*Names have been changed to protect those I care about*
I saw Kenny through the window. He was asking for money for bus fare or food. Probably whatever he thought would resonate more with the passerby. I was sitting in the restaurant so I offered to buy him a burger. I was happy to accept it. The manager less so. “We don’t like to ‘feed the birds.’” he said. “It keeps them coming back. There are plenty of other outlets for that stuff.” I apologized to him, and said I would consider that in the future.
The thing is, I live downtown. I see these guys every day. I see the same ones with the same stories. Even after I had bought Kenny food he was asking for money for food. They want to change but most of them don’t want to have to do anything to change. After I had ordered him food, Kenny went to wait outside and I came back to my computer. I had essays to proofread for the underprivileged kids I worked with. I couldn’t sit there. I went outside to talk to Kenny.
We talked about his shelter, how both his parents were deceased. How he had a sister Rhonda, and a brother Maurice. How Rhonda was trying to fix her own life and how she’d tell him that people work hard for their money and don’t want to just be handing it out. Kenny told me his parents were deceased, he told me he grew up in the projects. He told me he wants to be happy and stable. He’s 49 and he wants to be financially stable. Just like everyone else. I asked him if he liked the shelter. Of course he said no, but for a reason I didn’t expect. “I don’t fit in there.” “You gotta fit in there, most guys don’t wanna spend the night cause they gotta fit in there.” In a place designed to give these men a second chance, Kenny didn’t feel like he fit, which to me immediately translated to, he didn’t feel loved. Something was off here.
The other thing that was off, Kenny had to take a bus to the shelter. He had walked downtown this morning but his feet hurt and he wanted bus fare. Why wasn’t there a shelter downtown? In Syracuse, the Mission is right around the corner from Armory square, and the Ox isn’t far from there. We were failing these men. We weren’t giving them easy access to the help they needed. And we were kicking them out and arresting them when they asked for money. We didn’t need to give them money, we didn’t know them. “You don’t need to know me.” Kenny said.
The thing is, I didn’t buy Kenny lunch just because I felt bad or wanted to say I did something nice for someone. I felt somewhere within me that I was supposed to buy him lunch. Tuppens a bag. It was the same when I came back to my computer and realized I was supposed to talk to Kenny. He was kind. He sat on the trashcan and I stood two feet away. He tried to hug me goodbye but I shook his hand. He asked where I stay at, I told him I was sorry but I wasn’t going to tell him that. I probably should have just said Syracuse. I’m sure Kenny is relatively harmless. But he has lived on the street for years. He’s learned the right lies to tell. And his mixed up brain that repeats the same sentences over and over, has not been challenged in years.
“I’m an addict. I’m not going to lie to you. I’m an honest person. I know you a warm hearted person cause you bought me lunch.” But the Downtown Alliance crew that has to kick him from his spot are assholes. Kenny doesn’t have a job, he starts in to blame the government and the democrats and republicans, and opinions, (which are also like assholes, everyone has one), he starts to blame society. “Kenny,” I say “You’re talking about society. I asked about you.” “Oh me, well I’ve been incarcerated for a few years, it’s hard to get a job when you’ve been incarcerated.” Kenny is full of excuses. But I wouldn’t want to spend a day in is red and rainbow slip-on shoes. “It’s hard out here, it is, but I’m a God-fearing man.”
We talked about a lot of other things. Sports teams, and how everyone is more “friendly” on St. Patrick’s Day. He told me his mother had class, and his grandmother had class. His parents were deceased. He was an orphan. He went to church every Sunday. Every Sunday. Every Sunday. Even I don’t go to church every Sunday. I gave him his food and I shook his hand and as I turned to go back inside he asked me for something. He asked me to keep him in my prayers. With that, every lie he’d told or excuse he made seemed to drift away. It didn’t matter. Of course I would pray for him.
As I wrote this, I started to think about Tamara. I started to think how easy it would be for her to end up in Kenny’s position. How she had been homeless as a child, chased away, even by family. I started to think how going to college was the only thing that could save her. And how much her father and stepmother wanted that for her. Wanted the best for her. Truly loved her. And I thought, all I can do is buy Kenny lunch. I can give Tamara a different life.
Tamara is the mentee I work with at Minds Matter. She wants to go to college and become a behavioral analyst for the FBI.
Her parents are trying to go back to school and make ends meet for her and her two brothers on an income that is a quarter of what I make. I think how hard a time I have. That I probably should save more; that I buy things I don’t need. That I live too comfortably. I read her mother’s paragraph on why they are applying for need-based aid from Ithaca. Shania is not her real mother. But you wouldn’t know that from reading this. She loves that girl and wants her to succeed. She wants a better life for her. So do I. I don’t want her to end up like Kenny. And I want more for him too. I want him to find a place he is happy. I want him to be honest and stable.
It’s hard to forget guys like Kenny. I still remember Ace and the Urban Cowboy and Jesus and Rodney. I remember walking into the Ox and thinking. This. Is where. They live. I remember driving through the projects with my dad as he showed me the houses Syracuse Model Homes was working to develop and being so proud of him. I remember feeling like a week wasn’t enough. That I should be doing more. And now that I live downtown I feel it even more. I don’t know what that is. But it starts with buying Kenny a burger and fries and talking to him, and praying for him. Because even if society sees him as the least of these, I don’t.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Fall in Cleveland
It's September 15th and a drastic drop in temperature has brought fall upon us in Cleveland. Not the wood stove burning, I can see the leaves turning kind of fall, but a brisk walk to work in the rain kind of fall. I'm starting to notice why people complain so much about the weather, especially downtown. You don't really get to reap the benefits. I miss the crisp central new york autumns, and runs where I could go almost two miles breathing in the deep comforting aroma of wood stoves. I miss apple picking and the hearths in homes I know.
Of course there are things I appreciate about this city too. For a city, most of the time, the air is clean and refreshing. The restaurant below my apartment has a wood-burning stove and once and a while I get to smell home. Every so often though on a run, I'll get a whiff of the distinct odor of despair. It smells like piss and death, not exactly something you want to drink deeply of as you approach the two mile point. It's like this little reminder as you're chugging along, thinking you could really start to like it here, that it's Cleveland. Your family is hours away, your friends are spread out across the country and despite the fact that you've been here eight months, you still feel like you don't belong.
The thing about all this is, it creates a city wrapped in contradiction. And while it's certainly no walden pond, it does supply it's own depths of creative inspiration. The people are a study in and of themselves. If you weren't raised here, you probably moved here for a job, but it surprises me just how quickly they not only adapt to but adopt the city they live in.
It's not what I ever thought I'd be doing, writing search engine optimization by day and blogging or journaling at night to get my creative fix. At the same time, it's better than what I expected at this time last year. When you go from no job, to writing for a living, you don't exactly have room to complain. And to be honest, for the experience I had coming out of college, I'm lucky to have gone a total of zero days on the unemployment line.
9/15/11
Of course there are things I appreciate about this city too. For a city, most of the time, the air is clean and refreshing. The restaurant below my apartment has a wood-burning stove and once and a while I get to smell home. Every so often though on a run, I'll get a whiff of the distinct odor of despair. It smells like piss and death, not exactly something you want to drink deeply of as you approach the two mile point. It's like this little reminder as you're chugging along, thinking you could really start to like it here, that it's Cleveland. Your family is hours away, your friends are spread out across the country and despite the fact that you've been here eight months, you still feel like you don't belong.
The thing about all this is, it creates a city wrapped in contradiction. And while it's certainly no walden pond, it does supply it's own depths of creative inspiration. The people are a study in and of themselves. If you weren't raised here, you probably moved here for a job, but it surprises me just how quickly they not only adapt to but adopt the city they live in.
It's not what I ever thought I'd be doing, writing search engine optimization by day and blogging or journaling at night to get my creative fix. At the same time, it's better than what I expected at this time last year. When you go from no job, to writing for a living, you don't exactly have room to complain. And to be honest, for the experience I had coming out of college, I'm lucky to have gone a total of zero days on the unemployment line.
9/15/11
Just tell me who I should be
Did you ever have an album speak to your heart where you're at? I mean Joshua Radin has a tendency to put my feelings into words so perfectly it makes me angry I didn't think of that analogy. Jars of Clay & Derek Webb remind me that Christ loves me even though I'm a flawed human being. And Fleet Foxes album, Helplessness Blues, beautifully sums up my apprehensions about growing up. About creating something good and beautiful before I'm old. My anxiety about growing up revolves around two key areas of my life: My art and my family.
I worry that I'm not talented enough to do what I want. That I have all these thoughts in my head but an inability to express them as I want to. That I'm 23 and Keats is dead and I haven't written anything I'm proud to show my parents, let alone the general public. I struggle with a common theme for the Christian writer, being real and truthful and hopeful all at once. Percy did it,O'Connor did it, but I'm certainly not Percy or O'Connor. I can't seem to reach those depths and I'm not sure what I need to do. Maybe I need a sponsor, someone who pays my rent and simultaneously acts as a muse, or at the very least lets me live vicariously through their experiences. There's a line in helplessness blues where he says "If I had an orchard I'd work till I'm sore. And you would wait tables and soon run the store" and I think how that life would agree with me. And then I think that I don't have the guts to do that...and no one to tend the orchard with me...which brings me to my next point, family.
In Montezuma, he writes "and now I am older than my mother and father when they had their daughter. Now what does that say about me?...oh how could I dream of such a selfless and true love? could I wash my hands of just looking out for me? -all of this with a wistful, lyrical sway
I'm not older than my parents when they had me, so it's not relatable verbatim. But it's the principle of the thing, the idea of caring for someone more than yourself and the question, if I've been so self-focused for so long, how do I move beyond that?
and how do meld my desire for art (living as a starving artist to focus on my craft) with my desire to have a family (to be a wife and a mother and care for them more than myself...and to work at a job I like but maybe don't love, to provide)
I worry about turning into Adrienne Rich or Virginia Woolf...unable to reconcile my craft and my family and then I think-that won't happen to you, you aren't that talented. If you were, you'd have stuck yourself out there by now. You wouldn't have the double major, wouldn't have alienated a part of yourself, wouldn't have skipped out on the honors thesis and grad school to get a job you like that pays well. You would have dived headfirst, regardless that the pool is four feet deep, and sucked the marrow out of life only to spit it back out in the form of your art. You would have been dedicated, and even if you didn't figure it out right away, you would have spent hours after work writing and scribbling and making an effort to create something of worth, of magnitude.
See that's the thing, Hemingway, Sayers, Fitzgerald, Ginsberg, they all worked at jobs they liked, but didn't love. But they wrote furiously off the clock (and sometimes on) and eventually they quit and adjusted their focus. I wonder if I'll ever be able to do that. Don't get me wrong, I write more than this blog. And right now, I should be working but I'm blowing it off in the hopes that something good comes out of this.
And the thing is, part of what holds me back is my desire for family, for the family I have to be proud of me and not feel like they have to support me-because they would, without too many complaints too- and for the family I might someday have to be supported and have a mother with a reliable schedule and food on the table.
I'm sure this is a re-occurring theme on this blog, but it's a constant struggle between head and heart, And often enough my head wins out, which in turn reinforces the idea that my heart doesn't care as much as it should, or just isn't good enough and I'm afraid there's too much of a disconnect between what I want to do and what I can do.
I want to create writing that is beautiful and poignant and true. - I can't seem to write a story without a damned happy ending
I want to write something that will lead people to a better understanding of God, our world and each other. To take them through hell & the fire of purgatory into paradise. - I write plays that apparently would be best served in a "church setting."
I want a true character, I want to write someone who is related to, hated, loved or hell, even misunderstood - sometimes those are the best. -My life experience creates a wall and I can't take them past it and remain believable. Maybe this is a cop-out. Maybe I could do it. But every time I try, I fall flat. I don't stop trying, but I don't feel great about it either.
Maybe it's all a phase. I'm only 23 and Keats isn't exactly a fair standard. Maybe five years from now I'll look back on this and laugh, and wish I didn't have the experiences I had, but smile to think I thought I wouldn't have them. Maybe I'll be able to create a character who loves and has their heart broken. Or a story with a happy ending that's still true. They do exist, they're just harder to write. Maybe I'll fall in love with this city and stay here, or finally escape to Boston or Philly or someplace out west.
Maybe I'll find the encouragement I need and Maybe I'll let my heart win for once.
I worry that I'm not talented enough to do what I want. That I have all these thoughts in my head but an inability to express them as I want to. That I'm 23 and Keats is dead and I haven't written anything I'm proud to show my parents, let alone the general public. I struggle with a common theme for the Christian writer, being real and truthful and hopeful all at once. Percy did it,O'Connor did it, but I'm certainly not Percy or O'Connor. I can't seem to reach those depths and I'm not sure what I need to do. Maybe I need a sponsor, someone who pays my rent and simultaneously acts as a muse, or at the very least lets me live vicariously through their experiences. There's a line in helplessness blues where he says "If I had an orchard I'd work till I'm sore. And you would wait tables and soon run the store" and I think how that life would agree with me. And then I think that I don't have the guts to do that...and no one to tend the orchard with me...which brings me to my next point, family.
In Montezuma, he writes "and now I am older than my mother and father when they had their daughter. Now what does that say about me?...oh how could I dream of such a selfless and true love? could I wash my hands of just looking out for me? -all of this with a wistful, lyrical sway
I'm not older than my parents when they had me, so it's not relatable verbatim. But it's the principle of the thing, the idea of caring for someone more than yourself and the question, if I've been so self-focused for so long, how do I move beyond that?
and how do meld my desire for art (living as a starving artist to focus on my craft) with my desire to have a family (to be a wife and a mother and care for them more than myself...and to work at a job I like but maybe don't love, to provide)
I worry about turning into Adrienne Rich or Virginia Woolf...unable to reconcile my craft and my family and then I think-that won't happen to you, you aren't that talented. If you were, you'd have stuck yourself out there by now. You wouldn't have the double major, wouldn't have alienated a part of yourself, wouldn't have skipped out on the honors thesis and grad school to get a job you like that pays well. You would have dived headfirst, regardless that the pool is four feet deep, and sucked the marrow out of life only to spit it back out in the form of your art. You would have been dedicated, and even if you didn't figure it out right away, you would have spent hours after work writing and scribbling and making an effort to create something of worth, of magnitude.
See that's the thing, Hemingway, Sayers, Fitzgerald, Ginsberg, they all worked at jobs they liked, but didn't love. But they wrote furiously off the clock (and sometimes on) and eventually they quit and adjusted their focus. I wonder if I'll ever be able to do that. Don't get me wrong, I write more than this blog. And right now, I should be working but I'm blowing it off in the hopes that something good comes out of this.
And the thing is, part of what holds me back is my desire for family, for the family I have to be proud of me and not feel like they have to support me-because they would, without too many complaints too- and for the family I might someday have to be supported and have a mother with a reliable schedule and food on the table.
I'm sure this is a re-occurring theme on this blog, but it's a constant struggle between head and heart, And often enough my head wins out, which in turn reinforces the idea that my heart doesn't care as much as it should, or just isn't good enough and I'm afraid there's too much of a disconnect between what I want to do and what I can do.
I want to create writing that is beautiful and poignant and true. - I can't seem to write a story without a damned happy ending
I want to write something that will lead people to a better understanding of God, our world and each other. To take them through hell & the fire of purgatory into paradise. - I write plays that apparently would be best served in a "church setting."
I want a true character, I want to write someone who is related to, hated, loved or hell, even misunderstood - sometimes those are the best. -My life experience creates a wall and I can't take them past it and remain believable. Maybe this is a cop-out. Maybe I could do it. But every time I try, I fall flat. I don't stop trying, but I don't feel great about it either.
Maybe it's all a phase. I'm only 23 and Keats isn't exactly a fair standard. Maybe five years from now I'll look back on this and laugh, and wish I didn't have the experiences I had, but smile to think I thought I wouldn't have them. Maybe I'll be able to create a character who loves and has their heart broken. Or a story with a happy ending that's still true. They do exist, they're just harder to write. Maybe I'll fall in love with this city and stay here, or finally escape to Boston or Philly or someplace out west.
Maybe I'll find the encouragement I need and Maybe I'll let my heart win for once.
Dead Air
Apologies for anyone who tries to follow me. I tend to enjoy writing in my moleskin more, especially after typing all day for work. I also forgot my password, which is connected to my old email, which I don't have access to anymore. Crises averted. Fear not I will try to write more :)
I'm currently sitting at my "kitchen" table, a glass of smoking loon cabernet sauvignon to my right and an open window to my left issuing in the scents and sounds of Cleveland. My apartment is finally clean - with the exception of a very cluttered desk that I will eventually take care of, someday. Dad was here last night and so I made a real breakfast this morning, grilled muffins and all. It's amazing how the little things can make us happy. We only really got to spend two hours together, but I'm so blessed to be in a city he visits often for work.
I just got very excited at a post having 166 page views, till I realized it was probably just because I quoted Epicurus - ah well. So it goes. (secretly hoping for Vonnegut searchers to be sucked here - google wouldn't like that)
I'm just home from work and sitting down to more work. At least I love my clients (most of them). Currently writing for my favorite - a post about pairing wine to your meals in the woods. What does this do to me? I crave escape. Dad came back from hours of meetings yesterday and after a hug hello he exhumes (exhaustedly), squeezing my shoulder, "Go to the woods, Megan!" If only.
I was home two weeks ago for columbus day. I walked out on the pier alone in crisp fall air and felt this incredible burden lifted. A sense of elation and peace washed over me and I knew this was what my soul had been craving for months.
I like to think I enjoy city living. Walking to everything, craft beers, foody restaurants, indie concernts, and being two blocks from NBA basketball and off-Broadway theater, there are some incredible benefits to downtown living. But fresh air and trees aren't among them. On top of that, the Chinese food isn't all that great. Writing for one of my favorite brands that celebrates the outdoors makes for a rough night of "what ifs" sometimes. What if I locked myself away in a cabin and just wrote a damn novel? What if I'm not supposed to be here? What if I moved home to spend more time with family? What if I moved south like my brother? What if I'm no good at anything else? What if I'm not even good at this? What if they don't like me? What if I just said "screw it" and went fishing? As you can see, it spirals. There's something about the drudgery of city living that leaves us unfulfilled, craving adventure, desireing to suck the marrow out of life.
The closest I get to nature are the flies that somehow always manage to find my 6x24 slot of open window. I'd like to say I killed ten thousand with one blow but they aren't as lethargic as I'd like...nasty little buggers...
Anywho, that's just a smattering of life and feelings at the moment. I really have to get back to work now - but I hope this is enough to hold ya'll for a while!
Monday, September 12, 2011
On being grown up
First off, I don't like it. I suppose I haven't much choice though. No one ever asks you if you're ready to grow up, they just hand you a diploma, tell you to get a job and there you are. Ready, supposedly, and for all intents and purposes, a grown-up.
It's quite ridiculous really, that at twenty-three you'd expect me to know what the hell to do with my life. I haven't got a clue. I call my parents at least 5 times a week. I can't even order cable without their input. I crave validation in the same manner I did at age four, and I'm constantly reminded that by my age, Keats was dead and a masterful poet. Don't even get me started on my inequalities when it comes to Dylan Thomas. How he ever developed such a masterful understanding of the english language is beyond me. My personal opinion, I could write a plot like Bill Shakespeare, no problem, but to write a poem like Thomas? It's enough to make you quit.
I write all day, only to come home to no desire whatsoever to write anything. And if I do write, well it's no good. It sits in the journal and I read it six months later and hate it. Generally speaking. You'd think grown-ups would have more inspiration. We don't. If anything our inspiration is drained by the drum of a 9-5. Even if it is the 9-5 you've been telling yourself for the last five years that you want. Or a means to it.
Today someone I work with told me how much he hated hemingway...as a man, not a writer. Well who did love him as a man? Except his wives, and maybe secretly gertrude. The man was a bastard. but he's a loveable bastard. And you know, for all that he was, I don't think you could say he wasn't an honest human being. And sometimes, just for that, I love him as a man. Even though I never knew him, (and how can you hate or love someone you never knew- old hem would be pissed at that, we throw those words around too much) I still have an admiration for him as both man and a writer. Because to some extent, you cannot seperate the two.
It's like when you're listening to Harry Morgan think about killing Eddie. (to have and have not) And you hate him for it, but you identify with him, and you respect him for being honest about it. old hem doesn't bullshit. It's a quality I wish I had.
As a grown up, I realize just how much I aim to please other people. I never used to be like that. When you're a kid, everything is simple, black and white. You know who you are and you're proud of yourself. A kind of humble pride that only kids can have. When you grow up, the lines blur, you're not so sure of yourself, and even when you are sure, you keep your mouth shut. Sometimes I wish I had the guts to be my eight year old self.
Or the talent to turn a one liner into a story.
Sometimes I wish I'd experienced more, or loved more, or done anything to get me where I need to be, and sometimes I call that out as bullshit. I should be able to write with what I have. But sometimes I can't or I don't want to, or I don't feel like a grown up. So I gotta write what I feel, what I know. What's it's like to be uncertain and trapped within the world's expectations. Be a real, honest human being and hope that someone out there gets something from it. Live and drink deep and take in all that I can.
Maybe I'll be hated when I'm dead, but at least I'll have lived.
It's quite ridiculous really, that at twenty-three you'd expect me to know what the hell to do with my life. I haven't got a clue. I call my parents at least 5 times a week. I can't even order cable without their input. I crave validation in the same manner I did at age four, and I'm constantly reminded that by my age, Keats was dead and a masterful poet. Don't even get me started on my inequalities when it comes to Dylan Thomas. How he ever developed such a masterful understanding of the english language is beyond me. My personal opinion, I could write a plot like Bill Shakespeare, no problem, but to write a poem like Thomas? It's enough to make you quit.
I write all day, only to come home to no desire whatsoever to write anything. And if I do write, well it's no good. It sits in the journal and I read it six months later and hate it. Generally speaking. You'd think grown-ups would have more inspiration. We don't. If anything our inspiration is drained by the drum of a 9-5. Even if it is the 9-5 you've been telling yourself for the last five years that you want. Or a means to it.
Today someone I work with told me how much he hated hemingway...as a man, not a writer. Well who did love him as a man? Except his wives, and maybe secretly gertrude. The man was a bastard. but he's a loveable bastard. And you know, for all that he was, I don't think you could say he wasn't an honest human being. And sometimes, just for that, I love him as a man. Even though I never knew him, (and how can you hate or love someone you never knew- old hem would be pissed at that, we throw those words around too much) I still have an admiration for him as both man and a writer. Because to some extent, you cannot seperate the two.
It's like when you're listening to Harry Morgan think about killing Eddie. (to have and have not) And you hate him for it, but you identify with him, and you respect him for being honest about it. old hem doesn't bullshit. It's a quality I wish I had.
As a grown up, I realize just how much I aim to please other people. I never used to be like that. When you're a kid, everything is simple, black and white. You know who you are and you're proud of yourself. A kind of humble pride that only kids can have. When you grow up, the lines blur, you're not so sure of yourself, and even when you are sure, you keep your mouth shut. Sometimes I wish I had the guts to be my eight year old self.
Or the talent to turn a one liner into a story.
Sometimes I wish I'd experienced more, or loved more, or done anything to get me where I need to be, and sometimes I call that out as bullshit. I should be able to write with what I have. But sometimes I can't or I don't want to, or I don't feel like a grown up. So I gotta write what I feel, what I know. What's it's like to be uncertain and trapped within the world's expectations. Be a real, honest human being and hope that someone out there gets something from it. Live and drink deep and take in all that I can.
Maybe I'll be hated when I'm dead, but at least I'll have lived.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
A good church.
I recently moved to Cleveland, and for a girl whose known very little other than Syracuse,NY and Grove City, PA, it's been an interesting transition to say the least. I don't mind living alone, though I do bake more and I am slowly learning to master the omelet, but living in a big city can get you down. And Cleveland is just the right size to be a total downer. See, there's not so much going on like NY, LA, Boston or Chi-town that a single girl could distract herself with. And there's not as much hiking, skiing or green grass around to satisfy the hipster country girl in my soul. (Cleveland doesn't have parks downtown like other cities, at least not ones with grass...that I've found yet) And so one gets lonely here, in fact, I think Cleveland has a better chance of crushing your soul than any other city. It doesn't swallow you whole like NY or LA, it chews you up and spits you out.
That said, it's not all bad, I like my job, I can see both buildings from my apartment, we apparently have a great art museum, theater district, and fresh market which old man winter has deterred me from exploring, and the rock n roll hall of fame and cavs are here too. But if you don't know anyone it's difficult to venture out and enjoy these things.
I miss my friends and I miss my family, and I am having a harder time meeting people than ever before. Mainly I think b/c there's some social stigma about really being friends with the people you work with (you never have this in high school and college) and no one bothers to really help you meet people (sure you have orientation and you're introduced around the office, have happy hours, but lets be honest, this is all done in an effort to get you to cooperate with your peers for the benefit of the company. Just get to know each other enough, but you're not going to find your bf or bff at work) If you have any sort of faith, finding friends can be even harder. Trying to find someone who would rather go to the movies than get wasted on a Saturday night is surprisingly hard to do these days, especially with the "young professionals": we have a lot of money and no one but ourselves to spend it on.
When talking to my friends about this dilemma, especially when I was back at my Alma Mater last weekend, the question inevitability arises: "Have you found a good church yet?" sometimes said in curiosity, but more often than not, as if the affirmative answer holds the key to all my troubles. Oh you haven't met anyone, well have you found a good church? oh you need something to do on weekends, have you found a good church, oh I'm sorry you miss your friends here but have you found a good church?
What these people fail to realize is that I had a good church, a great one, I still do. The problem is I am estranged from it. No I'm not talking about a building or a denomination. I'm talking about the relationships I had while at grove city. Ones I still am trying to maintain through letters, emails and phone calls, but its not the same. I imagine this is how the early church felt with their leaders and friends spread out around the globe. Paul did not cease to encourage his brothers and sisters when he was far from them, and he often longed to be with them. But his place was elsewhere and he needed to be focused there. Lucky for him, he usually had at least one guy with him.
I moved out here alone, and while I must be forward looking, it's hard not to compare the churches I go to, to the one I had. To yearn for the people who already know me intimately. To not have to start over.
It also makes me wonder, what to you makes a good church? What do they mean have I found a good church? Actually I got this great little place where we're having grape kool aid on Sunday? nope. how do we measure a church? is it what's "right for us", are the teachings scriptural? Let me tell you, if they aren't, it is a bad church, get out, get out now. But I wouldn't be going to a church where the teachings aren't biblical, and my friends know that so what do they mean? When catching up with a classmate who was also there last weekend, he asked me that question, and I said, well, I've found a church, (it's not hard to do, look in the yellow pages, talk to anyone you know, go online and search for your cities churches, read an online statement of faith etc) but I'm not sure I wanna plug in yet, it's a little 'seeker friendly' which is great, especially downtown, but I think I want to be around a body that's more mature in their faith (see Hebrews 5:11-14 if you disagree with me). But I'm making sure I'm going to church every Sunday, somewhere, so that I can at least try to meet new people.
But what I also said to this classmate was that I haven't found anything like Grace (a church I went to while at school) and his response was "well it's not about Grace, it's about God" which took me back, and I thought, wow, way to call me out, you're right. It's not...except that it is... the thing I love about Grace is the people, the genuine love they have for each other, worshiping with others who I know would hold me accountable, who truly desire to know how I'm doing, what I'm struggling with and how they can help me. That we break bread together and recite the liturgy (which as an intellectual I love, but as a generally emotional worshiper, am surprised that I would like a church with a liturgical base) and pray with each other, striving to grow more in our Lord. I miss that. and I haven't found that in a church yet...and here's why...I haven't connected with the people in a church yet. Finding a good church is really really hard. It's not something you can do in a month and a half (how long I've been here)because it's not just about the doctrine or the worship or the preaching, those, in some form are in every church. What makes it a good church is how the people interact, how they love each other. And that is something that takes time to experience. With Grace it was easy. I already knew all the people from college, and so to go there and say it was a good church was easy for me. Pastor Ethan's teaching was strong and biblical, I enjoyed the liturgy, and thanks to my brothers and sisters, left feeling uplifted and full of the joy of the Lord (manifested by their love for me).
Now I feel like I'm going to church to go. Because I should, when I could talk to God just as easily at home. I could call up a spiritual mentor and seek their wisdom as easily as I could that of some pastor. This is why it's not easy to find a good church. Because as the pastor at the church I've been attending said this morning. It should not be about the building. The church is not the building. It's the body, and we are called to come together and support each other, which is why I wish when someone asked me in response to my sadness and loneliness, "have you found a good church yet" they would instead say, I'm sorry sister, what can I do, how can I help. Could I call you more, do you like letters, what if I took time to visit, or I have a friend out there I could introduce you to. Why do we think that because we no longer worship together because of distance we must be separated? That it's someone else's job to shepherd that person? It's not.
A good church is a wonderful thing. Don't let it become an excuse for you not intentionally pursuing a relationship with someone. Don't make it the be all end all. Because here's the rub...it's not about a church, it's about God. But when I moved away to Cleveland I didn't move away from God. I moved away from my church. From my friends and believers who strengthened me. I have God, He is always with me. What I need is for his children to come alongside me, and me alongside them. that's the thing...if it's not about *insert churches name* then it's not about finding "a good church" Overall it's about communion with our Lord alongside our brothers and sisters. and in a mediocre church I can do that, but when it comes to needing someone to be with me and pray and just spend time with me, I need a good church. I don't care if some of that church is spread out (technology eliminates that excuse) and I do need a good church here, but it may not come for a while.
So next time someone comes to you with troubles, especially if it's someone distanced from you, don't ask them if they've "found a good church" be that good church for them. Encourage them to worship with believers where they are, but don't think just because you are separated from them by distance you are no longer your brothers keeper. Be a good church.
That said, it's not all bad, I like my job, I can see both buildings from my apartment, we apparently have a great art museum, theater district, and fresh market which old man winter has deterred me from exploring, and the rock n roll hall of fame and cavs are here too. But if you don't know anyone it's difficult to venture out and enjoy these things.
I miss my friends and I miss my family, and I am having a harder time meeting people than ever before. Mainly I think b/c there's some social stigma about really being friends with the people you work with (you never have this in high school and college) and no one bothers to really help you meet people (sure you have orientation and you're introduced around the office, have happy hours, but lets be honest, this is all done in an effort to get you to cooperate with your peers for the benefit of the company. Just get to know each other enough, but you're not going to find your bf or bff at work) If you have any sort of faith, finding friends can be even harder. Trying to find someone who would rather go to the movies than get wasted on a Saturday night is surprisingly hard to do these days, especially with the "young professionals": we have a lot of money and no one but ourselves to spend it on.
When talking to my friends about this dilemma, especially when I was back at my Alma Mater last weekend, the question inevitability arises: "Have you found a good church yet?" sometimes said in curiosity, but more often than not, as if the affirmative answer holds the key to all my troubles. Oh you haven't met anyone, well have you found a good church? oh you need something to do on weekends, have you found a good church, oh I'm sorry you miss your friends here but have you found a good church?
What these people fail to realize is that I had a good church, a great one, I still do. The problem is I am estranged from it. No I'm not talking about a building or a denomination. I'm talking about the relationships I had while at grove city. Ones I still am trying to maintain through letters, emails and phone calls, but its not the same. I imagine this is how the early church felt with their leaders and friends spread out around the globe. Paul did not cease to encourage his brothers and sisters when he was far from them, and he often longed to be with them. But his place was elsewhere and he needed to be focused there. Lucky for him, he usually had at least one guy with him.
I moved out here alone, and while I must be forward looking, it's hard not to compare the churches I go to, to the one I had. To yearn for the people who already know me intimately. To not have to start over.
It also makes me wonder, what to you makes a good church? What do they mean have I found a good church? Actually I got this great little place where we're having grape kool aid on Sunday? nope. how do we measure a church? is it what's "right for us", are the teachings scriptural? Let me tell you, if they aren't, it is a bad church, get out, get out now. But I wouldn't be going to a church where the teachings aren't biblical, and my friends know that so what do they mean? When catching up with a classmate who was also there last weekend, he asked me that question, and I said, well, I've found a church, (it's not hard to do, look in the yellow pages, talk to anyone you know, go online and search for your cities churches, read an online statement of faith etc) but I'm not sure I wanna plug in yet, it's a little 'seeker friendly' which is great, especially downtown, but I think I want to be around a body that's more mature in their faith (see Hebrews 5:11-14 if you disagree with me). But I'm making sure I'm going to church every Sunday, somewhere, so that I can at least try to meet new people.
But what I also said to this classmate was that I haven't found anything like Grace (a church I went to while at school) and his response was "well it's not about Grace, it's about God" which took me back, and I thought, wow, way to call me out, you're right. It's not...except that it is... the thing I love about Grace is the people, the genuine love they have for each other, worshiping with others who I know would hold me accountable, who truly desire to know how I'm doing, what I'm struggling with and how they can help me. That we break bread together and recite the liturgy (which as an intellectual I love, but as a generally emotional worshiper, am surprised that I would like a church with a liturgical base) and pray with each other, striving to grow more in our Lord. I miss that. and I haven't found that in a church yet...and here's why...I haven't connected with the people in a church yet. Finding a good church is really really hard. It's not something you can do in a month and a half (how long I've been here)because it's not just about the doctrine or the worship or the preaching, those, in some form are in every church. What makes it a good church is how the people interact, how they love each other. And that is something that takes time to experience. With Grace it was easy. I already knew all the people from college, and so to go there and say it was a good church was easy for me. Pastor Ethan's teaching was strong and biblical, I enjoyed the liturgy, and thanks to my brothers and sisters, left feeling uplifted and full of the joy of the Lord (manifested by their love for me).
Now I feel like I'm going to church to go. Because I should, when I could talk to God just as easily at home. I could call up a spiritual mentor and seek their wisdom as easily as I could that of some pastor. This is why it's not easy to find a good church. Because as the pastor at the church I've been attending said this morning. It should not be about the building. The church is not the building. It's the body, and we are called to come together and support each other, which is why I wish when someone asked me in response to my sadness and loneliness, "have you found a good church yet" they would instead say, I'm sorry sister, what can I do, how can I help. Could I call you more, do you like letters, what if I took time to visit, or I have a friend out there I could introduce you to. Why do we think that because we no longer worship together because of distance we must be separated? That it's someone else's job to shepherd that person? It's not.
A good church is a wonderful thing. Don't let it become an excuse for you not intentionally pursuing a relationship with someone. Don't make it the be all end all. Because here's the rub...it's not about a church, it's about God. But when I moved away to Cleveland I didn't move away from God. I moved away from my church. From my friends and believers who strengthened me. I have God, He is always with me. What I need is for his children to come alongside me, and me alongside them. that's the thing...if it's not about *insert churches name* then it's not about finding "a good church" Overall it's about communion with our Lord alongside our brothers and sisters. and in a mediocre church I can do that, but when it comes to needing someone to be with me and pray and just spend time with me, I need a good church. I don't care if some of that church is spread out (technology eliminates that excuse) and I do need a good church here, but it may not come for a while.
So next time someone comes to you with troubles, especially if it's someone distanced from you, don't ask them if they've "found a good church" be that good church for them. Encourage them to worship with believers where they are, but don't think just because you are separated from them by distance you are no longer your brothers keeper. Be a good church.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
For Souvenir & Other Women.
When I picked up her picture I couldn't put it back down. I tried to, I tried to make excuses in my head, I don't have the money, I don't have a job, how could I take repsonsibility of a child? I had friends who had sponsored, my friend Mel said she never had to worry about making her payments, God always provided. It hit me then that I was just a vessel, and so I went back to the table. I scanned the faces looking for, I don't know, what do people look at when they scan those? The cutest kid? The kid in the worst country? My eyes fell on Souvenir and I couldn't look away. I knew she was the one. I picked her up, still hestitant if I could commit to taking care of her, even from miles and miles away. I just felt convicted to make her life better. I had just read Devil on the Cross by Ngugi the year before for literary criticism, I think it's technically out of print, but if you can find it, read it. And I felt convicted about the very real hardships women in other countries are still facing.
Today is international women's day,a "global day celebrating the economic, political and social achievements of women past, present and future." Today I'm thinking and praying about little Souvenir, that she would be protected from rape and other male abuse, that she would find drinking water, and food for her family, that she would be kept free from the burden that is HIV, that she could go to school and learn, and love learning as much as I do. That she would grow up to be a strong vibrant woman, the head of her household.
For me, today is not so much about equality, in the workplace, or in my relationships, it's not about, women losing their jobs because they got pregnant, or getting paid less than men. Though I think these things are unfair, what I'm focused on is making sure girls like Souvenir get to grow up in a world that respects them. That she would not be seen as weak or easily manipulated because she is a woman. No matter what your views on today are (and I've heard plenty of ridiculous ones this morning) remember that there are little girls out there who should know that they are beautiful and loved. They should know that they are precious and do not deserve to be abused or in pain. They should know that they can do anything, even if it is "just" staying home and managing their family, because that is not an easy task.
nor is it always enough for us. Some of us are strong intellectual women who crave a family, but also desire to be something, to bring something else of worth into the world, as a woman and a writer I struggle with this tension but I also revel in it. That I was created to be whatever I want to be, and my parents loved me enough and supported me enough to let me be whatever I want to be. I pray that Souvenir feels the same thing.
I hope you understand today that it's not about equality in everything, it is, for me, equality in the important things. Her safety, her understanding, her value of herself as a person and not a lesser creature. I hope you will understand, and maybe even help.
Today is international women's day,a "global day celebrating the economic, political and social achievements of women past, present and future." Today I'm thinking and praying about little Souvenir, that she would be protected from rape and other male abuse, that she would find drinking water, and food for her family, that she would be kept free from the burden that is HIV, that she could go to school and learn, and love learning as much as I do. That she would grow up to be a strong vibrant woman, the head of her household.
For me, today is not so much about equality, in the workplace, or in my relationships, it's not about, women losing their jobs because they got pregnant, or getting paid less than men. Though I think these things are unfair, what I'm focused on is making sure girls like Souvenir get to grow up in a world that respects them. That she would not be seen as weak or easily manipulated because she is a woman. No matter what your views on today are (and I've heard plenty of ridiculous ones this morning) remember that there are little girls out there who should know that they are beautiful and loved. They should know that they are precious and do not deserve to be abused or in pain. They should know that they can do anything, even if it is "just" staying home and managing their family, because that is not an easy task.
nor is it always enough for us. Some of us are strong intellectual women who crave a family, but also desire to be something, to bring something else of worth into the world, as a woman and a writer I struggle with this tension but I also revel in it. That I was created to be whatever I want to be, and my parents loved me enough and supported me enough to let me be whatever I want to be. I pray that Souvenir feels the same thing.
I hope you understand today that it's not about equality in everything, it is, for me, equality in the important things. Her safety, her understanding, her value of herself as a person and not a lesser creature. I hope you will understand, and maybe even help.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Daughter you wear my name, those are my eyes keep em raised.
Chad Stokes has been haunting my mind since I moved to Cleveland. Since I live downtown now, I walk pretty much everywhere, and everywhere I walk I pass by a homeless man of woman on the street asking me to help them out. The other night Peaches was watching my friend's money exchange hands as hers shook "from the cold." Today I passed a man on a corner selling newspapers. I admire this, and these are the only guys I'll give change to. The newspaper is put out by a local shelter and some of the articles are written by the guys on the street. The sellers wear badges with their names on them and ask for whatever you can spare in exchange for the paper.
To make it easier on my conscience, and force of habit, I rarely care small bills or change, so when I tell them I can't help them out today, I mean it. I don't have change. and When I offer them a homemade cookie as consolation from the container in my hands, they shake their heads and so no thank you miss. I hear the repetition of the phrase "could you help me get somethin to eat" over and over as I walk to and from work each day and inevitably I too try to avoid eye contact as I meet the speaker. Enter Chetro. "he wasn't beggin' he was just keepin' time with his cup. You go on and believe that, and keep your eyes straight up." The lyrics to Gunship Politico haunt my mind, provoking questions.
"do you think if you don't look at him he'll go away?" "Do you think if you pretend to cough, or dial a number on you're phone he won't know you're ignoring him" "Why don't you help him?" "Do you think that just because you spent a week volunteering once you have any idea what HIS life is like?" "Do you really think that just because you don't have spare change, you don't have change to spare?"
The thing is, I know not to give them money, not because I assume they're alla boose hounds or that they wouldn't buy food with it. I know that places like the salvation army and rescue mission can help them more, and that the men who are going to them for help really want it and want what they cna give. Especially since you have to be clean to live at the mission. I have shared meals with these men, and stories. I have heard their testimonies and experienced their rejections and their baptisms. When I pass the men on the street I don't just see a homeless guy, I see Will, and Ace and the other men I shared breakfast lunch and dinner with for a week. I hear their stories in my head and it makes me want to know the stories of these new men in this new city. It makes my heart break that I look away just like everyone else.
It's hard to do anything else. Managers of shelters will tell you not to give the men money, that it's better to donate to the shelter so they can get the men what they need. But how many people do you think walk by these men shaking their heads and justify not reaching out to them because "they would just spend it on alcohol anyways"and never do anything else. I do it every day. I know the stories, I heard the lies first hand, and I adviced my team about them when we volunteered at the mission. But just because they lie to you, they tell you a story that either they think will make you help them, or that they wish were the truth, it doesn't make them any less needy.
So what do I do about the haunting voices of Chad Stokes and Jacob Dylan tormenting my conscience wherever I go? I write a blog post. I pray for the men, and I think that when I'm not living pay check to pay check I'll be able to do more for them. I remember that I've been told by people who work closely with these men everyday that I shouldn't give them money. I cut them off to save their breath and smile apolgetically as they say "thanks anyways sweetheart" and move on to the next pedestrian. and my heart breaks. and I hope that someone who reads this who can reach out, will reach out and buy a paper or give a donation to the mission or the Y or the salvation army. Or even better buy them lunch or dinner or a breakfast sandwhich and a cup of coffee.
To make it easier on my conscience, and force of habit, I rarely care small bills or change, so when I tell them I can't help them out today, I mean it. I don't have change. and When I offer them a homemade cookie as consolation from the container in my hands, they shake their heads and so no thank you miss. I hear the repetition of the phrase "could you help me get somethin to eat" over and over as I walk to and from work each day and inevitably I too try to avoid eye contact as I meet the speaker. Enter Chetro. "he wasn't beggin' he was just keepin' time with his cup. You go on and believe that, and keep your eyes straight up." The lyrics to Gunship Politico haunt my mind, provoking questions.
"do you think if you don't look at him he'll go away?" "Do you think if you pretend to cough, or dial a number on you're phone he won't know you're ignoring him" "Why don't you help him?" "Do you think that just because you spent a week volunteering once you have any idea what HIS life is like?" "Do you really think that just because you don't have spare change, you don't have change to spare?"
The thing is, I know not to give them money, not because I assume they're alla boose hounds or that they wouldn't buy food with it. I know that places like the salvation army and rescue mission can help them more, and that the men who are going to them for help really want it and want what they cna give. Especially since you have to be clean to live at the mission. I have shared meals with these men, and stories. I have heard their testimonies and experienced their rejections and their baptisms. When I pass the men on the street I don't just see a homeless guy, I see Will, and Ace and the other men I shared breakfast lunch and dinner with for a week. I hear their stories in my head and it makes me want to know the stories of these new men in this new city. It makes my heart break that I look away just like everyone else.
It's hard to do anything else. Managers of shelters will tell you not to give the men money, that it's better to donate to the shelter so they can get the men what they need. But how many people do you think walk by these men shaking their heads and justify not reaching out to them because "they would just spend it on alcohol anyways"and never do anything else. I do it every day. I know the stories, I heard the lies first hand, and I adviced my team about them when we volunteered at the mission. But just because they lie to you, they tell you a story that either they think will make you help them, or that they wish were the truth, it doesn't make them any less needy.
So what do I do about the haunting voices of Chad Stokes and Jacob Dylan tormenting my conscience wherever I go? I write a blog post. I pray for the men, and I think that when I'm not living pay check to pay check I'll be able to do more for them. I remember that I've been told by people who work closely with these men everyday that I shouldn't give them money. I cut them off to save their breath and smile apolgetically as they say "thanks anyways sweetheart" and move on to the next pedestrian. and my heart breaks. and I hope that someone who reads this who can reach out, will reach out and buy a paper or give a donation to the mission or the Y or the salvation army. Or even better buy them lunch or dinner or a breakfast sandwhich and a cup of coffee.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Nothing
This is one of those nights when you want nothing more than to write but you sit staring at the blank page unable to commit yourself to anything of substance. Well not you, me. I'm staring it a blank page wondering why I can't think of anything to write and praying that whatever ghost inspired ginsberg would posess me and breathe life into my hands, into the keys. Wondering if I write about nothing long enough, will something come. Wishing I knew where to find inspiration and thinking of everything and nothing at once. craving sleep but yearning to do something more with my life.
The line keeps running through my mind: "I saw the best minds of my generation"... who are the best minds of my generation? where are they hiding, why haven't I met them, why aren't I one of them? could I find them and follow them around.
The line keeps running through my mind: "I saw the best minds of my generation"... who are the best minds of my generation? where are they hiding, why haven't I met them, why aren't I one of them? could I find them and follow them around.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
SEO day 3
Hullo Dad, and anyone else who happens to read this. My humblest apologies for the delay in posts, but my life as been rather hectic lately.
For the inspiration on these verses.
On Monday I started a new job as a content writer at Rosetta, an advertising agency in Cleveland. This morning I got my first indepth introduction to exactly what I will be doing. Search Engine Optimization is structuring your webpage, and writing content for said webpage in such away as to increase the visibility within organic search engine results. (aka the ones not sponsored/paid for) I have a much better understanding of what this is, now I just need to figure out how to apply my flowery writing skills in order to dominate this task. It's my job to create a page that will drive search engines and therefore, users to it based on what I write, and how I write it.
This is still a relatively new method in the agency world and very new to me. We write for users first, but then optimize that content for search engines. My skills so far have honed in on writing for professors first and others second with little or no focus on what search engines want to see. If Gertrude Stein wanted Hemingway to quit his job as a journalist to focus on his writing, I shudder to think of her opinion of my chosen career. If Hemingway had spent time and energy writing in form and content appropriate for his paper, we would not have several great ex-patriot American novels. However, If Hemingway had not been a journalist, he would not have developed the sentence style which characterizes said novels.
While Stein felt he could not be a writer while being a journalist, Hemingway, truly, could not have been one without having first been the other. Part of being a writer is learning how to mimic the voices of others, the styles of others, and through this you discover your own voice.
SEO content writers are crafty, intentional, concise, and even, as those who disapprove of the ad industry in general might say, sneaky. Search Engines are not witty, they don't understand puns or double entendre, and they don't care if your English professor would have found your writing profound and insightful. That being said, you, or rather, I, do not need to eliminate these elements from our writing. We must write for the reader first, understanding that they will appreciate our slight witicisms, but prominantly focus our strategic keywords at the top-lefthand side of the page where both reader and search engine begin their scan. Stategically placed keywords will draw the search engine to the site without overloading the reader.
As consumers, you, and my colleagues in the English department, might find this underhanded. However, all we are doing is helping you find what you need, and our clients happen to have it. Without SEO content writers you would scour the internet looking for the right site, with the product you were looking for. We'd much rather do the work for you, it helps us, helps our clients, and we get all warm and fuzzy helping you too! So when you're looking to build your own watch, and you want to know who will let you do that, you go to Google. If you search "buils your own watch" Fossil is the second website that will showup in the search results. This is not just because we manipulated the website design, it's because that's what they do, and that's what you want them to do. It brings a whole new meaning to online matchmaking services.
All that to say, I'm pretty excited about this new job and the ability to do what I love share my gift with others. Who knows, maybe someday it will help me to write the next great American novel.
For the inspiration on these verses.
On Monday I started a new job as a content writer at Rosetta, an advertising agency in Cleveland. This morning I got my first indepth introduction to exactly what I will be doing. Search Engine Optimization is structuring your webpage, and writing content for said webpage in such away as to increase the visibility within organic search engine results. (aka the ones not sponsored/paid for) I have a much better understanding of what this is, now I just need to figure out how to apply my flowery writing skills in order to dominate this task. It's my job to create a page that will drive search engines and therefore, users to it based on what I write, and how I write it.
This is still a relatively new method in the agency world and very new to me. We write for users first, but then optimize that content for search engines. My skills so far have honed in on writing for professors first and others second with little or no focus on what search engines want to see. If Gertrude Stein wanted Hemingway to quit his job as a journalist to focus on his writing, I shudder to think of her opinion of my chosen career. If Hemingway had spent time and energy writing in form and content appropriate for his paper, we would not have several great ex-patriot American novels. However, If Hemingway had not been a journalist, he would not have developed the sentence style which characterizes said novels.
While Stein felt he could not be a writer while being a journalist, Hemingway, truly, could not have been one without having first been the other. Part of being a writer is learning how to mimic the voices of others, the styles of others, and through this you discover your own voice.
SEO content writers are crafty, intentional, concise, and even, as those who disapprove of the ad industry in general might say, sneaky. Search Engines are not witty, they don't understand puns or double entendre, and they don't care if your English professor would have found your writing profound and insightful. That being said, you, or rather, I, do not need to eliminate these elements from our writing. We must write for the reader first, understanding that they will appreciate our slight witicisms, but prominantly focus our strategic keywords at the top-lefthand side of the page where both reader and search engine begin their scan. Stategically placed keywords will draw the search engine to the site without overloading the reader.
As consumers, you, and my colleagues in the English department, might find this underhanded. However, all we are doing is helping you find what you need, and our clients happen to have it. Without SEO content writers you would scour the internet looking for the right site, with the product you were looking for. We'd much rather do the work for you, it helps us, helps our clients, and we get all warm and fuzzy helping you too! So when you're looking to build your own watch, and you want to know who will let you do that, you go to Google. If you search "buils your own watch" Fossil is the second website that will showup in the search results. This is not just because we manipulated the website design, it's because that's what they do, and that's what you want them to do. It brings a whole new meaning to online matchmaking services.
All that to say, I'm pretty excited about this new job and the ability to do what I love share my gift with others. Who knows, maybe someday it will help me to write the next great American novel.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
The mother of us all
If it weren't for this contraption on my lap and the fact that the fireplace is gas and not woodburning I would feel exactly as though I had gone back in time. It's quiet here in the lobby of my old college dormitory. You can see the beams in the ceiling and the detailed woodwork on the cabinets and chairs. I can picture students here years ago chatting about Lewis and Tolstoy as they sat around the fireplace with coffee and tea. Of course you can't do that now, no food or beverages allowed. Earlier it wasn't so quiet. The cleaning ladies were in, polishing furniture, vacuuming and gossiping complaints about their job or social life. It really terrified me as I read Kerouac's Dharma Bums that my first thought was "servants should be seen not heard" (or not even seen) I wanted to read (and later nap) in peace and that was not going to happen. What a snob I am. First, they are not my servants, I'm not rich enough to have servants, and even if I were I probably wouldn't because I like to do the work myself, generally speaking. Second, I don't even live here anymore! Who am I to complain that they are doing their work as they do everyday and I'm interrupting it with my presence. However, I kept my mouth tightly shut, chastised myself for such cruel and silly thoughts and went on to read a lovely chapter in Kerouac and promptly nap when the vacuuming had finished.
Now it's quiet. there are a few of us in here studying, speaking only in hushed tones, and some girls traipsing in and out as they go to and from their dorm rooms. The sounds here echo, something about the construction and the high ceiling in the adjacent room. It's actually a lovely feature if you aren't trying to nap. and I'm not anymore so it's grand.
I do wonder what's gone on in this room over the years, did a literary rebel such as myself sit here and read on a couch like this in front of this fire? How about a time when all the boys came visiting because girls couldn't even go over to their dorm rooms? Just through the doors two rooms away is the old cafeteria where only the girls dined, but the men would come over to serve them. I think that's a lovely concept. I'm all for liberated women, I don't think I could live in a time when it wasn't acceptable for me to wear jeans and a t-shirt out and about. I don't know how Ms. Alcott did it. But there is something to be said for chivalry.
I was thinking the other day, after reading chapter 5, that perhaps we have liberated ourselves too far. In order to be seen as equals, to be taken seriously by men, I believe at times we have devalued ourselves and our sex. Men are free and easy about sex and women have over the course of time come to the belief that they as well should be free, and quite literally easy. Believing, as I think is part of Kerouac's point, (though I hate to be the type to put thoughts to a work which were unintended by it's author) that since a woman cannot be equal to a man physically, mentally, spiritually, we can at least be so sexually. And so we do what men want, thinking it's what we want and we lose our true selves in the process. We wind up naked, curled in a ball on the kitchen floor "just for nothing, just to do it." Kerouac writes over and over how she liked it, she really did, it allowed her to be "the mother of us all" to be on an equal playing field with the men, her sex allowed her to be a "Bodhisattva" (just the way the holy concubines were taken back in the day). I can't be sure if Kerouac wants us to believe this, or wants to demonstrate that his main character Ray is trying to make himself believe it by saying over and over how she really did like it...it seems he's protesting too much. Especially since Ray has doubts about the whole experience because of his belief that lust leads to birth and birth to pain and death.
I find it interesting we still expect so much of men when we are the ones who have lowered the standards. We laugh at the saying, "no man will buy the cow when he can get the milk for free" and yet so many of us live it everyday. and, we or society have convinced ourselves that it's what we want. We just want to be wanted and loved and so we settle, for less than our best and so drive our men to settle for less than their best.
I don't intend for this to be a treatise on the negative effects of the feminist movement (like I said, I love wearing pants) But I also question if we have let "equality of the sexes" go too far and what it's impact will be on the future of our society? I consider myself more of a feminist than many of the women here at a christian conservative college, but I suppose if you stuck me at Berkley I'd be a prude. I wish others of my sex could learn to revel in the strength, power and beauty of being a woman and try to be less like men. Though I suppose I'm the worst to judge on that subject, considering myself a "tom-boy" who would rather watch and play sports than watch a chick flick, or play with dolls. At college I discovered the power and joy of femininity and I wonder if we valued ourselves and our sex more for what it is, than try to be what it is not, if we couldn't make a more powerful impact on the world around us?
Now it's quiet. there are a few of us in here studying, speaking only in hushed tones, and some girls traipsing in and out as they go to and from their dorm rooms. The sounds here echo, something about the construction and the high ceiling in the adjacent room. It's actually a lovely feature if you aren't trying to nap. and I'm not anymore so it's grand.
I do wonder what's gone on in this room over the years, did a literary rebel such as myself sit here and read on a couch like this in front of this fire? How about a time when all the boys came visiting because girls couldn't even go over to their dorm rooms? Just through the doors two rooms away is the old cafeteria where only the girls dined, but the men would come over to serve them. I think that's a lovely concept. I'm all for liberated women, I don't think I could live in a time when it wasn't acceptable for me to wear jeans and a t-shirt out and about. I don't know how Ms. Alcott did it. But there is something to be said for chivalry.
I was thinking the other day, after reading chapter 5, that perhaps we have liberated ourselves too far. In order to be seen as equals, to be taken seriously by men, I believe at times we have devalued ourselves and our sex. Men are free and easy about sex and women have over the course of time come to the belief that they as well should be free, and quite literally easy. Believing, as I think is part of Kerouac's point, (though I hate to be the type to put thoughts to a work which were unintended by it's author) that since a woman cannot be equal to a man physically, mentally, spiritually, we can at least be so sexually. And so we do what men want, thinking it's what we want and we lose our true selves in the process. We wind up naked, curled in a ball on the kitchen floor "just for nothing, just to do it." Kerouac writes over and over how she liked it, she really did, it allowed her to be "the mother of us all" to be on an equal playing field with the men, her sex allowed her to be a "Bodhisattva" (just the way the holy concubines were taken back in the day). I can't be sure if Kerouac wants us to believe this, or wants to demonstrate that his main character Ray is trying to make himself believe it by saying over and over how she really did like it...it seems he's protesting too much. Especially since Ray has doubts about the whole experience because of his belief that lust leads to birth and birth to pain and death.
I find it interesting we still expect so much of men when we are the ones who have lowered the standards. We laugh at the saying, "no man will buy the cow when he can get the milk for free" and yet so many of us live it everyday. and, we or society have convinced ourselves that it's what we want. We just want to be wanted and loved and so we settle, for less than our best and so drive our men to settle for less than their best.
I don't intend for this to be a treatise on the negative effects of the feminist movement (like I said, I love wearing pants) But I also question if we have let "equality of the sexes" go too far and what it's impact will be on the future of our society? I consider myself more of a feminist than many of the women here at a christian conservative college, but I suppose if you stuck me at Berkley I'd be a prude. I wish others of my sex could learn to revel in the strength, power and beauty of being a woman and try to be less like men. Though I suppose I'm the worst to judge on that subject, considering myself a "tom-boy" who would rather watch and play sports than watch a chick flick, or play with dolls. At college I discovered the power and joy of femininity and I wonder if we valued ourselves and our sex more for what it is, than try to be what it is not, if we couldn't make a more powerful impact on the world around us?
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Few and Far between
I have been writing. Just not here. There's something about writing in my journal that just feels more true. It's as though when I open up my moleskin to a blank new page I feel connected with Hemingway and other great writers in a way that I just don't feel when typing on the computer. Granted right now I'm reading Dharma Bums for the first time and there is something about typing that makes me feel connected to Kerouac. (even if he had a typewriter, not a computer) There is a free flow to Dharma Bums which is similar to my stream of conscious writing on the computer. A disjointed, poetic drunkenness that is strong and beautiful. Sometimes I wonder what Kerouac would think of our modern interpretations of his works. If he would tell me nicely that I am an idiot (which I doubt since at the beginning of Dharma Bums he's all about kindness) or if he would just smile at my naivete and say nothing, or if he would think I actually got it on some level.
Point being (Dad) I have been writing. I suppose it doesn't do any good to keep it wrapped up in my journal. If you write to change the world you have to risk exposure and failure, something I'm constantly fearful of.
Silver webs shiver in golden shadows,
The fading glory of another day.
Naked bones stretch to the sky
Hungry, yearning to be made new.
The broken bark sticks hard in my back,
A harsh reminder of reality
As the golden orb slowly sinks
the horizon alters its hue
A crisp clear blue, burned off haze,
unhindered by chasing clouds.
I drink deep the cool fall air
sweetened by an early moon
Peace comes easily in Autumn.
Some days I think I'm a terrible poet. probably because I don't try terribly hard to understand all that rhyme and meter and scanning stuff Dr. Potter tries so desperately to teach me. I think I'm just more of a free verse poet, or as I like to say, a lazy poet. But sometimes, I write something that I think just brushes the surface of something beautiful and I'm almost proud. Proud enough at least to expose myself to the world for its caprice.
I will try to write here more often. until then.
Point being (Dad) I have been writing. I suppose it doesn't do any good to keep it wrapped up in my journal. If you write to change the world you have to risk exposure and failure, something I'm constantly fearful of.
Silver webs shiver in golden shadows,
The fading glory of another day.
Naked bones stretch to the sky
Hungry, yearning to be made new.
The broken bark sticks hard in my back,
A harsh reminder of reality
As the golden orb slowly sinks
the horizon alters its hue
A crisp clear blue, burned off haze,
unhindered by chasing clouds.
I drink deep the cool fall air
sweetened by an early moon
Peace comes easily in Autumn.
Some days I think I'm a terrible poet. probably because I don't try terribly hard to understand all that rhyme and meter and scanning stuff Dr. Potter tries so desperately to teach me. I think I'm just more of a free verse poet, or as I like to say, a lazy poet. But sometimes, I write something that I think just brushes the surface of something beautiful and I'm almost proud. Proud enough at least to expose myself to the world for its caprice.
I will try to write here more often. until then.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
"I have never wished to cater to the crowd; for what I know they do not approve, and what they approve I do not know."-Epicurus
I should be reviewing Wall Street Journal Articles for class...but I'm not. Instead I'm frustrated and a little angry at the Grove City Theater Dept. I wrote a play last year and I've submitted it to be used in the One Act festival twice, neither time was it accepted. I also adapted Mark Twain's "The Diary of Adam and Eve" for the stage this summer and submitted it, it was also not selected. Now, certainly I have a bit of wounded pride at this, but that's not what this article is about. (Every writer should face failure and learn to deal with it) The thing is, the coordinators for the festival actually enjoyed my plays, though they found the one I had written too dark for a festival they wanted to be full of comedies (it has it's moments but it's no tragedy...) and they questioned Twain's theology and it's use on a Christian campus. Ok, I disagree, but ok. Until that is, they tell me they still want me to direct and I have my choice between two plays: one boring and not really suited to what I want to do senior year, and the second, which I chose, a slightly riske play about a husband and wife and the husband's ex-girlfriends visit (which consists of a big ol kiss and a sketchy backrub) <--The theology of this is not questionable? Sure Mark Twain has some unorthodox views of the first man and wife, he humanizes them *GASP* oh no! he humanized humans? but but but, that just makes my world crumble!!!
It seems that we are only concerned with differing theology when it is placed before us in a way that we cannot avoid questioning. A play that has no mention of God, but portrays action that flies in the face of his commandments, that's ok...but heaven forbid Adam say that wherever he went with Eve a part of Eden was with him...blasphemer. Likewise, we want a play that makes us laugh, not one that makes us think, or desire a relationship with Christ, we just want to laugh.
Well it's a week from the show going up, I'm frustrated, my coordinator just told me he thinks the way I'm portraying the backrub scene is sketchy and awkward....it's the way it's written! ("I just always pictured her sitting up" ...it says flops over on the bed!!)
Sure I could censor the script, I could cut out the scene (and the play would make a lot less sense) I could continue to edit words like promiscuous (already did that...apparently it's an inappropriate descriptor...) and other moments that make the audience understand why Wanda is such an odd character and an irritation to Marsha (Jim's wife) but then what would the play be? anything? I've already made edits I'm sure the writer wouldn't approve of, but that I have to make bc it's GCC. So Instead of asking me to edit the last line of the play I adapted, to make it a little less like Eve was replacing God (which I don't think was Twain's point) I'm changing a whole lot more of the play, and I'm still uncomfortable and stressed.
I don't want to cater to the crowd but I don't have a choice. Or do I? I'm only here one semester. I'm seriously considering an underground production of either the bus stop or the diary of adam and eve...
It seems that we are only concerned with differing theology when it is placed before us in a way that we cannot avoid questioning. A play that has no mention of God, but portrays action that flies in the face of his commandments, that's ok...but heaven forbid Adam say that wherever he went with Eve a part of Eden was with him...blasphemer. Likewise, we want a play that makes us laugh, not one that makes us think, or desire a relationship with Christ, we just want to laugh.
Well it's a week from the show going up, I'm frustrated, my coordinator just told me he thinks the way I'm portraying the backrub scene is sketchy and awkward....it's the way it's written! ("I just always pictured her sitting up" ...it says flops over on the bed!!)
Sure I could censor the script, I could cut out the scene (and the play would make a lot less sense) I could continue to edit words like promiscuous (already did that...apparently it's an inappropriate descriptor...) and other moments that make the audience understand why Wanda is such an odd character and an irritation to Marsha (Jim's wife) but then what would the play be? anything? I've already made edits I'm sure the writer wouldn't approve of, but that I have to make bc it's GCC. So Instead of asking me to edit the last line of the play I adapted, to make it a little less like Eve was replacing God (which I don't think was Twain's point) I'm changing a whole lot more of the play, and I'm still uncomfortable and stressed.
I don't want to cater to the crowd but I don't have a choice. Or do I? I'm only here one semester. I'm seriously considering an underground production of either the bus stop or the diary of adam and eve...
Thursday, September 9, 2010
why i run.
I walked into the house with my heart beating everywhere but inside my chest where it belonged. Head, arms, knees, feet, every inch of my body was pulsating. I was drenched in sweat and my face was blood red. The pain in my knees was closing in on unbearable. I went straight to the kitchen, grabbed a glass and filled it from the tap. I gulped it down and filled up two more. Walked into the living room and collapsed on the floor “stretching.” I had just run 8 miles. The farthest I’ve ever run. You distance runners out there are probably thinking “psh that’s nothing, I can run 8 miles in my sleep.” But I’m a sprinter, I run hurdles, and in practice I never run more than 4 miles, tops. And this year I sprained my ankle going over a hurdle so I wasn’t even running that. So to go from 2-3 miles “a day” to 8, well that’s huge for me.
That’s not what this is about. This is about the sentence in that paragraph you probably read over without thinking, taking it for granted. Guess which one it is? “I went straight to the kitchen, grabbed a glass and filled it from the tap. I gulped it down and filled up two more.” Here in America so many of us are blessed with clean drinking water right from the tap. Even more of us here live on or around the cleanest lake in New York State (possible all the U.S.) and can walk right down, dive right in and drink up as much as they want. This is a beautiful and blessed thing.
For people living in poverty in Africa, this is nearly impossible. They have to walk miles a day just to reach a water source that is not even clean and appropriate for drinking. They can’t just reach for the tap and fill a glass of clean, pure water that is safe from disease. Kids miss school because they have to make these water walks, and take care of their families.
That’s why I went for an 8 mile run. I’m running in the Skinnyman Triathlon in Skaneateles, NY with Team Active:Water. Active:Water is an organization that uses donations made to support their athletes to provide clean drinking water to impoverished countries. Right now they work with Blood:Water Mission and Seeds of Hope International, but as they expand, they will be working with more and more organizations worldwide to provide water to more countries in need. Athletes sign up to support the organization through the different events they participate in and then get donations to support them in the race, and all the funds go directly to Active:Water where they are used to give individuals clean water, families water filters, and even build clean water wells, providing clean water for entire villages.
Sure there is a story in my triathlon training without this, it’s hard and it hurts and it makes me feel great about what I can achieve, but it’s not the story I want to tell. I want to tell a story about other people, and how I was able to affect them. How other people were able to help me affect them. I want to tell how I was able to use my gifts to bring something wonderful to people. What story do you want to tell?
copyright M. Markley June 2010
That’s not what this is about. This is about the sentence in that paragraph you probably read over without thinking, taking it for granted. Guess which one it is? “I went straight to the kitchen, grabbed a glass and filled it from the tap. I gulped it down and filled up two more.” Here in America so many of us are blessed with clean drinking water right from the tap. Even more of us here live on or around the cleanest lake in New York State (possible all the U.S.) and can walk right down, dive right in and drink up as much as they want. This is a beautiful and blessed thing.
For people living in poverty in Africa, this is nearly impossible. They have to walk miles a day just to reach a water source that is not even clean and appropriate for drinking. They can’t just reach for the tap and fill a glass of clean, pure water that is safe from disease. Kids miss school because they have to make these water walks, and take care of their families.
That’s why I went for an 8 mile run. I’m running in the Skinnyman Triathlon in Skaneateles, NY with Team Active:Water. Active:Water is an organization that uses donations made to support their athletes to provide clean drinking water to impoverished countries. Right now they work with Blood:Water Mission and Seeds of Hope International, but as they expand, they will be working with more and more organizations worldwide to provide water to more countries in need. Athletes sign up to support the organization through the different events they participate in and then get donations to support them in the race, and all the funds go directly to Active:Water where they are used to give individuals clean water, families water filters, and even build clean water wells, providing clean water for entire villages.
Sure there is a story in my triathlon training without this, it’s hard and it hurts and it makes me feel great about what I can achieve, but it’s not the story I want to tell. I want to tell a story about other people, and how I was able to affect them. How other people were able to help me affect them. I want to tell how I was able to use my gifts to bring something wonderful to people. What story do you want to tell?
copyright M. Markley June 2010
Urban Cowboy
Urban Cowboy
On the streets he roams, looking for a home
Wide brimmed hat worn and flapping
And a ring for each finger to show where he’s been
He stares at me through the window
Do I remind him of someone from long ago
Does he remember that week a year ago
Smoking a cig on the park bench relaxed before the storm,
I catch him staring at me once more
I nod and he nods in return
Chivalry or memory
His scraggly gray hair lies just at his shoulders
Peering out under the hat
Short gray beard well kept for where he’s been
His eyes pierce mine and I have to look away
I don’t know what he’s thinking or what he feels
But I feel like if I kept my eyes locked I’d get lost in that dark soul
He played his music once, and has a cd
We got to listen to it at breakfast that day
Who are you and where have you been
Urban cowboy who calls the streets home
Who walks the new frontier
What do you think of us both being here
What brings us, old and young to watch for the break in the clouds, for the sun
If I went out, would you speak to me,
your eyes hardly leave mine
Urban Cowboy what’s on your mind
How did we get to this strange place and time?
copyright M. Markley 2010
On the streets he roams, looking for a home
Wide brimmed hat worn and flapping
And a ring for each finger to show where he’s been
He stares at me through the window
Do I remind him of someone from long ago
Does he remember that week a year ago
Smoking a cig on the park bench relaxed before the storm,
I catch him staring at me once more
I nod and he nods in return
Chivalry or memory
His scraggly gray hair lies just at his shoulders
Peering out under the hat
Short gray beard well kept for where he’s been
His eyes pierce mine and I have to look away
I don’t know what he’s thinking or what he feels
But I feel like if I kept my eyes locked I’d get lost in that dark soul
He played his music once, and has a cd
We got to listen to it at breakfast that day
Who are you and where have you been
Urban cowboy who calls the streets home
Who walks the new frontier
What do you think of us both being here
What brings us, old and young to watch for the break in the clouds, for the sun
If I went out, would you speak to me,
your eyes hardly leave mine
Urban Cowboy what’s on your mind
How did we get to this strange place and time?
copyright M. Markley 2010
Monday, August 9, 2010
MSG
MSG
The town video rental store is closed and vacated. Just another sign of the times and the growing dependency on Netflix, Redbox and internet downloads. Our society is becoming less and less tangible, books are now on electronic readers like the Kindle and the Nook and even the ipad, which was invented simply because we expect new and innovating things from Apple. I wasn’t very attached to this video store, so it’s closing didn’t affect me the way the closing of the Wegman’s video store, where we got all our videos as children, did. This store only had new releases to movies from 30 years ago, no classics, easily replaceable by Redbox which also carries new releases. The only thing I’m sad to see go about this store is movie store guy. As we drove by the empty store front this morning we thought to ourselves, where is he now?
An iconic figure here in town, MSG, as we fondly referred to him behind his back, bears a striking resemblance to Philip Seymour Hoffman, enhancing his movie store guy title. MSG and I would often lament the lack of classic titles in the rental store, if he had his way they would have had a lot more. (A similar conundrum has been discussed between myself and members of the local bookstore which has a classics sections consisting of exactly 3 tiny shelves) He would tender recommendations which were dead on 99% of the time and when returning, we would discuss recently viewed films. He reminded me of Jack Black’s character in High Fidelity.
I suppose I’m a bit behind my generation with respect to this whole technological craze, I prefer to read my books on paper, and while I appreciate my laptop, and its ease in getting my ideas on “paper” I prefer pen and ink. No one writes letters anymore, no one reads books anymore, and even our movies are becoming more and more intangible. My cell phone only sends calls and text messages, I don’t have internet capabilities, and I’m ok with that, because it’s a phone…for calling people…to talk to them. I have an appreciation for technology, the quality of my TV is better with Fios, so is the speed of my internet, I use my computer and internet frequently, I have a facebook and was coerced into getting a twitter, social networking is the way things are going and I need to be on board I suppose. So I’m not ranting against technology, and I have plenty of artsy friends who love the Kindle, especially because classics are free, which I admit, is the most convincing argument I’ve heard for it yet. However, I think that something is going to be seriously lost in our society and our communication with each other if we continue to let all these intangible technologies seep into our lives and watch people like MSG slowly fade into the background.
When I first heard of the Kindle I worried about a Farenheight 451 bookpocalypse. What would happen to the books people simply didn’t want to put online, didn’t want to make available? How would the technology of the Kindle effect authors and the way they wrote books and how would it’s cheap prices effect author’s wallets, ergo, someday my wallet? But I find myself slowly less adamant about its evils, though I really do prefer a book in my hands. The other day I was sitting in a pub downtown when an old Irish gentleman stole my attention from my book by saying how impressed he was to find me reading and that no one ever reads books anymore. I was so sad to hear this, because reading books is wonderful and it seems to be something that many people ascribe to the “educated” or “English major types” or excuse themselves as “not really a book person.” For me, as an English major, and a lover of books far before I ever defined myself as such, I can’t see how anyone would not want to read. However, I think about how much of my time is allocated to TV and the computer, and how different that is from when I was a child when I didn’t have a computer (no internet at home until I was 13) and we had 10 channels on our TV, one of which was PBS and I used to watch Wishbone when I wasn’t reading a book. I find myself distracted more, and with 250 channels, I don’t even watch my 3 Netflix a month (I subscribed out of frustration at the lack of selection at the movie store…MSG was sympathetic).
I feel as though we are becoming a less and less intellectual society and wonder what it will be like to raise my kids in schools where the curriculum is dumbed down so the kids can pass exams, and channels that used to be educational, like the history channel, focus on myths like ancient aliens, Bigfoot and The DaVinci Code.
What are we doing with our time and energy, are we exercising our brains enough? If we continue to let technology do our work for us what’s going to happen to our society? I suppose I could be getting paranoid, but I’m a sentimental sucker. I love record stores and bookstore coffee shops and all that out of fashion good old fashion stuff. And I miss movie store guy.
The town video rental store is closed and vacated. Just another sign of the times and the growing dependency on Netflix, Redbox and internet downloads. Our society is becoming less and less tangible, books are now on electronic readers like the Kindle and the Nook and even the ipad, which was invented simply because we expect new and innovating things from Apple. I wasn’t very attached to this video store, so it’s closing didn’t affect me the way the closing of the Wegman’s video store, where we got all our videos as children, did. This store only had new releases to movies from 30 years ago, no classics, easily replaceable by Redbox which also carries new releases. The only thing I’m sad to see go about this store is movie store guy. As we drove by the empty store front this morning we thought to ourselves, where is he now?
An iconic figure here in town, MSG, as we fondly referred to him behind his back, bears a striking resemblance to Philip Seymour Hoffman, enhancing his movie store guy title. MSG and I would often lament the lack of classic titles in the rental store, if he had his way they would have had a lot more. (A similar conundrum has been discussed between myself and members of the local bookstore which has a classics sections consisting of exactly 3 tiny shelves) He would tender recommendations which were dead on 99% of the time and when returning, we would discuss recently viewed films. He reminded me of Jack Black’s character in High Fidelity.
I suppose I’m a bit behind my generation with respect to this whole technological craze, I prefer to read my books on paper, and while I appreciate my laptop, and its ease in getting my ideas on “paper” I prefer pen and ink. No one writes letters anymore, no one reads books anymore, and even our movies are becoming more and more intangible. My cell phone only sends calls and text messages, I don’t have internet capabilities, and I’m ok with that, because it’s a phone…for calling people…to talk to them. I have an appreciation for technology, the quality of my TV is better with Fios, so is the speed of my internet, I use my computer and internet frequently, I have a facebook and was coerced into getting a twitter, social networking is the way things are going and I need to be on board I suppose. So I’m not ranting against technology, and I have plenty of artsy friends who love the Kindle, especially because classics are free, which I admit, is the most convincing argument I’ve heard for it yet. However, I think that something is going to be seriously lost in our society and our communication with each other if we continue to let all these intangible technologies seep into our lives and watch people like MSG slowly fade into the background.
When I first heard of the Kindle I worried about a Farenheight 451 bookpocalypse. What would happen to the books people simply didn’t want to put online, didn’t want to make available? How would the technology of the Kindle effect authors and the way they wrote books and how would it’s cheap prices effect author’s wallets, ergo, someday my wallet? But I find myself slowly less adamant about its evils, though I really do prefer a book in my hands. The other day I was sitting in a pub downtown when an old Irish gentleman stole my attention from my book by saying how impressed he was to find me reading and that no one ever reads books anymore. I was so sad to hear this, because reading books is wonderful and it seems to be something that many people ascribe to the “educated” or “English major types” or excuse themselves as “not really a book person.” For me, as an English major, and a lover of books far before I ever defined myself as such, I can’t see how anyone would not want to read. However, I think about how much of my time is allocated to TV and the computer, and how different that is from when I was a child when I didn’t have a computer (no internet at home until I was 13) and we had 10 channels on our TV, one of which was PBS and I used to watch Wishbone when I wasn’t reading a book. I find myself distracted more, and with 250 channels, I don’t even watch my 3 Netflix a month (I subscribed out of frustration at the lack of selection at the movie store…MSG was sympathetic).
I feel as though we are becoming a less and less intellectual society and wonder what it will be like to raise my kids in schools where the curriculum is dumbed down so the kids can pass exams, and channels that used to be educational, like the history channel, focus on myths like ancient aliens, Bigfoot and The DaVinci Code.
What are we doing with our time and energy, are we exercising our brains enough? If we continue to let technology do our work for us what’s going to happen to our society? I suppose I could be getting paranoid, but I’m a sentimental sucker. I love record stores and bookstore coffee shops and all that out of fashion good old fashion stuff. And I miss movie store guy.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
write right
If I'm going to really pursue my dream of being a writer, copywriter or novelist, I need to really hone my skillz. Unfortunately, I, like most writers I know, am lazy. And I enjoy being lazy. oh sure when I have a deadline to pursue I get it done, and when I'm getting paid I can do the work, and do it pretty well. It's when it's just for me, or even potentially for something else that I always seem to find time to do something else. I can't seem to sit down and write something good start to finish, I mean I start with some great ideas that just fall flat as I get to the end. I want to be able to stick with it.
I have another problem. when I do write I don't like to show it to other people. I'm afraid of rejection, that they won't think I'm as good as I think I am, that I will pale in comparison to other writers, that the critics (who know nothing) will mock me, and well I'm not ready for any of that. I'm a chicken. how the great authors did it I don't know. granted they were great, but did they know they were great or did they second guess their talent just like me. Do I have the potential to be great or just mediocre?
"The presence alone of Faulkner in our midst makes a great difference in what the writer can and cannot permit himself to do. Nobody wants his mule and wagon stalled on the same track the Dixie Limited is roaring down." – Flannery O’Connor, The Grotesque in Southern Fiction
I have another problem. when I do write I don't like to show it to other people. I'm afraid of rejection, that they won't think I'm as good as I think I am, that I will pale in comparison to other writers, that the critics (who know nothing) will mock me, and well I'm not ready for any of that. I'm a chicken. how the great authors did it I don't know. granted they were great, but did they know they were great or did they second guess their talent just like me. Do I have the potential to be great or just mediocre?
"The presence alone of Faulkner in our midst makes a great difference in what the writer can and cannot permit himself to do. Nobody wants his mule and wagon stalled on the same track the Dixie Limited is roaring down." – Flannery O’Connor, The Grotesque in Southern Fiction
Monday, April 26, 2010
Water Water everywhere, but not a drop to drink
So I'm not sure who all reads this but if you do, please consider sponsoring me in this year's Skinnyman triathlon. I'm running for Active Water an organization that helps people in Africa get clean water (Blood: Water Mission) and learn how to work the land (Seeds of Hope Int'l). This is my site. check it:
http://www.active.com/donate/activewaterupick/mmskinnywoman
more info to come.
http://www.active.com/donate/activewaterupick/mmskinnywoman
more info to come.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
The Final Countdown
As I approach the end of my senior year in college I have to stop and think that it was nothing like I had ever expected. It has been wonderful and I have grown up so much, and learned so much about myself and the world around me that I hardly want to leave. Not so for many of my friends. They are quick to count down the days, some of them have been counting since January. We have just under a month left together and the last thing I want to do is count that away. It saddens me that we have such a tendency to look to the future and ignore the present. Granted, I also hate the reminder that I have 4 papers due in 30 days or less. and Granted, I should be reading Shelley right now but I'm procrastinating because I can't focus on that.
Now, I graduate in May with my friends but also come back in September to finish my second degree in December. So I don't have to go out to the real world yet, I don't have to get a job and I'm not even close to getting married (which more and more of my friends are it seems). But the thought of my closest friends moving on without me is hard. They will have new experiences that I will not have for another half a year. Then there's the thought I have about high school I had a great high school experience and I thought I would be friends with my high school friends for years, but by my sophomore year of college we had drifted apart. I've come to terms with this now, realizing we had too many differences in beliefs to stay friends long and that as we grew stronger in those beliefs or disbeliefs we would eventually separate. and while I don't worry about that issue with the friends I've made at school, I wonder if other things will drive a wedge between us.
My mom says this won't happen, she says I have such better relationships with my friends than she ever had. But still, she doesn't even talk to the maid of honor in her wedding anymore. will I be like that? Will my maid of honor even be someone I went to college with? (especially since I'm nowhere close to marriage) Will I be able to maintain relationships with people as we all move away (some overseas), get married, have kids? People say change is good, that it's natural, that we have phases in our life and people drift in and out. What if I don't want these people to drift out? Can I stop it? I think about how little I talk to the seniors that graduated last year and wonder if I'll go years between talking with my friends from school. I think about maggie and ange and jenny living just 10 minutes walk down in the apartments and how little I see or even speak to them and wonder what will happen when we're 10 hours apart.
I can't help not wanting to count down, wanting instead to try to slow time, to try to live in the moment and enjoy everything, even the academics. (shelley is beckoning) But I wonder if we can, and is that a good mentality? How can I find a balance between slowing down and speeding up? Am I, are we, supposed to? How can I be sure when the end of the year comes I won't be left standing alone, unsure and lost? When high school ended college started. now with college ending, what starts? how does it start? who does it start with? who is there to guide you through it? you're expected to be an adult by now, to figure these things out alone, to pay for everything even when you don't have a job. but how?
Last night I went out for dinner with some of my best friends and we raised our glasses to staying in college as long as we can, and I laughed because I am, but it also made me sad because the rest of them are leaving in a month. and let's be honest, staying in college as long as you can is no fun if your friends aren't there with you.
Song of the moment: I need you now, Lady Antebellum
Now, I graduate in May with my friends but also come back in September to finish my second degree in December. So I don't have to go out to the real world yet, I don't have to get a job and I'm not even close to getting married (which more and more of my friends are it seems). But the thought of my closest friends moving on without me is hard. They will have new experiences that I will not have for another half a year. Then there's the thought I have about high school I had a great high school experience and I thought I would be friends with my high school friends for years, but by my sophomore year of college we had drifted apart. I've come to terms with this now, realizing we had too many differences in beliefs to stay friends long and that as we grew stronger in those beliefs or disbeliefs we would eventually separate. and while I don't worry about that issue with the friends I've made at school, I wonder if other things will drive a wedge between us.
My mom says this won't happen, she says I have such better relationships with my friends than she ever had. But still, she doesn't even talk to the maid of honor in her wedding anymore. will I be like that? Will my maid of honor even be someone I went to college with? (especially since I'm nowhere close to marriage) Will I be able to maintain relationships with people as we all move away (some overseas), get married, have kids? People say change is good, that it's natural, that we have phases in our life and people drift in and out. What if I don't want these people to drift out? Can I stop it? I think about how little I talk to the seniors that graduated last year and wonder if I'll go years between talking with my friends from school. I think about maggie and ange and jenny living just 10 minutes walk down in the apartments and how little I see or even speak to them and wonder what will happen when we're 10 hours apart.
I can't help not wanting to count down, wanting instead to try to slow time, to try to live in the moment and enjoy everything, even the academics. (shelley is beckoning) But I wonder if we can, and is that a good mentality? How can I find a balance between slowing down and speeding up? Am I, are we, supposed to? How can I be sure when the end of the year comes I won't be left standing alone, unsure and lost? When high school ended college started. now with college ending, what starts? how does it start? who does it start with? who is there to guide you through it? you're expected to be an adult by now, to figure these things out alone, to pay for everything even when you don't have a job. but how?
Last night I went out for dinner with some of my best friends and we raised our glasses to staying in college as long as we can, and I laughed because I am, but it also made me sad because the rest of them are leaving in a month. and let's be honest, staying in college as long as you can is no fun if your friends aren't there with you.
Song of the moment: I need you now, Lady Antebellum
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Koulourakias
Easter is coming and that means Lamb, Kouloura (Easter bread) and Koulourakia (Greek Cookies)
Even though today is Palm Sunday and not technically Easter, it is Jordan's birthday so mom is making Lamb for dinner and Koulourakia for desert. This year Greek Easter happens to fall on the same day as Easter for everyone else. Now we don't celebrate Greek Easter as much as I would like, or as much as we did when I was little, but that's because we aren't Orthodox. Mom went to Greek School when she was little and church here and there, but her mother was an Irish Catholic so that was where they went most. Now, we're protestant and our Easter has a different focus than just tradition. But I still love the traditions, the food, fun and family time (especially the food). But thinking about how important these things are to me makes me realize how much more important the real meaning of Easter is. The thing that gets lost in the tradition, and even in the Modern Era in general. The celebration of the Resurrection of Jesus Christ. Christos Anesti! (Christ is Risen) Alithos Anesti! (He is risen indeed) is the typical Greek Orthodox greeting Easter Sunday, and also the only time you will hear my grandfather say those words. This is hard for me as I love him so much but our views are so different. and so I cling to traditions because I remember a simpler time with him, when I was too young to talk about religion. Not that I would ever reject my faith or that I don't believe and want to share it, but sometimes with the people you love it's so difficult. But I miss him, and I miss my nana. she's gone now, but he's still around, just hours away which makes it hard to stay in touch and hard to talk to about the big things when you don't want to have a fight, so I like to remember when I was young enough to know what I believed in and take joy in Easter for the right reasons without having to deal with grown-up issues of "religion." That's part of why I'm so happy to have all this food today. Jordan and I just got home and it's his birthday so it's just our family celebrating the truth and tradition of this holiday.
Even though today is Palm Sunday and not technically Easter, it is Jordan's birthday so mom is making Lamb for dinner and Koulourakia for desert. This year Greek Easter happens to fall on the same day as Easter for everyone else. Now we don't celebrate Greek Easter as much as I would like, or as much as we did when I was little, but that's because we aren't Orthodox. Mom went to Greek School when she was little and church here and there, but her mother was an Irish Catholic so that was where they went most. Now, we're protestant and our Easter has a different focus than just tradition. But I still love the traditions, the food, fun and family time (especially the food). But thinking about how important these things are to me makes me realize how much more important the real meaning of Easter is. The thing that gets lost in the tradition, and even in the Modern Era in general. The celebration of the Resurrection of Jesus Christ. Christos Anesti! (Christ is Risen) Alithos Anesti! (He is risen indeed) is the typical Greek Orthodox greeting Easter Sunday, and also the only time you will hear my grandfather say those words. This is hard for me as I love him so much but our views are so different. and so I cling to traditions because I remember a simpler time with him, when I was too young to talk about religion. Not that I would ever reject my faith or that I don't believe and want to share it, but sometimes with the people you love it's so difficult. But I miss him, and I miss my nana. she's gone now, but he's still around, just hours away which makes it hard to stay in touch and hard to talk to about the big things when you don't want to have a fight, so I like to remember when I was young enough to know what I believed in and take joy in Easter for the right reasons without having to deal with grown-up issues of "religion." That's part of why I'm so happy to have all this food today. Jordan and I just got home and it's his birthday so it's just our family celebrating the truth and tradition of this holiday.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)