? “Hell no, get them off!”

300 Words

2010-08-15T15:47:00.002-04:00

The boy had no idea what their new house would be like. His mom always had HGTV on in the background and he would watch, enthralled. How did those people have $300,000 to spend on a house? The rooms always looked so big though, and the people who moved in never had enough to fill in all the space. He liked the huge bathtubs, though -- that looked big enough to swim in. People in these families always had these little kids, even younger than him. They seemed pretty oblivious to appreciation and resale value and granite countertops. He liked the house they lived in now. It had soft gray carpet and big windows that he could sit in to look at his books. Grown-ups were always concerned with having a big backyard – but not for the same reason he did. “This would be a great space for entertaining; you could have a lot of company in this space.” Joey didn't care too much about company; he just wanted to be able to pull his wagon around the house and pretend he was a tour guide to the stuffed bunny named Bunny and his girlfriend Tiger. Mommy and Daddy spent what seemed like hours looking at paint samples, carpet samples, flooring samples. “You could paint everything red!” he said. “Yes, we could, couldn't we Mommy?” Daddy said. But Joey listened to them talk more, and they ended up deciding on beige, which was one of the most boring colors out there. When the man asked if they wanted an island in their new kitchen, Joey got very excited. He couldn't wait to own an island, until he found out it wasn't really an island – just a small countertop where the apples and bananas would go.

Flash (Fiction) in the Pan - 300 Words

2010-08-14T15:47:00.005-04:00

In 2003, I had a website at emilycooper.org, where I wrote brief opinion pieces that I tried to keep at about 300 words (give or take 200 words). Now, in 2010, I'm doing the same thing -- except with fiction. It may not be great writing, but it will be writing, which is a good starting point for more writing. :) I am going to do this at least once a day, with the goal of 300 words exactly this time.

She hoped she would never get her face shot off by her boyfriend. Of course, she knew how to pick 'em, right? But the bad ones always seemed so good at the beginning; the only difference was that the good ones stayed good. But what was the cutoff? An unkind word about her body that maybe was really more observational than mean (she had put on a few pounds lately), an elbow jab to the ribs for stealing the covers, a slap on the wrist for almost getting hit (an SUV driver was watching 16 and Pregnant and didn't see her). Her mother had had a tendency to hit her whenever she did something that was unkind or put her own life in danger. “You were texting from your car! 40 lashes!” It wasn't hard, but still? How much was reasonable. Her mom had also said to look out for men who seemed too nice, who spent money on her far too readily. They tended to have something to hide. Kristen tried to have an open mind about her men, lest she come off discriminatory. Nobody was too dark, too light, too poor, too rich, or too ex-convict for her. But how do you do that? How do you have preferences, and how do you state those preferences without coming off as judgmental? Ok, maybe ex-serial killer was too much (because no ex-serial killer stays that way, do they?), but what about ex-pot farmer? Come to think of it, did it make sense to experience activism vicariously through her boyfriends' weird proclivities? Maybe Karen didn't need a man at all. Maybe all she needed was a day off from work, a hot bubble bath, and a Playgirl. Just to breathe.

The Economic Downturn

2009-11-30T19:55:00.013-05:00

As a liberal-guilt preface to this blog post, I would just like to say that I do not like poverty or the fact that some people will go without food, warm clothes, or shelter during this holiday season. As a society, we are only as good as the weakest among us. Okay, with that said...

Every year, we take a 7-and-a-half hour drive from North Carolina to Pennsylvania to visit relatives over the Thanksgiving break. This is the only time we see them all year. We drive up on Friday morning, and spend about 12 hours on Saturday (usually 11am-11pm) eating, talking, getting drunk, playing raucous (and occasionally raunchy) Catchphrase (occasionally while drunk), and just generally enjoying each other's company. My cousin Andrew and his wife Megan brought year-old baby Claire with them, whom we (my immediate family the Cooper/Griffiths) had cooed and fawned over via Skype (which is another topic in itself), but only just now have been able to adore in the flesh. (Isn't it funny how all babies are so adorable? Yes, yes. :)

Dinner of course, was wonderful--I took my coma-inducing share of turkey, cranberry sauce, corn pudding, stuffing--and now, that I'm of age--Asti Spumante champagne. (Surprisingly, even though I didn't find it as tasty as I remembered, I nonetheless kept drinking it.)

I know everyone says that holidays are about togetherness, but it seems like I have to keep reminding myself how awesome it is to have family. At some point during our time together, it "clicks" for me--this is the best kind of luxury, the kind that regenerates itself anew each time I see them. These warm, fuzzy feelings of comeraderie never happen right away--I am just barely removed from teenagerhood, after all, so I like to complain--but they do happen.

In the news, we're all hearing news about how bad the economy is. Everybody's getting laid off, ancient, "dinosaur" businesses are suffering heavy losses that we could never have predicted, and money seems worth less, and we all seem to have less of it. Bleh.

And yet, less is not always "just" less. When the economy was what we would call "good," people were getting loans for houses they couldn't and would never be able to afford. Surely, corporate and Bernie-Madoff-esque greed are deplorable and hideous and despicable and many other nasty adjectives. Executives were getting $15 million bonuses while loyal employees were let go after 10 or 15 years. I'm f****** pissed off, and so should you be. And yet.

My mother bought refreshingly crappy presents for everyone; she usually tries too hard to get what people might like. Everyone was assigned a number and given one of the presents. When it was your turn, you would draw either a red or black Lego from a bag. Black meant you couldn't trade your gift, and red meant you had to trade it. Instead of people delighting in their awesome presents, the fun was found in everybody trying to compete to get the best crappy present.

Obama says we should "live within our means." Maybe sometimes that means making healthier decisions that take us out of our cramped spaces. Maybe if we can't afford gas, we carpool, take a bus, or walk. Maybe if we can't afford our apartment, we move in with a couple of friends. Maybe instead of going out to eat, we stay in and eat Kraft macaroni. Maybe we watch movies on TV and make our own popcorn and drinks instead of paying $45 for it at the theater. Maybe we're a little less ashamed of asking people for help, financially or otherwise. We're finding ourselves relying on each other a bit more, when before we could "go it alone." And that's okay.

My mother doesn't like to call this time a "depression," and more equivocally refers to it as "the new economy." I don't mean to downplay what's bad about it, but I don't want to forget what's good about it either.

Making sense out of nonsense: the Cocteau Twins

2009-11-20T22:41:00.021-05:00

I do an Internet-streamed music show called Twisted Echoes every Monday at 8pm, where I talk about 8-12 songs that interest me. I try not to play favorites; I like rock, rap, country, blues, electronic, and "other"--but one group I keep returning to is the Cocteau Twins. Their lead singer, Elizabeth Fraser, sings lyrics that are indecipherable when heard, and incoherent when read, over layered, haunting, and ethereal music. But seeing as though my chosen major gives me the freedom to make s&%! up about fake people with imaginary lives and have it be credited with legitimate meaning(s) (that I often don't realize until other people point them out), I thought it would be interesting to analyze their song "In the Gold Dust Rush." These are the lyrics *, and following each part is my interpretation:

I weigh my life and it's got me old fool gold
When I look back on my accomplishments in life, I see they've brought me things that are beautiful on the outside but have no real value--a car, a house, a career--and I can't even hold on to those. Everything they promised me is wrong.

In the gold dust rush I can only genuflect
Everyone is chasing dreams that will only turn to dust. In this life, we are forced to subjugate ourselves to the will of the supposed betters. We try to rise above, but we are only brought to our knees. I am too sick to protest; I must "fall to the ground" because I am so weak. I can only pay fake respect where no respect is due.

During the real Gold Rush, people risked it all, knowing at heart their chances were slim at getting wealthy enough to not have to do backbreaking labor, but nonetheless subjecting themselves to backbreaking labor for a shot at the "good life." When they got there, most people were disheartened to find next to nothing, i.e. dust. In domestic life, dust is "filth" and something dirty to be swept away; it is a burden on otherwise pristine surroundings. But here, out in the desert, dust is a reminder of what "could have been." If tiny scraps of gold are found, they foretell much larger, more valuable pieces. But if no larger pieces are found, the scraps are considered "much too clean" if the place is not teeming with it (just as one wants putrid oil to be "gushing" from the ground like pus, rather than trickling like a lovely babbling brook). The ones that got there--and therefore got the "real" gold--first depleted the rest for everybody else, but even they left the place--if not financially, then spiritually--broke.

In the gold dust rush
Her knee is horrible (The site also gives "honey," but I think "her knee" makes more sense given the song.)
(In the gold dust rush)
There's locusts in (or "hidden") there
She's got the old fool gold
We now switch to 3rd person. This unidentified "everywoman," as it were, has (as previously established) spent her life kneeling. The desert (deserted, barren, rough) is hard on the knees, and naturally wears the skin down over time. She is at the point where most people would call uncle, and of course, she would like to, but she has her pride. The skin has been broken, and she is at the point where society is encroaching in on her, or the "locusts." She will probably get some kind of "tree fungus" (i.e., a feeling that is common to most people, but foreign to "her" kind) if she does not stop kneeling. The fact that she is not herself a "tree" is no matter. This foreign, undefinable life (as a fungus is neither plant nor animal, just as "society" is not merely one voice beckoning to her, but a conflicting barrage of millions at any one time) will find a way to subsume who she is, whether she likes it or not.

* borrowed from http://www.lyricstime.com/cocteau-twins-in-the-gold-dust-rush-lyrics.html

Free Time

2009-11-13T11:22:00.030-05:00

I stayed up until 4:30 am finishing a program for my Java class. I always try to see it in the proper light--I chose to start it the day before it was due, so I shouldn't bitch and moan about how I feel the next day--it was my decision and I take the good and bad that come along with it. Lately, in my Communication Technologies class, we've been studying how the concept of time has changed: from pre-modern to modern to post-modern. Time has become something that can be manipulated--from a simple harmonius ethereal cyclical dimension around which all our lives revolved (or something like that), to structured, ordered units, to however the hell we want it (or make ourselves live with).

As a creative exercise when I need inspiration, I will pick a word and do a flow of associations. I write the first phrase that comes to mind, then write what that phrase reminds me of, etc. Maybe it's a song lyric or a well-worn axiom Ben Franklin told us all to live by. Usually the phrases lead back to the original word somehow. So, I am going to do that with the word "time" and see what happens:

Time is money. Money, money, money. It's all about the money. Money makes the world go round. Money is the root of all evil. Evil requires the consent of the victim. Don't treat me like a victim. Don't tell me what to do; don't tell me what to say. Tell it like it is. It is what it is. What is it? What do you want this time? What? What is wrong with you? It's all wrong. There's nothing wrong with me. I'm just a little stressed. Stressed is desserts spelled backwards. When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Life's a bitch and then you die. Eat shit and die. All you ever do is complain. Why don't we go out anymore? I don't know anymore. I don't know why I feel this way. Why why why? Don't ask me why. I don't know. Know thyself. You don't know nothing. We don't need no education. Those who can't, teach. Teach a man to fish and he'll eat for a lifetime. That smells fishy. I call bullshit on that. Don't give me none of that. No excuses. On the count of 3. I'm warning you. This is just a warning. This is only a test. Please use a no. 2 pencil. Pencils down. Time's up.

When I go back and read these exercises, they always make me feel a little stressed. I think it's because they remind me of how much is going on around us. Surprisingly, this happens even when I'm reminded of upbeat 60s songs--like for "love," when I thought of "All You Need Is Love" by the Beatles. I guess it's because that's when a lot of new "rules" for society were developing--very good stuff that society desperately needed, like civil rights. But all the same, it was a time of change. And a lot of it was a reaction to the once-comforting modern domestic life--with all its neatly-structured space and maddeningly staid and ordered time. Hippies tried to get back to the pre-modern "cyclical" view of time, to unstructure it.

And now, in the early 21st century, our time in the industrialized world is almost modular--the units are blank, and we are free to decide how to fill them in and piece them together. Certainly a lot of this feels positive to me; I would be lying if I didn't say I am grateful to be living in this time, for many reasons. We can retire at a younger age, have babies in our 60s, and extend our lifespans. And yet time seems to weigh us down too, even though this is a time (no pun intended) of choices. We can't choose everything we want to do with our lives, and that is stressful. But sometimes getting to make a choice is stressful, even when we tell ourselves it should be liberating.

About that last item, the "lifespan"--I feel like it's good to live a long time and to take care of yourself; I know I want my parents to live forever, and I will always ask for a "second opinion." But death is the one thing that keeps us from living forever (obviously :), and it seems like technology makes it too easy to cross that line. I would love to live forever, but then I would have more free time than I knew what to do with. :)

An Alternative to Alternative

2009-11-03T21:37:00.014-05:00

I read an article at the blog at NewScientist.com about people who protest vaccines of any kind. I go that site regularly, partly because it seems like they stay on top of all the "issues," like global warming (which I always feel guilty for not doing more to "solve," if that's possible), but also space, quantum theory, and time-traveling (there is a great nerdcore gangsta rapper named MC Hawking, based on the world-famous theoretical physicist Stephen Hawking; you should check him out!). I am a writer, and also a thinker. I like to consider all points of view--or rather, I feel obligated to--before I come to a conclusion. Anyway, I dashed off this reply:

I read an article about this in Wired a couple weeks ago. Of course, there are going to be risks with any vaccine. And some parents, to be "on the safe side" in the other direction will have their children get antibiotics for viruses--which of course don't have an effect on them. And yes, it is true the Swine flu is not an epidemic. Many more people die from the "regular" flu each year; my mother told me that and I was surprised. Because of all the news about the swine flu, I thought everyone was getting it. :) So yes, there are always concerns, and even "pro-vaccine" scientists cannot recommend them as completely "risk-free" because it's not true.

But on the vehemently "anti-vaccine 100%" side, I think Science is made into one giant "thought police" or Illuminati that just wants to brainwash us and control our thinking. I won't deny that the big pharmaceutical companies force medicine down our throat that we just don't need (and it pisses me off a lot, but I won't go into that here), but knowing how many sincere, caring scientists there are out there who are trying to make this world better, I can't buy into what they're saying. I believe it's sensible and important to take a look at the long-term impact of any scientific/technological development, and I do think "alternative" medicine and therapies can be beneficial and are important. But I hate seeing Science as a whole made into something evil. Science is a tool for understanding our world, and tools of course can be used for good or bad purposes.

That's my 2 cents. :)

Anyway, my point is that I used to believe in a lot of things that I no longer do. In my short story "The Room," I created a bureaucratic Heaven where the main character forgets her past, then joyously remembers a fake one before disappearing forever into the ether. In the realm of fiction, I can let my mind run wild. What bothers me is that my "real" mind doesn't buy into the same stuff it used to. I wish I thought ESP was real. I wish I still thought the "astral plane" was real (I read about astral sex, which doesn't involve movement of the parts, but rather exchanges of energy--geez, what's wrong with me).

My parents are psychologists--not the ones that label you with some disease, but the ones that work with you to help solve your problems. I depend on my mother for her commonsense wisdom. Often times, her reply boils down to: "Stop thinking like that." Sometimes I create negative feelings out of positive situations that I know are good: I'm almost done with my paper due Thursday, yet, because I know that success is so close, I'm actually worried about finishing it (though of course I want to). (Insane logic, I know.)

So to some extent, our minds are reality. And so to some extent, ESP and the astral plane and Heaven and ghosts and the third eye and monsters under the bed are real to me, because the mind can create its own reality; even with no "conclusive" scientific evidence, they are real to me. But it's hard to put these things in the "real" real world, even though a part of me wants them--if only because of their magic, or maybe because their existence would make the world a better place. I've always believed evolution existed, but more recently, I've become atheist/agnostic. For me, the concept of God makes God functionally exist but I'm not sure if I can believe in Him. With the ESP thing in particular, I always felt like I was having an open mind for believing in it and that the skeptics who doubted it were heartless cynics. Now I am one of those skeptics, but I don't feel more cynical than I used to.

My birthday

2009-10-09T11:49:00.000-04:00

I turned 22 on Tuesday, October 6. When I become a new age, I never feel like I am that age right away. I looked at my face in the mirror, and it seemed slightly different from last year's--not much, but enough to be different.

Every year is a milestone, I know, but I don't know how to celebrate this one. When I turned 21, I had a drink, of course. I feel like such a baby sometimes, like I haven't had enough life experiences yet. (Also, I am still a *cough* virgin *cough*.)

But I am excited for the future, and am already starting to feel comfortable in my new skin. I am having new social experiences and feeling a bit more like an adult, yet not old yet.