Has it been that long?

I'm certain that all loyal reader(s) of Secrets have come to hate me for my horrible lack of posts. That will get better soon, I hope. Meanwhile, go to Carefuleugene.blogspot.com (or follow the link to Careful with that blog, Eugene on your left), comment on the latest post and pester him to write something new already!

Honestly, I hate blogs and blog posts that only update the readers on what they've been up to: they're pointless and irritating. That's all I seem to be able to write though. I'm harder on CWTB,E and sometimes BSD than I am on myself because while sometimes they write about nothing, its that fun and fascinating Seinfeldian type of nothing.

So go light a fire under Paul and Read BSD's latest post. Secrets will be back when I finish finals and figure out how to enjoy writing, or When Kat has time to post!

Shameless Filler Post

Wow, so I have been extremely neglectful of Secrets lately.I am very, very sorry. My only real excuse is the turmoil that is moving three times in one semester, and living with three different families in four months. This isn't a real post at all, actually. This is just me saying that I'm probably not going to be able to post again until I finally come home, in early December. I'm sorry.

Yes, We Did!

This is probably not going to be the most coherent or eloquent bit of writing that I've ever posted, and I'm sorry about that. If this post goes all over the place, it's because I'm bouncing off the walls in delirious happiness.I'm far too excited and tired to be capable of writing anything that people will actually want to read. Instead, I'm posting for entirely selfish reasons. I'm writing this so that years from now I can remember how I felt tonight. For the first time since the year 2000, I feel like I can actually believe in democracy again. It's such a wonderful feeling, and it scarcely feels real to me. I keep having to tell myself that Barack Obama is the President Elect of the United States. "Yes, we can" became "Yes, we did." This is what winning feels like; I like winning. I've been told that people are cheering in the streets, although not apparently in Arizona. I've been holding back a scream for the past two hours, so as not to alienate my new host family. But I would just like to say once again, that I am absolutely ecstatic and so proud of my country. Thank you America, for restoring hope to a jaded, cynical college student. Thank you, God bless you all, and good night.

This is Halloween

So, I realize that here at Secrets we don't have any Halloween-related posts yet. Now, I had been planning to do a Dia de los Muertos post, which, for the record, is not at all similar to Halloween in any way, except in my head. I might still do that, but considering I don't know whether or not I'll be in Mexico then, there's probably no point. Instead, as a small token Halloween offering, I give you this bit of a classic:

Faith, Hope, and Charity?

I am probably one of the most naïve 20 year olds on the planet, which is extremely odd considering my personal history. I really should be far more jaded and cynical than I actually am. But, being the naïve idiot that I am, I decided a long time ago to take my naiveté in stride and to be happy about the fact that I am so optimistic, and gullible, and positive. I’m generally very slow to see problems that most people would see almost right away. So, generally, when I see something right away and think that it’s very, very wrong, it really is. Something has to be pretty screwed up for me to notice right away.

I recently started working at a shelter in Nogales, Arizona. I need to acknowledge first that the shelter does very good work, and that it’s the only place on the American side in Nogales that gives people food and a place to stay. It’s very important, and I don’t want to deride that. However, I have several problems with it already. I feel like I have to question why the shelter exists. And I don’t think it’s because there’s a need in Nogales, although there certainly is a need here. It seems to me like the directors of the shelter started it because there religion told them to. I went to Catholic school, but this shelter is the most “Christian” environment I have ever been in. Before I began working here, I had never been asked for my “salvation story” before. (I still don’t know if I even have one of those, or if I do what it is.) I suppose part of my problem with this place is my own personal history with religion and with overly religious people. My own crises of faith have left “indelible” marks. Religion, or rather, my lack of it, killed what was once a very close friendship and I still sort of regret my own part in that.

Despite my previous troubled interactions with religion, however, I’m still extremely ambivalent about it. I realized a while ago that religion (or at least Catholicism) was never going to play the part in my life that I wanted it to and that it did in my friends’ lives. For several years, I felt as if I were religiously incompetent—that the reason religion didn’t mean anything to me was because of some inherent flaw I had, and that’s why I “couldn’t” pray, why I lacked the faith and personal relationship with God that everyone around me seemed to have. It’s hard to tell now how much of it was a crisis of faith and how much of it was something entirely different, but that was one of the hardest times in my life. And religion and that time are intrinsically linked in my head, which is probably slightly unfair. However, and I’m not entirely sure where this comes from, exactly, I still see religion in a fairly positive light. If I’m completely honest, part of me is still extremely jealous of “people of faith” because part of me still wants what I was never truly able to have. Despite all of the problems it’s caused me, and, more importantly, the world in general, I still see religion as inspiring acts of great good.

But a discussion I had with a friend a while ago made me think about whether motives matter. Is it a problem that people do good work because they think Jesus told them to, instead of out of compassion for their fellow human being? Does that even matter? Is the only important aspect the work that is done? After all, if it weren’t for Christian beliefs, all of the people that I helped feed today wouldn’t have had lunch, and they wouldn’t have been given food to take home, or beds to sleep in. The small utilitarian part of me thinks that the work is so important that it doesn’t matter why it was done. But the rest of me, while I still acknowledge the importance of the work, sees a problem with giving people a side of Jesus with their soup. These next two months should be very interesting…

One-and-a-half-lingual?

Sorry for the double post. I have limited Internet access, and as such, I decided that it would be easier to just post two entries that I'd already written at once. I have several more ideas for posts, that I hope I'll be able to post next week. However, since I don't have the most reliable access, that's hardly a guarantee.
This is something that I’d have never thought I would say: expressing even my most basic thoughts is extremely difficult. I’ve always identified myself as articulate, well-spoken, and, on occasion, perhaps even eloquent. I might be quieter than most, but that’s because I’ve always tried to choose my words well. That way, when I do speak, and when I do I usually speak for a long time, what I say has more weight. The words I use, and the thoughts that they’re conveying are stronger that way. While I might on occasion complain about my articulateness, I’ve always known that I am capable of explaining any of my thoughts or beliefs in English, and that my explanation will be understood. In fact, any problems that I might have in self-expression stem not from linguistic inability, but rather from the fact that I don’t understand what I’m trying to say. The language itself isn’t the problem.

Or so I thought. Until I came here I don’t think I understood exactly how difficult learning another language actually is. Granted, I knew that I wasn’t fluent in Spanish, but I think I thought that I was close enough that I would be able to get by, and that I would be able to express myself and make myself understood. I assumed that I wouldn’t need to be fluent, exactly, but fluent enough. And to be fair, this was a somewhat logical assumption. After all, I’ve been taking Spanish classes since my freshman year of high school. All of those years must have taught me something, right? Well, they did, but I don’t think that they taught me enough. I can usually understand what somebody says to me, and I can usually answer them back, but there are so many more things that I want to be able to say, so many ideas that I want to be able to explain. Whenever I’m in a situation where I need to discuss a complex idea, I find myself stricken mute because I don’t have the words for it. Or, when I do have the vocabulary I need, I begin to obsess about the different grammatical structure and I stumble over conjugations that I learned years ago, and so I still can’t express myself at all.

I suppose my choice to live on the border was particularly apt. In addition to living 5 minutes from the steel wall that separates México and the U.S., I’m also living in two languages. I still think in English, and thankfully, all but one of my classes are in English, but my family doesn’t speak any English at all. With my family, and with random people on the street, I speak Spanish. I watch Spanish TV, unless I’m feeling extremely homesick, in which case I watch American movies with Spanish subtitles. I cross the international border every Monday through Friday, but I cross the language barrier every five minutes. While I’m living a bilingual life in a bilingual world, I am not bilingual at all. At best, I’m one-and-a-half-lingual. (I don’t know what the prefix for one-and-a-half would be.) I can express basic ideas in Spanish, but my English is still light-years ahead of my Spanish. If I’m being completely honest with myself, it probably always will be. It’s extremely frustrating and exhausting to not be able to be as articulate as I normally am. Little misunderstandings are depressing, if only because I thought that I was beyond them. The most amusing part of this language struggle, at least to me, is that my host family seems to be pretty much oblivious to it. They’ll say things like “Ella se habla muchísimo Español.” Or, “Tu Español es muy bien. Entiendes casi todos.” I just don’t have the words to make them understand. Hasta luego, Kat.

Ugly American Tourists and Hostels Galore

First of all, I need to apologize for going so long without posting. My only real excuse is that I’ve been extremely busy. I spent the past few weeks preparing to leave Tucson, which of course meant that I only had time to write papers and do all of my reading. I barely had any time to spend with my absolutely wonderful Tucson host family. And after Tucson, I spent the past week in Mexico City, and I was in no position to post anything there. I did have access to the internet, but I had to pay for it. And more importantly, I was definitely still trying to process everything that I had seen and experienced.

Of course, to be entirely fair, I still haven’t processed everything that I saw while I was in Mexico City. To some extent, I’m not even sure what I should think about the trip. On the one hand, it was a program-based excursion, complete with fascinating talks about the student rebellions in Mexico in 1968(and the massacre on October 2) and 1999, internal migration in Mexico and the legal and economic ramifications of NAFTA. (Ok, so the economic discussion wasn’t as fascinating: I find numbers boring in my first language, but in my second, they’re impossible.) This part I loved, and, what’s more, I don’t feel bad about loving it. While we did do some touristy things, like going to the Torre Latino and the Frida Kahlo museum, we weren’t there solely to be tourists. That changed the dynamics of the trip, at least for me, because in a sense, it allowed me to feel a small sense of superiority, especially when I compared myself to the other people staying in my hostel. For the most part, they did not speak any Spanish, and were only in Mexico City to shop and go clubbing. (Granted, I did both of the last two things as well: the former quite a bit, the latter only once.) During the programmed part of the week, I felt different from those tourists, because I was there to learn more about complicated problems that some of them had probably never even heard of. I’ll admit it was a really nice feeling.

If you think I sound extremely arrogant, you’re right. However, that sense of superiority quickly disappeared once the programmed part of the week ended and my fall break began. I didn’t have a better reason to be in Mexico City anymore. I quickly began to feel like the epitome of the ugly American tourist, hated the world over. Now, I’d be lying if I said that I hadn’t enjoyed all of the time that I spent in Mexico City, because I really did have a lot of fun and I managed to learn a lot, even during my break. I loved going to Bellas Artes, the Palacio Nacional, and the Mueso de Antropología. I will even admit to loving the tour that my hostel gave that took us to the Basilica de la Virgen de Guadalupe and Teotihuacán. That was an incredible experience, and not just because we went to two absolutely awe-inspiring places. The group that went on the tour was a mix of different nationalities, and while English was a second language for quite a few people, Spanish was spoken by very few. That was ok, however, because our tour guide spoke English. The places we went to were beautiful and absolutely sublime. As a lapsed Catholic, I was especially affected by the Basilica. Seeing the tilma with the Virgin’s image on it, affected me in ways that I wouldn’t have expected. A few days after going to the Basilica, I found myself praying in my head, which is something I hadn’t done in years. I don’t really know what I should make of that development, other than that I was less lapsed than I’d thought. But Teotihuacán was something else entirely. Walking through the reconstructed ruins is something left me speechless for the entire day. I still am unable to describe it in a way that is even remotely comprehensible. I also am struggling to write about the place without romanticizing it. I am a horrible romantic, but I know that if I describe Teotihuacán the way I want to, as the ruins of an extinct civilization, then I am not describing it as it is today. If I write about the glory of the Teotihuacános, and the Aztecs who only later inhabited the city, then I’m ignoring all of the people who still make a living there. While Teotihuacán is frequently seen as a reconstructed, it is still alive. Granted, it is not as alive as it once was, and it isn’t the same, but it is still very much alive. The streets are no longer filled with Aztecs, but rather tourists, tour guides, and the thousands of vendors who sell at the feet of pyramids that used to be the site of human sacrifices.

I’m sorry; I’m not being very articulate. I suppose I still don’t know exactly what I should say about this past week. I still feel overwhelmed by the entire experience, and I’m having difficulty sticking with only one topic, when there are hundreds of things that I could be saying. However, I do have some good news for the very few readers of this blog: I have several ideas for more posts, so keep an eye out. Hasta luego, Kat.

Untitled

Once upon a time,
in a world that's never been,
I awoke to find myself
in the middle of a dream.

The stars, they glittered dully
on this midday summer's eve,
the flowers tickled grass blades
who cried-laughed happily.

And the clock chimed one
as the summer sun
fooled by the winter's day
glumly pranced and sadly danced
'till the gravestones ran away.

Then a tiny child of sixty-five
walk-galloped up to me.
Bareheaded, she wore a pretty pink hat
and stood grinning seriously.

"Don't you see?" She shouted at a whisper.
So I looked to hear the mute man's speech
and the call of the rainbow-black bird
And although the pink river flowed loudly upstream
Do you know, I smelled every word.

The elderly child poked my back
with a touch like silk and cut glass.
"You know," she said
"you've crossed the bridge
you must enter before you've passed."

I looked ahead-behind me:
a bridge of golden-silver wood
stood innocently-guilty crossed
as bridges always should.

I crossed the bridge and entered-left
the world that's never been
and yet never have I woken
from that strangely normal dream.

The Line Has Not Held

I’m not entirely sure how I want to begin this entry. I feel like there’s so many things that I need to address here, and I don’t know where to begin. This leaves me feeling slightly hesitant and anxious about the whole concept behind this post, and I know enough to know that that probably isn’t a good thing. I’m having trouble expressing myself in a way that isn’t completely self-centered, because what I have to say is beyond myself, and is more important than I am. It’s far more important than anyone person, really, and I’m at a point where I’m struggling to reconcile my personal emotions with what actually needs to be said.

I’ve come to realize that my own emotions won’t change anything. All of my anger at this situation, and all of my grief cannot fix this. If anything, that knowledge only seems to make me even more frustrated. I’m going to try as hard as possibly can to not be preachy about this, but I feel very strongly about this issue, so I can’t make any guarantees. I apologize ahead of time if what I say offends anyone, because I’m about to discuss a very controversial topic, and I understand that many people are going to disagree with what I’m about to say. I understand that, but I’m saying this anyway, because it needs to be said, and I feel that I need to say it.

Illegal immigration is a hugely controversial issue, with both sides having very strong arguments. I’m going to skirt around the “legal” question as much as I can for now, although I may feel up to addressing that issue later on in the year. The fact is, many people are coming into the United States via Mexico, regardless of whether one believes they should be able to legally or not. Ignoring the legality of this issue, there is a larger problem at stake: people are dying in their attempts to cross the desert. Why? Well, back in 1994, the Border Patrol decided that it would increase its efforts to crack down on illegal immigration. Knowing that the vast majority of migrants crossed in the urban areas on the border (because that’s where it’s easiest and safest to cross), the Border Patrol began to close up the border in those areas. This operation had different names in different cities: in San Diego, it was Operation Gatekeeper, here in Tucson it was Operation Safe Guard, and in El Paso, it was Operation Hold the Line. Operation Hold the Line is what all three are most commonly referred to. The Operation was a success, in that the number of apprehensions in urban areas has plummeted in the 14 years since. However, Operation Hold the Line has not reduced the number of people crossing into the United States. Instead, it has made a “funnel effect”; it has funneled people into crossing at the only available point now: the desert between Arizona and Sonora. Operation Hold the Line did not decrease the number of migrants, because it did not address the root causes of why migrants are crossing, and as a result, the line has not held. Increased militarization of the border is not the solution.

What the solution is depends on your point of view, I suppose. I certainly don’t have any real answers, other than dealing with the immediate humanitarian crisis here in the desert. According to Coalición de Derechos Humanos, since October 1, 2007, 148 bodies of migrants have been recovered in the desert. (Nobody knows how many bodies have not been recovered, but given the extreme conditions of the desert, it’s likely that the actual body count from this year is much, much higher.) This is why I’m so angry and depressed and guilty and frustrated. People are suffering and dying and there’s absolutely nothing that I can do about it, except to tell more people about this horrible situation. I suppose one of the reasons that I’m writing this is that I hope that maybe one of the two regular readers of this blog (well, besides me), will be able to help me in what I feel just might be the most important thing I’ve ever done. (Ok, that was extremely preachy, and I appologize for it.)

La Frontera

So it seems that moving half-way across the country can cause a person to become slightly neglectful of previous responsibilities. I'm really sorry. In my defense, I have been pretty busy these past few weeks. I've also been thinking about what exactly I want to write about, because I can think of several experiences that would all make excellent posts. However, seeing as how decision-making is not my greatest skill, I think what I'll do instead is take bits and pieces from all of that and put it into one post. If my thoughts seem disjointed, it's because they are.

I suppose one of the first things that I noticed about Tucson, was, obviously the climate. For a girl from Michigan, moving to the desert is quite difficult. It’s very hot here, and I find myself missing the humidity. Now, tanner than ever, and slightly sunburned, I feel that I’m starting to become adjusted to the intense (for me) heat. The desert is surreal and sublime. I can look out my window and see cacti. It’s very odd…I wouldn’t have thought that it could be so beautiful here. I always thought that a desert was lifeless, but that was before I saw the flowers and the fruit of the cacti. Before I got here, I hadn’t ever seen the sun set over the mountains, or for that matter, even seen mountains up close. Tucson is so different from everything I know and love, and at times I feel as if I were living on a different planet. A different, but very beautiful planet where everything is strange and weird and wonderful. Of course, I have more than just the physical environment to adjust to. There is the social environment as well. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that the large size of the University of Arizona’s campus didn’t terrify me when I first saw it. As a student of a tiny college, I’m not used to be surrounded by so many people. Standing alone in a crowd of thousands of people, staring at a map, desperately trying to figure out how to get to the library, I have never missed my home campus so much. I took for granted the tiny campus of Albion, where a five minute walk could take me from one end of campus to the opposite. So I’ve been adjusting. I’ve been puzzling over a bus map, trying to figure out how to get around.

But I haven’t only been in Tucson; I’ve been on the border, learning about the policies that have made it into what it is today. It’s very hard for me not to go into a very long, very angry political rant right now. I probably will go into one at some point, but I’d like to avoid it for the time being, at least until I feel like I know enough that I can actually be eloquent instead of just angry. For now, however, I will just say that seeing that long green wall for the first time was one of the hardest and most emotional experiences of my life. It was one of the many times that I’ve realized that my perception of reality, and actual reality were different. And just like all of those other times, I’ve learned from the discomfort and I’ve grown from it. I promise that I will write much, much more about the Border, and about immigration policy, and about the all of the people that I’ve already met who are suffering because of it. But before I can do that, I need some time to process what I’ve seen and experienced. But look for that sometime soon.

A Working Title

Kat in her infinite wisdom and infinite business left the blog in my charge for the last few weeks...and possibly longer still. I'm sorry to say I've made a pretty poor showing so far, but no more!

Coming soon: Stef's Conundrums

Intriguing, eh? Stop by sometime within this next week for a sample
You thought this post would have some substance, didn't you? Well HA! Fooled you!

Border Studies, 2008

Hi, everybody! This isn't really going to be an actual post. This is pretty much just me saying that I"m not going to be able to post for a while. I'm not entirely sure when I'll be able to post again, because I'm going to spend my semester on the U.S./Mexican border, and I'm very busy with getting ready for Tucson, Arizona. I'm going to try to write somewhat frequently, but I can't make that guarantee, because I don't know my schedule yet. At this point, all I know is that I leave on Saturday. I'm sorry.

A Summer Reading List

Sorry I haven’t posted in so long. Believe it or not, this has been in the works for awhile. I’ve spent a good part of the last few days organizing all of my books (about two ceiling-high bookshelves full, plus some) and deciding which combination of old favorites and new prospects were worthy of a place in my bedroom bookshelf. After all that, I feel qualified to make a couple of suggestions. If anyone interested comments, I promise I’ll post more. I know this is coming late in the season, but if you’re not ridiculously bogged down with finishing (or just starting) an assigned reading list, check some of these out!

1. I’m sorry, but our blog is named for it, so it’s the only place to begin – Catch 22 by Joseph Heller. It’s jumbled and wacky from the beginning and the harsh ridiculousness of the surrealism Heller plunges you into, not to mention the 50+ characters he introduces can make the book difficult to digest. But once your mind clicks into Heller's world- the bureaucratic nightmare he creates, the truth of the entire book becomes laughably obvious. It’s the best anti-war and anti government satire I’ve ever read.

2. A Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde is next. The picture in question is a clever, though admittedly obvious conceit for appearances vs. reality. Sir Henry really makes the book when he spouts off hedonistic philosophies that he has no intention of ever living by. Just about every character is madly in love with Dorian, which can get a little old, but still the book flows surprisingly well for Victorian literature.

Okay, time for a little non-fiction. I’m trying to keep it short, so just one more.

3. No God but God: The Origins, Evolutions, and Future of Islam by Reza Aslan – this book reads like fiction, which to me is one of its best qualities. As the title implies, it discusses the history of Islam, but it tells the story like a fairly tale which made the book impossible for me to put down. Aslan is surprisingly unbiased and the book is very approachable, even for a non-Muslim. I especially recommend it if you find anything about current middle-eastern policy and politics involving Islamic countries confusing.

Changelings

Those few people who are regular readers of this blog know of my (slight) obsession with mythology/folk-lore/fairy-tales, etc. It's not something I try to hide; it's just an aspect of my personality that I don't always showcase. But I'm digressing. One of the most common stories (and one of my personal favorites), is that of the changeling. The changeling, depending on where the story comes from, is either Troll or Fairy or Fae, and is left in place of a human child, usually while the mother is either asleep or has her back turned. Why the child has been stolen also depends on who is telling the story. According to some, they thought the human child was pretty. Others say that they wanted their children to be raised as human for a better life. Many however, believe that the Fae desired human children as teinds, or tithes, who were sacrificed every seven years. But generally, that doesn't matter, because the story focuses on the concerned parents of the child. Almost always, they realize that something is wrong with their child, and they seek the advice of a priest or an old woman. (Why are wise women always old?) The sage tells the parents that they should try to boil water in eggshells (or brew beer in an acorn) in front of the child. If the child is a changeling, they will laugh and question the odd behavior. If the child is not a changeling, they will continue to lie there like the boring (but oh so adorable) baby they are. Once the parents know that their baby is a changeling, they abandon it in a field, so that the Fae parents will want to switch it back. And that's where the story always ends. But that ending always struck me as rather hollow. I always wondered what happened to the changeling, and what happened to human child while it was in the land of Fae. And then I found "The Stolen Child." (Yes, this entire post was just an excuse for me to post this.)
"The Stolen Child" by W.B. Yeats

WHERE dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping
than you can understand.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping
than you can understand.
Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scare could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping
than you can understand.
Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping
than he can understand.

Yet another appologetic post

It's been awhile since my last post, and I appologize for that. (Far too many of my posts seem to begin with that phrase, and I appologize for that as well.) The reason I haven't written in awhile is because I haven't had anything to write about. All I've done lately is work, it seems. (Well, that and see Batman: The Dark Knight. I thought about writing a post on the movie, however, the only thing I have to say about it holyfuckingshitohmygodthatwassofuckingawesome!, and that didn't seem like a very good post.) However, Stef's away for awhile, so I'm responsible for the maintanence of Secrets, and I'd feel bad if I let her down.
I promise to post something with a bit more substance soon, but for now, here's another random youtube video.

A Nioclesian Nightmare

Apparently Kat and I were on quite a sci-fi/ fantasy kick when we were younger. What we have here are three short excerpts from what we thought would become an epic novel. We had originally planned this as the story of a group of friends who lived in a world that was very loosely based on The Lord of the Rings. There were four “races”: the Nicolese, an elf-like race who were artistic and had very pretty hair, the Buffante, a vampire-esque race who were endowed with psychic powers in all of their gothic glory, the Chippini, a race of pixie people who were the pranksters of the world (think thin Hobbits on crack), and the Rutos, the dwarves of the realm who were grossly undeveloped.

Here is an actual chart of the four races that Kat and I made. (Yes, we made a chart.)

Elf-like Race Nioclese

Beautiful

Artistic

Long Lives

Aristocratic

Tigger/Pixie Race, Chipini

Fun loving

Bouncy

Jump very high and long

Pranksters

Giggly

Move lightning fast

Glow in the dark

Eyes of weird colors

Vampire-like Race Bufante

Smart

Morbid

Each has their own “dark gift”

Same level as elves

See in the dark really well

Suck energy/feelings

Dwarf Rutos

Strong

Loyal

Sorta Dumb

Sorta Ugly

Love Food

With that explanation out of the way, on to the mocking (Kat’s comments are in italics, mine are in bold).

“You’ll never catch me, Edric!” Andre called out from a tree.
“Of course I will, I just need to follow your voice” Edric told his friend. That sounds oddly like echolocation…were the Nioclese part bat?
“Curses, foiled again!” Andre laughed, quoting a human comic book he had glimpsed
once. Curses, foiled again? What the hell was wrong with me? . I don’t think comic books are even that lame. I don’t know…there’s nothing quite like stealing ancient clichés from cartoon villains to make sure a story starts out right.
“Maybe next time you’ll learn to keep your mouth shut.”
“You know perfectly well I can’t keep my mouth shut.” Andre joked
“And that’s why you always lose.” Edric countered, gently pushing his friend with a
smile.
“Heeeeey, shut up!”
“I believe it’s you who need to shut up.” Actually, you should both shut up. The dialogue here is awful. Who talks like this? The boys playfully tussled on a broad tree branch before tumbling out of the tree and landing with a soft thump on a large clump of moss covering part of the forest floor.
“Will you guys ever stop?” Calista mocked, crawling out from her hiding place beneath a decaying old tree stump. “You do realize this means I win.”
“Oh, we’ll see about that” Edric laughed as he leapt at her.
“Children, it’s time to go!” Andre’s mother called. The breathless trio raced up to the car where the matriarch of the house of Mosne waited. “Honestly, this forest is one of the cleanest places I know yet you always seem to get dirty.” Yup, there’s no dirt in these forests apparently. No, there’s dirt; it’s just a very clean dirt. She scolded, wiping a smudge off of Edric’s face, most likely made by Calista’s foot, but in a tussle, you never know. You never do.
Calista, Andre and Edric continued to pick at each other for the full car ride, until they
reached the Nioclesian meeting house, a multi-purpose hall built for the use of their
neighborhood in Coran Arbor. Is that close to Ann Arbor? The Nioclese met at least one a month, but individual families met much more often to chat and enjoy themselves while watching their children play.
Today was the day for a formal meeting, however, and Mrs. Mosne met several other kithen groups, among them Among them…what? What was among them? I’m dying to know how we planned to finish this sentence. I mean seriously, who just starts a sentence and then
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The three grabbed their bags and pulled them out of the car, staring up at the tall, brick
mansion manor that was to be their home for the next 10 months. “Just look at this campus, you guys!” Edric exclaimed, gently caressing a purple flower petal with his finger tip. They looked away from the building and saw the most beautiful mélange of plant life any of them could have ever imagined Ok, we probably used Microsoft Word’s thesaurus for that one. Were we thinking menagerie, but for plants? Anyway, this word is incredibly awkward. Gigantic tropical flowers grew next to evergreen trees, bleeding hearts grew happily intertwined with vines of ivy and ripening apples gestured to the plum trees when the wind blew. How the hell could that happen? Where exactly was this place, and what kind of climate was it? Or was it “magical climate control”? “Magical climate control”: the answer to global climate change! The three friends stood silently, awestruck by the breathtaking surroundings, when Andre, with the keenest ears heard a dulcet voice call to them, “I see you have found the garden.”
He whipped around and his curious blue eyes met a soft gray pair. “You three must be
new students.” Edric and Calista now heard and turned to see who was there. A tall Nioclese with light auburn hair and a whimsical stance smiled at them. “My name is Keni Junip, Mr. Junip will do. No it won’t. Did we seriously make a pun on juniper? And what kind of name is Keni? I believe I will have the pleasure of being your Nature Apperception teacher. He doesn’t know? Either he teaches the class or he doesn’t, especially if he knows they are students. Shouldn’t he know what he teaches? Apperception? Maybe we meant Perception? Or Appreciation? Beginning tomorrow I will teach you of each of these plants and many more beyond, both their *good qualities* and their ills, that you may gain a better appreciation for the beauty of the power and balance of the natural world,” he told them, pointing down a path which led in deeper, onto the grounds. “But I see you already have great respect for the earth and it’s wonders. I must leave you now, I look forward to our meeting again tomorrow. Feel free to further explore this extraordinary portion of our campus, but do not linger for too long, there is much else to see,” and with that he left them by another path. “He left them by another path” oh, how poetic. Isn’t it, just? Couldn’t we have said, “he walked away”? God, no. Right, of course not… that’s far too easy, and plebian.
****************************************
Calista gave Andre her “look” and walked into her room, carrying her duffel bag. Why? Was she mad at him? We have no clue. Hey, now, she might not have been mad at him…we don’t know what “her ‘look’”is. For all we know, she might be trying to seduce him. She saw a girl, with long black hair and pale skin, and wearing all black sitting on her bed. “Hello.” the girl said.
“I’m Lunette. What’s your name?”
“Calista.”
“I’m a Bufante (Buffer{i}?)What the fuck does that mean? What are you?” Lunette asked. What are you? How rude is that?! Kind of an odd question when meeting someone…
“I’m a Nioclese.”
“Are you sure?” No, she isn’t…she was only raised as one. But you’re a complete stranger, so you must know.
“Uh.. yeah. Why do ask?”
“What about your father, I don’t think he’s a Nioclese.” Blunt much?
“Well, I don’t actually know him.” Why not just go on Maury? He’ll help you find your father…
“I thought so!”
“What are you, some kind of mind reader?” This cliché makes baby puppies cry. As opposed to those adult puppies? Very, very young puppies…their eyes aren’t open, but they’re crying.
“Not a mind reader, no. That is impossible, as, people can think a hundred things at the
same time. I can read the subconscious though.” Yes, that makes perfect sense! The “mind” is too difficult to read, but the subconscious, where people have thoughts that even they don’t know; well that’s an open book. Freud must be so jealous of this girl’s reading abilities.
“Oh, um... okay.” I like how many “ums” she’s had. Are you saying you wouldn’t have any if your new roommate claimed to know your father?
“The fact is, that your father is a Bufante. And not just any Bufante.”
“What?”
“Your father is Bon Arment Jovien. He is the Bon, the king of the Ancient Ones. And
technically you are his eldest child and heir.” It gets blunter, and far less plausible…I’m so proud. Fun fact: we got the name for the “king of the Ancient Ones” from John Bon Jovi…surprised?
“Right. Are you feeling ok?”
“I’m feeling just fine, but if you don’t wish to accept the truth now, wait until you meet
other Bufante. Is the plural of Bufante, Bufante? One Bufante, one hundred Bufante. They’re like moose. No they aren’t…the plural of moose is meese. Like mouse and mice, duh. They’ll see it too, even if they haven’t discovered their gift. This isn’t from
reading subconscious. We can all sense each other and our leader.” Just don’t drink the Kool-Aid...
“Whatever.” Calista walked out, to see the rest of the campus. This concludes part one of “the mocking things we wrote” on Snowden’s Secrets. Don’t worry; we’ll come up with a better name for part two…eventually.
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Kitten and yarn

This is a video of a kitten and a ball of yarn...if I wanted to, I could try to make this into some clever metaphore about life or something. But really, it's just a very cute kitten.

The Daydreamer in the Hole: A semi-autobiographical psuedo-fairytale

This is what happens when I get bored at work. I realize I talk a lot about work... I promise my next post will have nothing to do with fast-food.

Once upon a time, there lived a girl. She wasn't a particularly beautiful or rich girl, but she was a very nice girl. This girl was so nice, in fact, that with only a smile and a sincere "have a nice day," she could dramatically improve the life of a perfect stranger. Now as this girl was not from a rich family, she had to work. And work she did. The girl worked at a restaurant, that, while popular and cheap, sold mostly disgusting meat sandwiches (with poor quality, burnt beef) and potatoes chopped up into wedges. Despite the fact that the quality of the food was so poor, the restaurant was extremely popular. One of the restaurant's innovations was that customers did not even have to go inside to get their food: they would order and pay at one window and then receive their food at the next. This was called the "ride-through" and although one unfortunate worker had to clean up after the horses, it was an incredibly lucrative invention. The girl worked at the second window. Everyday, the girl would smile, hand the customer their order, and say "have a wonderful day." The customer would ignore her, the horse would whinny, and they'd ride off to someplace more exciting. This process would repeat for eight hours, until the girl's shift was over. The girl of course, had no idea where the customers went after they left her window; to her they seemed like the same twenty or so people, going by her window on a continuing loop. She liked to imagine that they went somewhere exciting. She was a very nice girl, but she suffered from an ailment that derived from having read far too many fairy tales in her childhood: the girl was a compulsive daydreamer. Many times at work she would become bored with the monotony and dream that she were somewhere, anywhere else. And even though customers loved her bright smile and kind words, her wandering mind meant that she was not very good at her job.

The girl knew this. And that is why she had a hard time understanding why she was continually put at the second window, or as the workers called it "the hole." Why would she be put in a position where she was bound to screw up? She didn't understand that at all. (Of course, to be fair, she had a hard time understanding a lot of things, since, like almost all extremely nice people, the girl was an idiot. A very nice idiot, to be sure, but an idiot nonetheless.) So the girl continued to do her job, and she continued to screw it up by not paying attention. As time went on, however, the girl began to see things that she hadn't before: her daydreams were starting to meld with real life. Soon, middle-aged men with missing teeth and bad comb overs and horrible breath weren't flirting with her, but trolls were. Her manager that insisted she work in the hole was more than her boss, she was an evil witch with all the charm of a poisonous snake. Customers weren't people to be helped, they were only gluttonous mouths that led into always-empty stomachs. The girl was entertained by this merging of her two worlds. And as she danced with insanity, she realized that her dreams had saved her. She hated her job, and her dreams prevented her from showing that. And they taught her that her job was temporary.Someday she would leave this place. She was not a damsel in distress trapped in some tower. She was a girl at a window, with a smile and a soul. That would have to be enough for now.

Potato Boulders

Something we seem to do a lot here at Secrets is what we've deemed "soul-sharing." With that in mind, I have several "confessions" to make. Confession number one: I am a geek. I'm sure any one that reads this blog regularly will be shocked by this confession. But Kat, you're saying, you always seem so incredibly awesome. How could you possibly be a geek? (Alright, I know you aren't really saying that, but I'd really, really like to imagine that you are.) And it's true, dear readers, I am a geek. I'm not the stereotypical geek, certainly, but I am a geek. I hate math, I've never been all that into sci-fi, I'm so bad at video games that I make Pacman cry, and as far as science is concerned, the only thing I can do with a test-tube is break it. However, I am a geek. Wikipedia says "The word geek is a slang term, noting individuals as "a peculiar or otherwise odd person, especially one who is perceived to be overly obsessed with one or more things including those of intellectuality, electronics, gaming, etc."[1] " Geeks are generally associated with intelligence and social awkwardness, and I certainly possess enough of those characteristics to qualify. (On second thought, perhaps I'm not a geek;I'm a nerd. I'm really not in the mood to split hairs right now.) All of this talk about geeks is really only supposed to be a lead-in to what I actually want to talk about. I know, I know, this is a ridiculously long introduction, especially since it isn't actually over yet. (Confession number two: I love meta-discourse, and I use it far too much.)

I love mythology; and I am geekily obsessed with it. (See! I told you I was going somewhere with this.) Recently, I've been reading The Power of Myth by Joseph Campbell, and it's gotten me thinking about the universality of myths and the human experience. I've always loved mythology because I could relate to it so well even as it opened my eyes to an exotic world that disappeared centuries ago. The first world that I entered was the Greco-Roman (although it was really more Greek than Roman) Myths. When I was younger I would see myself as the different heroes (or villains) of the myths. One day I was Prometheus, running away from the Gods to bring the gift of fire. The next I was Medea, plotting my revenge. Then Penelope, Circe, Calypso, Hermes, Athena, Artemis, the list goes on and on. I've often dreamt of becoming a modern Orpheus, even though I know that requires far more talent than I could ever possess. At work today, however I realized something: I am Sisyphus.

For those of you unfamiliar with the story, Sisyphus was a Greek king damned by the Gods to roll a boulder up a hill for all eternity. As soon as he reached the top, the boulder would roll down the hill, and he would have to start all over again. I was making fries during the lunch rush today when I saw the similarities between and myself. (Confession number three: I work in a fast-food restaurant that shall be nameless on this blog.) Now, I hate fries, as fries are the most monotonous job imaginable. For you lucky people who don't understand what I'm talking about, I'll show you how it's done: Take basket. Fill basket with fries. Drop basket with fries into fry vat and hit timer button. When duty button beeps, take fries out, shake basket, and put fries back in vat. When timer button beeps, take fries out, hang fries to get rid of oil, and pour fries into fry holder. Pour salt on the fries. Mix the fries with a fry scoop. Put fries in individual fry boxes (small, medium, and large.) Repeat ad nauseum. (As you can no doubt see, this is a job that could be done by a lobotmized robot.) Now, we are supposed to have a certain number of each size of fry at all times. However, because I hate fries and I wasn't paying attention today, I could not reach that number. As soon as I made fries, they had disappeared into one mouth or another. I could not roll my boulder of potatoes (well, potato product) up the hill of greed and gluttony. From that realization, I saw that the absurdity of much of modern life. We are all Sisyphus, doomed by our hubris to do the same thing over and over and over again. Unfortunately, this isn't just about potatoes. We make the same mistakes, live the same lives(once you factor in technology), and have the same ideas as our parents did. The human life- birth, childhood, puberty, adulthood, children, aging, and death- has not changed since the Cro-Magnon. We have added technology, but has that really changed anything? We are still rolling the boulder of mortality, trying to get it up to top of that hill. We still fight death, and while we can prolong life, we cannot end death altogether. There is a certain futility in the human condition; we struggle against our own frailty in vain hopes to change reality. (Wow, this has become an incredibly depressing and morbid post for something that started out so light. I'm sorry; I really wasn't intending this.) I'll leave you with this: in my case, the fries weren't disappearing, people were eating them. What seemed idiotic and futile and boring to me, was feeding people and making them happier. So even though I felt like Sisyphus, there was some purpose to my actions.

Stardate 15,760.2

So apparently there's a law against having sex with a penguin while purchasing a toothbrush from a gas station on a Sunday. On a more philosophical note, remember that even if its baloony sin, its still sin.

The Trouble With Supermen

Darkness reigns over the city. I laugh, enjoying the beautiful cruelty of my own creation. Suddenly, a man flies in, and he's dressed in the most garish outfit I have ever seen. Honestly, what sort of a man wears tights? He grabs me, flies away and then drops me down on a rooftop about two miles away. The indignity! "You'll be safe here, Miss," he says. Safe? I was in no danger from my creation. I turn around and slap him.

"Listen up and listen good. I don't know who you are, and I don't care. How dare you interrupt me?!"

"But you were in danger. And, as I am a Superhero, it is my job to save anyone in danger; besides, saving someone so cute is a great perk."

A hero, great. That's the last thing I need, to have some idiot bumbling around, trying to spoil my plans for destruction. The city would be mine! Wait; did he just hit on me? So much like a man. Now, there has got to be a way to use this to my advantage. "A superhero, hmm? I don't believe in them."

"What? How can you not believe in Superheroes? Of course they exist!"

"No, no, I don't believe they do. And therefore, you cannot be a superhero, sorry. You must be suffering from delusions of grandeur, you poor thing. Now, go back to the hospital and get out of that costume." He's sputtering, the poor idiot. My plan is working. Now for the final blow. "You don't exist. Get away from me." He takes one last look at the chaotic city and slowly, slowly flies away. Hah! Take that, asshole! Now then, where was I? Oh yes; now I remember. Darkness, my darkness shall reign in this city for as long as I have breath.

On the back of an abandoned manila folder

What was it that you told me
Once so long ago?
"Life slips through our fingertips
like newly melted snow."

I watched you try to shape my world
a blower at the glass
and though I watched your dreams sail by
you never saw them pass

Then suddenly your breath was gone
with quick but searing pain
I watched your life disintegrate
cotton candy in the rain

Batman vs. Ironman

Words cannot explain how incredibly awesome this is.



Is there room enough this summer for two billionaire playboy superheroes with gadgets, women, a sidekick, and a loyal butler? Hell yes.

Speed Racer and the Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, or, "Holy Crap, Was That a Ninja?"

First off, I've been horribly negligent as of late, and for that, I am sorry. I was insanely busy and stressed out over finals and the end of the semester, but that's hardly an excuse. I'd say that I'll never do it again, but that's not true...I almost certainly will. However, I will promise that I'll try to never do it again. I'm sorry. All I can say is mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.
In other, more fun news, I saw Speed Racer with some friends this past Saturday. I'm still not entirely sure how to describe the experience. It was simultaneously the worst and best movie that I've ever seen. Ever. The closest I can come to verbalizing it is when you're watching a movie that's so bad, it's good. But that's not it either, exactly, because underneath Speed Racer, there's a feeling of deliberateness that never actually comes to the surface. It isn't like some parodies where they break the fourth wall to remind you that it's a parody, because that never happens in the movie. It never breaks character or changes tone at all. Part of me still isn't sure that it was deliberate, but with lines like "you don't ride the track; it rides you," "Racer X, the harbinger of dooooom!!!!" and my personal favorite "holy crap, was that a ninja?" it's too ridiculous not to be.
Parody or not, the movie is also rife with drug references, and I'm convinced, that if it wasn't made by someone on LSD, it was certainly inspired by a past trip. The tracks are psychedelic in their design, there are several points where the screen is literally just a kaleidoscope of pretty colors, and at the very end the colors of the credits change very slowly. Not to mention, of course, that someone had to be high on something to come up with the idea for the movie in the first place. I can just imagine the pitch, "It's the story of Speed Racer, an old Japanese cartoon that's widely mocked in America, only we'll use real actors, add in a smidgen more plot, and have computer generated backgrounds for everything!" You can't possibly tell me that drugs played no part in this movie. My friends and I walked out of the theater wondering if we'd been drugged by some psychotropic gas that came down from the ceiling, because that was the only way we could explain what had just happened. It was very entertaining, but unfortunately, it still left me with a few questions, like: What kind of parents would name their kids Rex, Speed, and Sprittle? Who would name a monkey Chim-Chim? If Sparky is a member of the Racer family, why does he have an accent? And of course, why isn't racing actually like that?

Duh, Duh, duh-duh-duh! (Iron Man, ramblings and review)

Happy belated Mother's Day, hope everyone had some good quality time with family. I went to see Iron Man. Don't worry, I didn't ditch my mother, in fact it was her idea to go. So after visiting my Grandma my dad headed of to work and my mom, brother and I piled into the silver mini van and drove to a nearby theater, killing time at several mattress and guitar stores on the way. (If you know my family, that actually does make sense.)

I never realized that before this movie many people didn't know Iron Man was a superhero, they just knew the Black Sabbath song. But backwards and daft as I am, I always knew Iron Man but never figured out the song was about the superhero.

My brother used to have a huge pack of superheroes from my uncle, so Keith and I made up our own stories involving the Thing, Magneto, a war-torn Spider-man, the Hulk and of course iron man long before any of them were movie stars.


The whole film is very well-done: effects were great, the plot was coherent and at times even compelling, and the actors fit very well into their parts. Of course the movie is perfectly set up for a sequel, but that's completely expected from the Marvel movies by now.

Oh, and why did my mom want to see Iron Man on Mother's Day? Because a few weeks ago, when it first came out and she wanted to go, my dad refused. He insisted on seeing Made of Honor instead. Yup, that's the household I live in.

Also, I'm sorry for the near-month of inactivity, I'll be posting a lot more now, I promise. I still blame this stagnation on work and my very sexy boyfriend. Speaking of whom, make sure you check the blog BSD, they post weekly if not more. Go to blastshieldsdown.blogspot.com (or just click the link under "Dreamers of Fish Dreams" at the top right corner of this page.) You won't be disappointed, unless you're looking for tentacle rape porn - I don't think that section is up and running just yet.

Oops!

Just wanted to write a quick post to help make up for my inconsiderate behavior towards Secrets: I'm sorry that I've made Kat bear the weight of the blog alone recently. I'm going to blame the lack of time on work, finals, and my sexy boyfriend, even though I know its been mostly my fault. Even now though, I should be snuggling up with Sayyid Kutb and Jose de Espronceda, I'm neglecting them for you, dear readers.

Before I go, I want to introduce you to a new prophet: sure he might be just another schizophrenic street cat, but do you really want to take that chance?

I can't even come up with a title for this...

For an English major, I feel remarkably incoherent most of the time. I have these ideas, and I know how to express them in words, but the words always come out jumbled up and tangled, like a box filled with yarn that some cat got into. That previous (and incredibly cliche) image is exactly what I'm talking about. As soon as my fingers hit the keys and I see my words on this glowing screen, I realize that that isn't what I want to say at all. What I think I mean and what I actually mean I have become two separate entities, and I'm not sure how to make them into one. Sometimes I'm not sure what language I'm expressing myself in, if any, and if I'm expressing myself at all. I'm effectively mute, and I don't know what that means, exactly.
Words used to be one of the easiest things in the whole damn world. As a child, I would take them apart, and string them back together again. Instead of sand or Lego castles, I built my castles out of words. They were a toy, and yet they were more than a toy. They were my security blanket, my favorite stuffed animal, my kiss goodnight, and my lullaby. For as long as I can remember, words were my reality.
Lately, however, I haven't been able to use words as well as I used to. It seems like they haven't had the same effect. They just don't fit anymore. I don't know what's changed, but I can't write and recognize my words as my own anymore. They feel cold and unfamiliar, like someone's changed them right in front of me. Maybe I don't understand my own ideas. Maybe I have less ability than I thought. I don't know, anymore. And I even if I did, I wouldn't know how to write it so that you'd understand.

Study Abroad!

So I got this in my inbox about half an hour ago:
"Congratulations Kat! You've been selected to participate in the Fall 2008 Border Studies Program! More information will be coming your way very soon. You will be receiving a formal acceptance letter in the mail very soon, as well as a packet of various forms to be filled out and returned to our office at EC and on the border! So stay tuned for
that!
I just wanted to say "Congratulations" and "Welcome to the Border
Studies Program!"
Talk to you soon!
Felicidades,
Cheryl"
I suppose jumping up and down and screaming might be a bit immature. So I'll settle for doing it in text: WOOOOOOO! Considering how awful my phone interview went, I'm shocked that I got in. Now all I have to do is worry about whether or not I have the money to go. All those hours "flipping" burgers and being yelled at (and hit on) by creepy old men are finally worth something! It still isn't entirely definite, but I'm going to celebrate anyway. Voy a viajar a Mexico! (y Texas.)
Mexico (and Texas) here I come!

Its Not Easy Being Foz

I thought I should breach the serious issue of friends taking friends for granted.

Of course you've heard of the muppets! Everyone has. As you grew, you watched the bizarre romancing of Miss Piggy, enjoyed the destructive comedy of Animal and puzzled for days on what type of creature Gonzo might be. But who sticks out most in your mind? That's easy. KERMIT! That sensitive, sensible, good-hearted frog, strumming his guitar and singing about rainbows. Everyone loves Kermit the most. He's a great guy: everyone's favorite character.

But what about the guy behind the frog? Who remembers him? After a few minutes of scratching your head you might think "Oh yeah, the brown furry bear, the funny one." The funny one. That's all they remember. I was a good guy too! I was a great friend to Kermit when he had problems. But of course, none of any "perfect" Kermit's problems ever made it to the set. Kermit's the chivalrous one. The hero. The happy-ending muppet. And there he is "Oh, woe is me! Its Not Easy Being Green." Well, I'll tell you, Kermit, its not easy being Fozzy either. Not many can get way with wearing a pink polka-dotted bow tie and a press hat, cracking jokes all the way: bringing some life to your tedious melodrama. Now I'm not complaining or anything. Kermit can have his glory. I just want a little recognition. Kermit's not the only one up there on the screen, ya know. Just a little recognition. Is that so much to ask?

The Internet is for Porn

Its crude but true!
Lots of thanks to Avenue Q and YouTube.



I'll try to make my next post something of substance, I promise!

I realize that this is a bit early, since St. Patrick's Day isn't until Monday. But I don't really care, because this video is too cool to wait a few more days. (Plus, there's the whole thing about it falling on Holy Week, and we can't party during Holy Week or something. Whatever)

Tiny Tunes!

Time for some random fun! Here's Tiny Tunes, our younger generation's response to the desperate need for more Looney Tunes classics. Maybe its not the best work Stephen Spielberg has been involved with, but its still pretty damn awesome!

Forgiveness?

It's been almost two weeks since I last posted, but in my defence, my life has been pretty hectic. Between papers and essays and study abroad applications and required reading and non required reading and tutoring and bronchitis, I really haven't had the time. (And for the record, the bronchitis is damn annoying. I went through two packs of cough drops in as many days...so, yes, bronchitis is my excuse. I'm sorry my lungs hate me.)
This probably won't come off as well-polished or even well-thought out. But Stef mentioned some time ago that I'm better at sharing my soul-which is ridiculous, since I'm fairly certain I don't-so here goes. When I was little, my mom always told me that if I did something to hurt someone else, I had to apologize. And if someone hurt me and apologized, then I had to forgive them. When I was younger, this really wasn't that difficult, not because I didn't have anything to forgive people for, but because I actually believed that forgiving someone changed things. When I got a little older I realized that forgiveness was a struggle, and that forgiving meant a restoration of trust, a restoration of love. I was able to forgive people, even myself, eventually. And I took great pride in that, because it meant that I was a good person. I believed that I was able to forgive just about everything.

I was wrong. Really, really, wrong. Last semester things between me and one person got very ugly. Downright hideous, actually. I'm talking freak-show carny ugly, here. I don't want to get into specifics, because I don't want to actually come out and name her, but we essentially had an abusive PLATONIC (and I cannot possibly stress that word enough) relationship. I was terrified of her. Ok, I still sort of am. She was incredibly emotionally abusive towards me, and for the longest time I told myself that she needed me to be her scapegoat, and because I could stand it, I should. But I couldn't stand it for long. There's only so many times you can exploit a person's guilt complex before they fight back. (I, however, have a ridiculously large guilt complex, and because I'm a coward I didn't fight back; I ran away. It was just as effective.) I've been made fun of before because of my guilt, but she was gleefully and slowly driving me insane. (Not that I wasn't already incredibly close to the edge, but she wanted to push me completely off.) I was in hell all of last semester, and it was mostly because of her. (To be fair, I had some other issues as well, but they wouldn't have been nearly as destructive without her influence.) Some of the things she's said, and some of the things she's done I will never be able to forget.
It seems that I won't be able to forgive them, either. I've tried, but I cannot forgive her. And that scares the hell out of me. This is the first time I've ever not forgiven someone. (To be fair, she has never actually apologized.) I feel like such a terrible person for being unable to move past this, but I cannot forgive her. I don't even want to be in the same room with her. I can't stand to be around her, or listen to her, or even look at her. I want nothing to do with her. I know that the right thing to do is to forgive her, and to forget this past semester, but I can't. I am still so hurt, and still so angry, and I don't know if I'll ever get past that. And if that makes me a bad person, then I'm just a bad person. I'm sorry for this long and emo-esque rant, and I promise that my next post will be about something happy, like kittens or puppies or rainbows or unicorns, or something equally saccharine.

The Last Post

There was a contest at my University with a $100 dollar prize, a creative writing contest.
I forget the name of it now but the basic idea was something like this. "In some countries, technological interactions, like aim and blogs, are controlled and censored by the government (we all knew this) If you lived in one of those countries, and this was the last blog post you could write before the law was enacted, what would you say?" The deadline already passed for submissions, but the poster got me thinking. I suppose though I'd probably be in trouble for actually speaking my mind, even if the blog law was not technically in force yet. Bit of a problem there still, but I get the idea. If you knew oppression was coming, hell, if you knew death was coming - it may as well be - what would you say? I thought about it and realized I had no clue.

I think the most fun part of blogging is that we all can feel like Shakespeare; we can bang out a few letters on our keyboards and pretend they mean something, imagine we too are great and that we will touch people's hearts and lives. We can write the American way and celebrate our equality: our mediocrity. If everything out there is special, then nothing really is. So, we get a lot of crap out there, honored with 13th place medals and tucked in the mental crevices of the five people who saw more than the title before hitting that "next blog" link in their perpetual Google search to dull the boredom.

As a cynic (but remember, I'm a cynic who took the time to bang this out on her own blog) I have to ask, is it really that big of a loss?

I already hate myself for that last line. Of course it matters! Free speech matters, no matter how idiotic. This country may be a caught in a cycle of mediocrity, but is that so bad? Only a few will ever be dedicated to excellence, most people will never even strive for glory, but is that a problem; is that a reason to mock them or trivialize the silencing of millions of voices? No, screw the cynics. The principles of equality and of free speech are anything but lukewarm. They may lead to glorification of the average and the remotely interesting, but it all deserves to be out there. The courage to give it to the world, to stand up proud on your dust speck and give a full-hearted yawp is reason enough.

The critics and cynics could slam you into the ground or torture you with anticipation and slowly beat you to death with their winding, nonsensical yet unwavering bureaucracies. Even fellow writers, colleagues and bloggers may tell you its all pointless: no one will like it or worse, no one will read it.

But you click away at the keyboard anyway, so good luck and congrats to all the other bloggers out there. I still have no idea what I'd say if this were my last blog post. I'd like to think I'd have a fierce, emboldening battle cry "te arma! te arma!" But that's another story.

You Remember. . .

I love my life now, I really do. But sometimes I can't
help but wish for childhood again, back when things
were simple and honest; when third grade math
problems were my biggest concern. I could sled down
Levagood hill every time the snow fell and run around
Great Grandma Babel's back yard, jumping like Catwoman
and screaming like a banshee. Back then, a candy bar was
the best thing in the whole world and
Mom could always fix my biggest mistakes.
I think these guys said it best.

It Never Comes Again

There are gains for all our losses,
There are balms for all our pain;
But when youth, the dream, departs,
It takes something from our hearts,
And it never comes again.

We are stronger, and are better,
Under manhood's firmer reign;
Still we feel that something sweet
Followed youth, with flying feet,
And will never come again.

Something beautiful is vanished,
And we sigh for it in vain:
We behold it everywhere,
On the earth and in the air
But it never comes again.

     - Richard Henry Stoddard


Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

- Robert Frost

Perhaps the soul's melody is a live cat on a George Foreman grill...

Kat is much better at sharing her soul than I am.
I used to write a lot more than I do, work longer on it, and let people read it. But my writing is fragmented, incoherent, and sometimes I prefer it that way. Don't get me wrong, I know how to shape a good essay or a good letter but my real writing is sporadic at best, and when I edit I have to analyze. It all feels fake to me, the extra words are so empty. Each one feels so rigid, so callous. Mostly I'm afraid. I'm scared that if I analyze my thoughts and feelings all the things I remember and love won't mean anything, and that would be the most empty feeling of all. I don't know if I could handle that. This shouldn't matter to me as much as it does, since only about three people read this blog, and the other two know me better than I know myself.

Its strange the things you remember. . .and stranger the memories that inspire you. I first watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer with Beth and Katie as we lapped up the last of ice cream sandwiches that dripped down our wrists and stuck cakey brown to our fingertips. I still eat ice cream sandwiches every once and awhile and I own two seasons of Buffy now, but I miss the thick sticky air and the effortless friendship of that afternoon. Nothing is the same twice.
I really miss the days when mountain dew was just crappy. Its actually not that bad but the aftertaste always stings the back of my throat so it goes down hard. I imagine liquor is the same way. But now the green label is a bittersweet comfort that makes me want to cry in the bottle as it reminds me of a smile I'll never see again.

The strangest thing is how love can terrify and inspire all in the same moment. Sometimes my feelings are so exuberant they make me doubt everything and want to escape my own mind. But without his silent coaxing and indescribable love I wouldn't even be able to type this out. That may not seem like much courage to some but all of it means the world to me.

- Stef (who wishes she could claim that "cat on a grill" quote, but its borrowed)

Hooray for Spanglish!!

Since I’ve been studying Spanish for 6 or so years now, I’ve begun thinking in this strange amalgamation known as Spanglish. It’s quite entertaining, usually, to switch gears as fast as I can in my head. I’ve tried to write poetry in Spanglish, however, and it’s far harder than I would have guessed. So, for your amusement, here are two god-awful poems in Spanglish. Please to enjoy:

Ya yo sé
how it happened;
how I lost myself
in my búsqueda for todos.
No tengo exito,
I returned with nothing.
Knowledge is greedy,
and una chica sola can’t buscarlo.
Especially not a chica quien cree en cuentos de hadas,
and true amor.
Quiero answers, explanaciones, reasons
for the pain
in the belleza,
la verdad meaning
hidden by nubles obscuros.
I want to verlo todos,
but blindness won’t desaparecer.
¿Dónde esta la luz?
I will search todo el mundo.
¿Dónde debo ir?
Where are mis repuestas,
my hopes y suenos?
I need to find them.
I lo buscaré.
Ya yo sé.

And numero 2:

Esto es muy difícil
To say…
no soy a heroine,
I am una chica,
nada más.
But I can say this,
y la necessario.
You seem to think it’s all ok;
si tú piensas at all.
To forgive is divine,
pero no soy Dios
not even una sancta.
Me duele then and still.
I cannot forgive tus palabras
twinged with shame and guilt.
No puedo olvidar my exile,
when you torced me to salí
mi cuarto, mi casa aquí.
I cannot forget
los noches cuando me lloré a mismo to sleep.
No puedo forget, although
I’ve tratado forgive.
Time has passed,
but I’m still enojada.
You are not mi compeñera.
Nunca again.
Never, nunca, never, por nada vez.

This is really just a filler post, since I'm not going to be posting for a really long time, since I have three essays due next week, I'm starting tutoring at the high school, I have to finish my study-abroad application, I have a ridiculous amount of homework for my classes, and I have something almost resembling a social life as well. So I have no idea when I'll have time to post. Lo siento.

Creativity or theft?

“Originality is the fine art of remembering what you hear but forgetting where you heard it.”- Dr. Laurence J. Peter

“Originality is undetected plagiarism.”- W. R. Inge

There is nothing original left. The world is too old; everything’s been done before. I have heard these lines and their varieties from family, teachers, and even random adults, all trying to warn me about being a writer. They claim that I can’t be a writer: there’s nothing left to write. As discouraging and unhelpful as they are, I still can’t find it in myself to blame them. After all, the world is 4.6 billion years old; and perhaps more relevantly, pretty much every movie and television show is either a remake of a much better movie or television show, a god-awful sequel to a somewhat decent movie, or a game/reality show that somehow manages to degrade humanity even lower. With such sleaziness and garbage passing as entertainment, creativity turns into a modern day Tinkerbell, as it hangs on because a precious few believe. (For the love of God, please clap.)

But what people fail to realize is the fact that creativity is as alive as ever, even though it appears to be in hiding. Creativity, in fact, abounds: if only because there is so much variety in stories today. There is really only one story: life. Take a breath. In that breath, the entire song of “Kumbaya” was proven true. All lives follow the same basic pattern: birth, joy, sorrow, maturity, love, friendship, family, and eventually death. (I’d really prefer not to quote Elton John, but it really is “The Circle of Life.”) There are over 6 billion people on this earth, and every one of them has the same basic experiences. Of course in some cases, certain elements are missing, but the framework is still there. The details change, but the story remains the same.

In order to be creative, one only has to focus on the details. Every person on earth is at a different part in their story, and because of that, their voices are unique. Because, after all, we are all snowflakes. (Hey, if I'm going to be cliche, I might as well go all out, right?) In all seriousness however, a different view point changes everything, even if it's the same story.

To those who still think I'm crazy, I offer one more piece of evidence. (Well, actually its my only piece, but...) Some of the best examples of literature, and art have been "stolen". Look at Shakespeare. (I'm not talking about whether or not he wrote the plays, it doesn't really matter.) He got many of his ideas for plots from earlier writers (see Romeo and Juliet) or history (see any of the historical plays and one of his best masterpieces Macbeth). Disney stole the vast majority of the plots for its movies from fairy tales. (To be fair they did sanitize them.) H.P Lovecraft took ideas from Poe who took ideas from earlier Gothic writers. Goethe took some elements of Faust from the Marlow play as well as the earlier fables that Marlow borrowed from. Borrowing from others was very common in the past, and yet, all of the examples I've given managed to make their own versions very different from the "original." That's really all creativity is: having something to say, even if it's been said, because some of the truest ideas are, and expressing it in a way that has never been done before. And that, I think, I can do.

Rest in Peace

I'm in shock. For those who haven't heard yet, actor Heath Ledger was found dead in his New York apartment at 3:26 pm today. As of now, I'm not sure exactly how he died. You can Google News Search if you desperately need more details.

I was never much for celebrity crushes, but I'll admit I was head over heels for Heath for about 3 years. Even afterwards, I still respected his talent and his dedication to challenging roles. I had enjoyed watching him grow as an an actor and was really looking forward to seeing him as a villain in the new Batman movie.

All I can do is offer my deepest and most sincere condolences to his friends and family, especially to his two-year-old daughter, Matilda, who will have to grow up without him.

The Bucket List

I'm a little hesitant to write this, because I know Kat recently posted on a movie in theaters right now...I don't want the blog to seem too redundant.

But I have to tell you - for the love of God, go and see The Bucket List!
I wasn't particularly in the mood to go to the movies tonight, and I was definitely skeptical about The Bucket List. I knew my Dad, the undying fan of Nicholson, would enjoy it, but I doubted it would be anything special. I was wrong.

Every scene is cathartic, but that sneaks up on you. Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman are flawless: they make the film at once lighthearted and deep. You'll think about beauty and majesty and value differently, for the evening at least. I've rarely seen a movie capture a pinprick of humanity so honestly and so completely.

What's Best for Michigan?

The views in the following post are those of the author only, and do not necessarily reflect those of "Snowden's Secrets" as a whole or its parent and affiliate blogs.
I'm sorry about this, but it's time for a politics post. I was really hoping that I could avoid this, but it's an election year, so... First of all, I need to point out my own biases: I am a young, very liberal college student. (Uber-conservatives, consider yourself warned.) I am also a resident of Michigan, a state that Romney expects to win. This means, of course, that I get to watch a lot of Romney ads. My particular favorite is the one where he explains that, as a business man, he knows what's best for Michigan. I'm sorry, but I really cannot let that idea go unaddressed. Govenor, are really suggesting that because you've made a lot of money you know what's best for Michigan? Really?
Sir, I might not be a millionare, and I may be just the stereotypical poor college kid, but I do know certain things that I'm willing to bet have never occurred to you. I know what it's like to have a full-tuition scholarship and still worry about whether or not I can afford room and board for next semester. I know what it's like to watch my father work two jobs just so he can make ends meet. I know what it's like to have to decide between medical care and putting gas in the car. I know what it's like to earn minimum wage. I know what it's like to be looked down upon and treated like absolute shit. I know seventeen year old mothers with two year old daughters. I know people who are supporting themselves on $7.15 an hour. I know firsthand how little my 83 year old grandmother gets from Social Security, which is one of the reasons she worked until she was 75. I know that because gas is so expensive, many families in Michigan go without heat in winter, or they use stoves and space heaters, which can result in deadly fires. These are just some of the things I know. I also know that I have nowhere near the whole story. I only know what life's like in the middle class.
Mr. Govenor, you may know how to make a lot of money, but that knowledge will not help you fix Michigan. Throwing money at our problems will not make them go away. You know what's best for us? Money is not all Michigan needs- far from it.

Picture Imperfect

This is something that Kat and I found earlier today. It's one of our old high-school satiric rants that I've copied pretty much verbatim.

Picture Imperfect:

Student IDs are Gone But Not Forgotten

From now on, students at DCHS will no longer need to have pictures taken of them. This landmark decision was started after a large-scale student protest broke out last week. The protest originated from students receiving their ID's, which many thought were unflattering. "Everybody knows the school pictures look terrible. That's why I get mine done professionally," said Bethany Cilantro, grade 11. Several students also thought that being forced to take pictures year after year is religiously offensive. These students believe that part of their soul is taken away with every picture. "It's very traumatic to watch a light flash in your eyes and know that an important part of your spirit has been stolen. And for what? Some picture that doesn't even look good," Cassandra Kateri Tekakwitha, grade 10, said. Whether the pictures are soul stealing or not, the fact remains that all students hate their pictures. There are several reasons for this. Firstly, picture day is known world-wide as Bad Hair Day. This day is actually celebrated as a holiday in Australia, New Zealand, and Canada. Of course, there is no actual celebration, because that would mean that individuals would have to leave their houses.

Also, it is a scientific fact that the night before picture day, every student will get a gigantic zit somewhere on their face. This is caused by the tremendous amount of stress that every student experiences before picture day. The stress causes oils and sweat to excrete from glands. The oil then leaks onto the face which closes the pores, and creates the bane of all adolescents, the zit. So, from now on, we no longer have to have pictures taken. But what about the yearbook, you may ask? The yearbook will give each student a 1"x1.5" space (the size their picture would have been). This space can be filled with whatever the student desires. Personally, I will be writing a 1,000 word essay on how the logging industry dramatically shortens the life of the tiger salamander, Ambystoma tigrinum. (Bring your magnifying glasses people!) The administration is freeing students from the tyranny of having to take bad pictures by eliminating them. And of course, because getting a better photographer would cost too much.

Since the September 11 terrorist attacks, airlines and many government corporations have tightened their security, and so proved there are much better means of identifying a person than their picture. So in replacement of ID pictures will be fingerprint impressions, which will fit to the grooves of each individual student's middle finger. The new security system at DCHS will learn to identifying all faculty and students, excluding, of course, the new freshmen, by their cornea scans, DNA structure, (All students will be required to give a minimum of one pint of blood at the beginning of each school year for analysis), vocal patterns and dental records. We are pleased to inform you that this automated security will only raise tuition by $2,000 per student this year. Cornea scans will be necessary to enter the building as well as each individual classroom. A DNA scan will be administered before entering the main office. The library's new computers will be accessed through voice recognition. Finally, to enter or exit any restroom, dental records must be activated by our highly advanced security system, taking as a little as thirty minutes. These security measures include all faculty members, with the exception of our principal. We applaud our administration for taking these drastic steps to respect the student body's opinion, ensure our safety and eliminate imperfection throughout our fine school.

Hello David

First things first: Happy New Year! I just want to quickly introduce and post this poem. Since Snowden spilled his secret to Yossarian in the back of the plane and reminded us that man is matter, I thought this should be shared as well. "Hello David" was written by a Vietnam war nurse and originally published in Shrapnel in the Heart (Random House 1987). I know this is a little grim for the holiday season, but war and death continue during Christmas and through the New Year, and this is when I have the time to post.

Hello, David - my name is Dusty.
I'm your night nurse.
I will stay with you.
I will check your vitals
every 15 minutes.
I will document
inevitability.
I will hang more blood
and give you something
for your pain.
I will stay with you
and I will touch your face.

Yes, of course,
I will write your mother
and tell her you were brave.
I will write your mother
and tell her how much you loved her.
I will write your mother
and tell her to give your bratty kid sister
a big kiss and hug.
What I will not tell her
is that you were wasted.

I will stay with you
and I will hold your hand.
I will stay with you
and watch your life
flow through my fingers
into my soul.
I will stay with you
until you stay with me.

Goodbye David - my name is Dusty.
I'm the last person
you will see.
I'm the last person
you will touch.
I'm the last person
who will love you.

So long David - my name is Dusty.
David - who will give me something
for my pain?