Every night at exactly 8 o’clock, Mrs. Devoir poured herself a cup of tea, looked at the kitchen clock, and softly told her daughter, “It’s that time, Vonnie.” Every night, at exactly 8 o’clock, 8-year-old Vondra Devoir asked her mother, “What time?” even though she always knew the reply. “It’s time to board the Sleepytime Express to Dreamland.” So every night, at exactly 8:01, Vonnie quickly walked to her room, put on her orange nightgown, brushed her long brown hair and big white teeth, kissed her mother goodnight, and climbed into her orange bed sheets in her orange bed. But every night was the same. The Sleepytime Express never arrived and Vondra Devoir never, ever, visited Dreamland. Sometimes she spent the whole night in bed awake waiting for a whistle or even the rumbling of an approaching train. Then morning would come and Vonnie would climb out of the orange bed sheets of her orange bed, feeling as if she was the only one in the world who missed the train to Dreamland. At school, she overheard the stories of other children who visited Dreamland. They would say, “And then, I was riding a huge dinosaur that crushed buildings when he walked,” or, “It was a whole world made out of candy!” Vondra Devoir did not talk or play with the other children in school. She sat in the back of the classroom, holding the orange crayon she carried everywhere, and drew pictures, read books, or just listened quietly. Vonnie had one friend, Hugo Salvare, and she would ask him about his dreams because he always had the most adventurous and wonderful things happen to him in Dreamland. Sometimes he was a brave knight who battled dragons and monsters, often in strange forests filled with weird sounds and obnoxious smells. Other times, he was a bird, flying all over the world over oceans and lands filled with odd creatures and marvelous cultures. Hugo always had a new story to tell and Vondra would come home from school wishing she too could dream. The neighborhood children would invite her to play games and share toys with them but Vonnie could do nothing but sit alone at the kitchen table, with her orange crayon, and read or draw until dinner. Every night, at exactly 6 o’clock, Mrs. Devoir would serve dinner and ask her daughter, “How was school today?” even though she always knew the reply. “It was fine.” Sometimes Mrs. Devoir would ask other questions such as, “Did they serve a tasty lunch?” or “Did you make any new friends?” Vondra always responded with a quiet, “No” and the two ate their dinner in silence.
Sometime in the middle of winter, the telephone rang at the Devoir home during dinner. Mrs. Devoir promptly answered.
“Hello?”
“Yes, this is Mrs. Devoir.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Saturday at 2 o’clock, you say?”
“I’m sure Vondra would be delighted.”
“Thank you, see you then.”
Before Mrs. Devoir could sit down again, Vondra asked very hastily, “Who was on the phone?” Mrs. Devoir replied, “That was Mr. Salvare, Hugo’s father. Hugo is having a birthday party on Saturday and would like you to come.” “ I am not going,” said Vondra. “But Vonnie, I’ve already said yes. I thought Hugo was your friend?” Vondra said nothing to her mother.
On Saturday, at exactly two o’clock in the afternoon, Vonnie and Mrs. Devoir rang the doorbell to the Salvare home. Vondra wore orange shoes, orange stockings, with an orange dress that had one pocket, which held her orange crayon, of course. She also carried an orange-wrapped present for Hugo. Mrs. Salvare answered the door, pushed Vondra into the party room, and led Mrs. Devoir into the kitchen with the adults. There were already many other children at the party who were running, squealing, and playing around in circles. Vondra stacked the orange present on top of the mountain of gifts for Hugo and then found a seat in the back of the room. Mrs. Salvare entered the doorway with a tray of freshly baked cookies. All of the children ran to take a cookie, except for Vondra Devoir. Mrs. Salvare saw this and quietly whispered something into Hugo’s ear. Hugo took two cookies and then walked across the room and sat right next to Vondra in the corner. “I’ll give you a cookie if you listen to the weirdest dream I’ve had yet.” Vondra took the cookie and said, “Tell me.” “Well, it was my birthday party, and it was exactly like it is now, except you were wearing an orange cape and orange hat with your orange dress. We were getting ready to play a game, but all of a sudden, a giant gift-eating ogre smashed through the door. He found us because he was hungry and smelled all of the presents. He had three big oozing eyes and razor sharp teeth. All of the other children screamed and ran away and we did not know what to do, but you took out your orange crayon, which had magical powers, and zapped the ogre over and over again until you defeated him and saved my party.” Vondra was shocked. “How could I have been in your dream if I have never boarded the Sleepytime Express or ever been to Dreamland?” Confused, Hugo looked sideways at Vondra, stood up, and shrugged, “I don’t know Vonnie, but that was the dream and you were in it. Did you ever think maybe you have had dreams before and you just do not remember it? Or maybe you spend so much time worrying about dreaming, that you never dream at all.” Vondra Devoir had never thought of that before, and if she had been to Dreamland, why has she forgotten?
That night, at exactly 8 o’clock, Mrs. Devoir poured herself a cup of tea and said, “It’s that time, Vonnie.” But for once, Vondra did not ask what time it was, but simply went to her bedroom. Instead of putting on her orange nightgown, she put on a blue one. She brushed her big white teeth but not her long brown hair. Instead of just kissing her mother goodnight, she also said, “I love you, Mom.” With tears in her eyes, Mrs. Devoir replied, “I love you too, my darling daughter.” That night Vondra Devoir did not keep her eyes and ears open waiting for the Sleepytime Express and oddly enough, that very night, Vondra Devoir heard a train whistle and felt her bed rumble as the Sleepytime Express approached.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Monday, June 07, 2010
Exerpt from my untitled novella
GOLF COURSE
Summers in Plainsboro were hot, drawn out, and boring. Even the smallest of adventures seemed epic. Walking to the local shopping plaza via the breezy hills of the golf course is both nostalgic and memorable. The rich, old men playing golf would watch you cross the course while you uneasily gauged their anger based on posture; some waved, some shooed us like old housecats, a few even shouted. The interaction was a wild gamble and even more than a shortcut, it provided us with sustaining, unpredictable entertainment. The apartment complexes barricaded the over-priced outlet for retired people and doctors like fortresses. Hordes of white, black, and Latino youths would exercise their adolescence as they skirted along the perimeter, much to the chagrin of the upscale owners.
A man-made pond on the golf course stood directly behind my bedroom window. I would often walk by and hear the frogs "ribbit" loudly then pop back into the pond with just the tiniest splash. The golfers never approached that side of the pond, so even the slightest noise disturbed the creatures’ quiet utopia. Their mating calls lulled me to sleep on more than one balmy night.
Only once, I can remember my mother's boyfriend hauling his telescope out onto the golf course. While we gazed at stars, I remember being thrilled by the forbidden, late night excursion in my pajamas, but also slightly afraid of outer space, -planets, stars, and all that existed beyond. Those enigmatic, glowing balls of fire were too real, too sobering for my tweenhood of boy bands and sleepovers. That night, two popular kids from my class, cigarettes in hand, wandered over to our position in curiosity. My mother, cheerful as always, invited them to look through the scope. I was mortified in their presence; there I stood with my family, fourteen years old, clad in a Looney Tunes nightgown on a golf course at night, terrified to even peek at the stars. There is something indecent and humiliating about classmates, especially popular ones, seeing you in your sleeping clothes. The only compensation was the darkness; the well-liked couple pretended not to recognize me from class. In retrospect, perhaps they were being kind by refusing to acknowledge me. A worse thought enters my mind; perhaps they did not recognize me. In any of our pithy conversations throughout school, we never, ever mentioned it.
Sometimes, usually at sundown, I would sit on the hills separating the golf course from the fortress of apartment complexes and write poetry, or what I believed to be poetry. In reality, the words written were stolen quips and half constructed clichés from readings or music liner notes that I found penetrating and impressive. Despite this, I felt serenity in those moments and serenity is a coveted commodity to any teenager. I was aware that my mother would often gaze at me through the window or door, but she never once interrupted my musings.
During the day, I would play pretend games with the smaller children in the neighborhood, including my sister. When I was thirteen years old, I was obsessed with the Chronicles of Narnia and created and acted out a complete fantasy world of wizards, fairies, and dragons. The younger kids were so into it; they followed me everywhere and, months after I lost interest, repeatedly asked if we could play “the game.” I was so mean to them; I shrugged them off and told them to go away. If they did not listen, I even yelled until they scattered like rats.
During those years, I appeared constantly solemn; my sister evokes the word depression to describe the period. She is specifically fond of recalling my fascination with clipping models from magazines and playing with them until I was 15 years old. For my sister, this example highlights the pinnacle of human misery and loneliness, but perhaps that is because it seems so utterly pathetic compared to her own life at that age. While I hesitate to label myself depressed at 15, I did always feel introspective and glum. Some summer days I never even left the house, but we all must remember, the summer was forever at that age and there was always the next day for anything -everything.
Summers in Plainsboro were hot, drawn out, and boring. Even the smallest of adventures seemed epic. Walking to the local shopping plaza via the breezy hills of the golf course is both nostalgic and memorable. The rich, old men playing golf would watch you cross the course while you uneasily gauged their anger based on posture; some waved, some shooed us like old housecats, a few even shouted. The interaction was a wild gamble and even more than a shortcut, it provided us with sustaining, unpredictable entertainment. The apartment complexes barricaded the over-priced outlet for retired people and doctors like fortresses. Hordes of white, black, and Latino youths would exercise their adolescence as they skirted along the perimeter, much to the chagrin of the upscale owners.
A man-made pond on the golf course stood directly behind my bedroom window. I would often walk by and hear the frogs "ribbit" loudly then pop back into the pond with just the tiniest splash. The golfers never approached that side of the pond, so even the slightest noise disturbed the creatures’ quiet utopia. Their mating calls lulled me to sleep on more than one balmy night.
Only once, I can remember my mother's boyfriend hauling his telescope out onto the golf course. While we gazed at stars, I remember being thrilled by the forbidden, late night excursion in my pajamas, but also slightly afraid of outer space, -planets, stars, and all that existed beyond. Those enigmatic, glowing balls of fire were too real, too sobering for my tweenhood of boy bands and sleepovers. That night, two popular kids from my class, cigarettes in hand, wandered over to our position in curiosity. My mother, cheerful as always, invited them to look through the scope. I was mortified in their presence; there I stood with my family, fourteen years old, clad in a Looney Tunes nightgown on a golf course at night, terrified to even peek at the stars. There is something indecent and humiliating about classmates, especially popular ones, seeing you in your sleeping clothes. The only compensation was the darkness; the well-liked couple pretended not to recognize me from class. In retrospect, perhaps they were being kind by refusing to acknowledge me. A worse thought enters my mind; perhaps they did not recognize me. In any of our pithy conversations throughout school, we never, ever mentioned it.
Sometimes, usually at sundown, I would sit on the hills separating the golf course from the fortress of apartment complexes and write poetry, or what I believed to be poetry. In reality, the words written were stolen quips and half constructed clichés from readings or music liner notes that I found penetrating and impressive. Despite this, I felt serenity in those moments and serenity is a coveted commodity to any teenager. I was aware that my mother would often gaze at me through the window or door, but she never once interrupted my musings.
During the day, I would play pretend games with the smaller children in the neighborhood, including my sister. When I was thirteen years old, I was obsessed with the Chronicles of Narnia and created and acted out a complete fantasy world of wizards, fairies, and dragons. The younger kids were so into it; they followed me everywhere and, months after I lost interest, repeatedly asked if we could play “the game.” I was so mean to them; I shrugged them off and told them to go away. If they did not listen, I even yelled until they scattered like rats.
During those years, I appeared constantly solemn; my sister evokes the word depression to describe the period. She is specifically fond of recalling my fascination with clipping models from magazines and playing with them until I was 15 years old. For my sister, this example highlights the pinnacle of human misery and loneliness, but perhaps that is because it seems so utterly pathetic compared to her own life at that age. While I hesitate to label myself depressed at 15, I did always feel introspective and glum. Some summer days I never even left the house, but we all must remember, the summer was forever at that age and there was always the next day for anything -everything.
Poem from 2004
Blinding Sun
the air smells of change
its time to stare again at the blinding sun
open the blinds
start the car
away
5 strangers in an elevator
awkward silence
different trajectories
different floors
who will be the last one off at the floor on the top?
the top
completley uninspired
not angry not melancholy
rubbish scribed on dead trees
a waste
music echoes through a dark hall
a light at the end
a room of smart
beautiful
healthy urban professionals
they clap for me
but a strong gust of wind blows right through
away
they dissapear only to leave me
i am blinded by the sun"
the air smells of change
its time to stare again at the blinding sun
open the blinds
start the car
away
5 strangers in an elevator
awkward silence
different trajectories
different floors
who will be the last one off at the floor on the top?
the top
completley uninspired
not angry not melancholy
rubbish scribed on dead trees
a waste
music echoes through a dark hall
a light at the end
a room of smart
beautiful
healthy urban professionals
they clap for me
but a strong gust of wind blows right through
away
they dissapear only to leave me
i am blinded by the sun"
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
About some children
Standing on dirt floors
looking at dirt skies
Mom in tears
Diapers full of shit
Happy children
Girls who are like boys
who want to be girls
chipped rotting teeth
grinning and begging to be loved
or joined in pain
denied both
staring back
same skyline smile
an aging man's memories stand
where a father never was.
bruised starlets
turned slobs
cannot be returned
cannot be forgotten
looking at dirt skies
Mom in tears
Diapers full of shit
Happy children
Girls who are like boys
who want to be girls
chipped rotting teeth
grinning and begging to be loved
or joined in pain
denied both
staring back
same skyline smile
an aging man's memories stand
where a father never was.
bruised starlets
turned slobs
cannot be returned
cannot be forgotten
Roach Girls
Two Northern Stars
cockroaches under your kitchen sink
scurry away when you turn on the lights
in fear of being intentionally squashed
again
They crawl into the bedroom
of two small girls
enter their vaginas
and live off the meat in their hearts
The stars burn bright in the bugs
burn brighter in the girls
but a roach is a roach
is a roach
cockroaches under your kitchen sink
scurry away when you turn on the lights
in fear of being intentionally squashed
again
They crawl into the bedroom
of two small girls
enter their vaginas
and live off the meat in their hearts
The stars burn bright in the bugs
burn brighter in the girls
but a roach is a roach
is a roach
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Same As It Never Was: Romanticizing the Past and Condemning the Future
A friend and I occasionally discuss the idea that we often harbor nostalgia for a past that never existed. We mean this in both a historical and personal sense. We might listen to an old song or walk along city streets in autumn and feel an aching for an era before our birth. We fantasize about living in that world, interacting with its populations, and belonging somewhere comfortable, simple, and yet also ephemeral. Maybe it's because we are atheists. Maybe we still need to feel that something is greater than us, something is significantly unattainable.
Historical memory is essentially the idea that each generation yearns for a time in their youth, or even before, when things were somehow 'better'. You might hear your grandparents, parents, even an older sibling talk about the "good old days" or better yet, "When I was your age..." in order to make very far-fetched comparisons between your quality of life and the quality of life in the "good old days". The idea is compelling, if it were only true.
I admit it. I would relish standing on the sidewalk of an urban thoroughfare in 1950 amongst good friends and neighbors, watching a ticker-tape parade go by, then heading in for a quick soda followed by a very innocent sock-hop. The night would end with a romantic walk home along the safe city streets and a climatic good night kiss. Better yet, take me to the roaring '20s where I break off my engagement to a rich steel tycoon in order to smoke, drink, and dance the nights away in a Harlem speakeasy. I engage in passionate love tangles with black jazz artists and poets, leaving them only my pantyhose the next morning. These memories, obviously they do not exist and I will never really possess them. But how I feel them! They are more real to me than my own memories. Even for folks who tell stories like this, the era, the actual everyday life was probably nothing like this. In these times, women were fighting for either the right to vote, or the right to work. Blacks and minorities were under harsh and inhumane oppression. There was severe economic disparity between the rich and poor and the economy was ready to collapse. Everyday people were being questioned, put on trial, and labeled as "unamerican". Modern medicine, modern education, modern sanitation, all of it ceased to exist as it does today. When I take a closer look at my fantasy of a time gone by, I engage in these special moments of parades and speakeasies but fail to realize that I would normally be heading to an awful, underpaid job sewing a tiny piece of fabric on hats, or worse, heading home to a drunken, abusive husband with no ability to divorce without being impoverished as a community pariah. Clearly, life was not always so dismal and there are certainly areas in our modern day society that have not been touched by the neoliberal idea of chronological "progress" in history but rather by setbacks. Just as an example, worker's rights and unions and the ability to own and operate successful small businesses have been crushed in the last 30 years.
But what purpose does the warped historical memory serve? Well, it certainly makes older generations feel like moral and more upstanding citizens than their modern counterparts. It also transfers any and all blame, they don't feel as if it is their fault that the world is currently crumbling to pieces. Grandmom remembers sock-hop stories but probably doesn't remember her father espousing apocalyptic rhetoric in the aftermath of the Great War, the Holocaust, the Red Scares, the riots at Newark and Berkeley, The World Trade Center bombings, the Bush dynasties. You see where I am going? Furthermore, little does Grandmom remember her mother's outrage when Elvis hit the stage with hips a-swinging, Beatlemania, Jimi Hendrix, Alice Cooper, N.W.A, and Myspace. These analogies are cliche, but every generation seems to believe the apocalypse stands before our feet. Even our older siblings complain that we don't remember how great aspects of life were before the Internet and how wide the gap between the generations has grown. Ok, so they might make a decent argument but the point I am making is that they separate themselves, we did this but you do that.
So now, reality. The world is not crumbling any worse than it ever has been, there will most likely be no apocalypse. We are a race of humans who have withstood millenia of war, persecution, corruption, poverty, disaster, and disease; most of it has been generated by our fellow men. While we should always fight for our fellow countrypeople, perhaps part of the reason we have failed at the very significant change we need is because of our flawed historical memory. We don't really want to "go back" to the way things were because the imagined community was just that, imagined. (thank you benedict anderson) However, what our older generations do give us when they ponder the "good old days" is that despite all of the hard struggle growing up, what they remember feeling is comfort, hope, and solidarity in their communities. So while I like to reminiscence about the "good old days" I never experienced, maybe concentrating on the feelings associated with that nostalgia would provoke me to actually feel kinship with the present, maybe to even help change it.
I cannot apply my reasoning indefinitely, eventually human life on Earth will cease to exist. So, one generation out of thousands will have it right. As a risky sort, I am going to gamble that it won't be mine or yours.
ps: painting done by Luke Chueh
Friday, March 10, 2006
another angry teenage poem
Welcome To Suburbia
Our own lives are so fucked up
We know we belong nowhere at all
When everything seems so foolish
You made it that way, you know?
That road you see ahead
Will not pave itself
Only your soul can render your path
and time can make the murky water clear
All the people I know
are usually angry and miserable
yet sometimes they seem happy
That is only medicine and fickleness talking
It is about time to charge the world full speed
because idle lives result in idle meaning
Our friends will die someday
and we wont even know their favorite color
Our own lives are so fucked up
We know we belong nowhere at all
When everything seems so foolish
You made it that way, you know?
That road you see ahead
Will not pave itself
Only your soul can render your path
and time can make the murky water clear
All the people I know
are usually angry and miserable
yet sometimes they seem happy
That is only medicine and fickleness talking
It is about time to charge the world full speed
because idle lives result in idle meaning
Our friends will die someday
and we wont even know their favorite color
Thursday, March 09, 2006
a crappy poem
a shitty morning and a shitty poem ha
Its the morning time and in a half hour I am off to school...social philosophy. well, at least this week we are talking about drug legalization, it should be interesting. I dont really know what to say in this blog entry because like I said last night, all of this is therapeutic. I am having an okay morning, its a little rough I admit considering yesterday I didnt give my problems a second thought. I wrote a shitty poem yesterday. here it is:
These lonely summer days
where summer classes are years apart
and you smoke with long lost friends
who are also years apart
and all you have is the good old days
but nothing new has happened
and the one you love, the one you want
is so far away
are they thinking about you?
you have a car but you cant afford to drive it
you get the occasional visitor but cant afford to entertain them
everyone is working
partially you dont want a job and partially you cant find one
its too hot to even eat or dance
children are beginning to soak in the streets
because the summer lasts forever
but I feel as far away as the winter snow
Its the morning time and in a half hour I am off to school...social philosophy. well, at least this week we are talking about drug legalization, it should be interesting. I dont really know what to say in this blog entry because like I said last night, all of this is therapeutic. I am having an okay morning, its a little rough I admit considering yesterday I didnt give my problems a second thought. I wrote a shitty poem yesterday. here it is:
These lonely summer days
where summer classes are years apart
and you smoke with long lost friends
who are also years apart
and all you have is the good old days
but nothing new has happened
and the one you love, the one you want
is so far away
are they thinking about you?
you have a car but you cant afford to drive it
you get the occasional visitor but cant afford to entertain them
everyone is working
partially you dont want a job and partially you cant find one
its too hot to even eat or dance
children are beginning to soak in the streets
because the summer lasts forever
but I feel as far away as the winter snow
some high school crap i wrote
another bunch of enjoyable prose by yours truly....(names have been changed to protect the convicted)
Are there mornings that you have awoken in your bed to find yourself more connected then usual? Do you find that as the sunlight scatters through your white blinds, you don’t feel like disconnected flesh living in a synthetic world of plaster, wood and metal? You feel part of something, part of the chill you get when your bare feet touch the rug for the first time that day. You don’t feel as if you are fending for yourself, that perhaps as part of this greater mass of everything you are being held responsible for just as much as you are responsible for everything else. You feel that what you put in to it all, you receive back and the cycle cannot break if you do not break it. Even though your body may feel sore and stiff, there is still a softness to it that no weathering or physical demand can harden. This softness comes from all the hardship of life, all of the severe blows to every part of you, from your head to your heart and to your soul. And with the constant beatings received, to wake just one morning of dozens to feel as if you meld with everything known and unknown to man cracks and melts even the hardest of shells. Often when we were younger and didn’t have half the perils on our minds as we do currently, we would sit and ponder existence in the simplest form we knew how. We would say to ourselves, one day I am going to die and my life will end but I am living it right now. This isn’t a TV show or a movie but rather my life. And every second I am getting closer to death; and for one split second the vast world narrows into a shockwave of a feeling and a chill, much like the one you first get when a winters morning comes over you. But then you forget and continue on with your life. And as we get older these quick, momentary feelings of sentience occur less and less. When we were younger every morning we felt connected and part of everything and now as we grow we must work for those mornings. But the feeling is far sweeter and thicker than those we felt as small children.
I have the kiss of death. Or maybe it’s much simpler and less mysterious if I call it uncanny coincidences. Or perhaps it is just the universe taking courses of actions in its responsibility of my well being and protection. I will tell you several occasions in which you may say there is no way it is the workings of something more, and if that’s the case, you probably shouldn’t be reading anything I have scribed due to the fact that I believe everything is the workings of something more. Now beware, there is no chronology to this it is what first comes to mind, so I guess its fair to say the most impacting are the ones I recall first. Taylor. Taylor was a result of my hormones working at a quick, brisk and forceful pace. We slept together, twice in the same night I might add. The next night he got severely drunk and was in a car crash. He was all right but his car and possessions were taken and he had no money or mode of getting back to his home in New England. I might add to this the fact that he acted (after the sex of course) in a manner that was uncalled for and radically different from before we engaged in the acts of intimacy. Some woman like to refer to this as “being a complete asshole” and no other more appropriate phrase comes to mind at this time so I will use this. Taylor was a complete asshole to me after sex. He ignored and eventually left me. Suffice to say the next night only hours after his incident, he was whimpering to me about his tragedy and indirectly asking for my help. I pretended to act concerned but just politely walked away when he was done speaking. I was being a complete asshole.
Darren. Now this Darren incident happened 3 months after the Taylor incident. It was a teenage party. Alcohol was involved. Now in my years as a high schooler I was not often invited to parties where the normal hedonistic teenage things happened. I consumed alcohol several times before so I knew what to do, but didn’t drink enough to know my radical social behavioral change. However, males picked up on it right away. Specifically one (feminist use of the word: Dog.) dog named Darren who I had heard very little about was the lucky contestant to try me in my state of inebriation. The night had already proved semi-promiscuous for me and I partially was pushed and partially pushed myself into a situation that involved pants and panties off while a skinny, tall man hopped on top of me. He had control and I had none. Under a lesser state of drunkenness or sobriety, I would have firmly rejected him but I could only groan under his grip of me. Lucky for me however it was a party of people who knew me, mischievous ones too who liked to embarrass and play tricks on others. They continuously slammed the door open, several times until I was alerted to the actions being engaged in. I quickly shot up, found clothing, and left the room in a hurry. I went home not 15 minutes later. A few days later, my gregarious sister told me something we both found interesting. Apparently that night, Darren hadn’t left too much after I did, still drunk himself and got into a car accident that not only totaled his car but his face as well. He even needed surgery or something to repair the damage done! If I had slept with him, he might not have gotten into that crash, or maybe if we hadn’t even touched at all he wouldn’t have gotten into that crash. No one may ever know.
Are there mornings that you have awoken in your bed to find yourself more connected then usual? Do you find that as the sunlight scatters through your white blinds, you don’t feel like disconnected flesh living in a synthetic world of plaster, wood and metal? You feel part of something, part of the chill you get when your bare feet touch the rug for the first time that day. You don’t feel as if you are fending for yourself, that perhaps as part of this greater mass of everything you are being held responsible for just as much as you are responsible for everything else. You feel that what you put in to it all, you receive back and the cycle cannot break if you do not break it. Even though your body may feel sore and stiff, there is still a softness to it that no weathering or physical demand can harden. This softness comes from all the hardship of life, all of the severe blows to every part of you, from your head to your heart and to your soul. And with the constant beatings received, to wake just one morning of dozens to feel as if you meld with everything known and unknown to man cracks and melts even the hardest of shells. Often when we were younger and didn’t have half the perils on our minds as we do currently, we would sit and ponder existence in the simplest form we knew how. We would say to ourselves, one day I am going to die and my life will end but I am living it right now. This isn’t a TV show or a movie but rather my life. And every second I am getting closer to death; and for one split second the vast world narrows into a shockwave of a feeling and a chill, much like the one you first get when a winters morning comes over you. But then you forget and continue on with your life. And as we get older these quick, momentary feelings of sentience occur less and less. When we were younger every morning we felt connected and part of everything and now as we grow we must work for those mornings. But the feeling is far sweeter and thicker than those we felt as small children.
I have the kiss of death. Or maybe it’s much simpler and less mysterious if I call it uncanny coincidences. Or perhaps it is just the universe taking courses of actions in its responsibility of my well being and protection. I will tell you several occasions in which you may say there is no way it is the workings of something more, and if that’s the case, you probably shouldn’t be reading anything I have scribed due to the fact that I believe everything is the workings of something more. Now beware, there is no chronology to this it is what first comes to mind, so I guess its fair to say the most impacting are the ones I recall first. Taylor. Taylor was a result of my hormones working at a quick, brisk and forceful pace. We slept together, twice in the same night I might add. The next night he got severely drunk and was in a car crash. He was all right but his car and possessions were taken and he had no money or mode of getting back to his home in New England. I might add to this the fact that he acted (after the sex of course) in a manner that was uncalled for and radically different from before we engaged in the acts of intimacy. Some woman like to refer to this as “being a complete asshole” and no other more appropriate phrase comes to mind at this time so I will use this. Taylor was a complete asshole to me after sex. He ignored and eventually left me. Suffice to say the next night only hours after his incident, he was whimpering to me about his tragedy and indirectly asking for my help. I pretended to act concerned but just politely walked away when he was done speaking. I was being a complete asshole.
Darren. Now this Darren incident happened 3 months after the Taylor incident. It was a teenage party. Alcohol was involved. Now in my years as a high schooler I was not often invited to parties where the normal hedonistic teenage things happened. I consumed alcohol several times before so I knew what to do, but didn’t drink enough to know my radical social behavioral change. However, males picked up on it right away. Specifically one (feminist use of the word: Dog.) dog named Darren who I had heard very little about was the lucky contestant to try me in my state of inebriation. The night had already proved semi-promiscuous for me and I partially was pushed and partially pushed myself into a situation that involved pants and panties off while a skinny, tall man hopped on top of me. He had control and I had none. Under a lesser state of drunkenness or sobriety, I would have firmly rejected him but I could only groan under his grip of me. Lucky for me however it was a party of people who knew me, mischievous ones too who liked to embarrass and play tricks on others. They continuously slammed the door open, several times until I was alerted to the actions being engaged in. I quickly shot up, found clothing, and left the room in a hurry. I went home not 15 minutes later. A few days later, my gregarious sister told me something we both found interesting. Apparently that night, Darren hadn’t left too much after I did, still drunk himself and got into a car accident that not only totaled his car but his face as well. He even needed surgery or something to repair the damage done! If I had slept with him, he might not have gotten into that crash, or maybe if we hadn’t even touched at all he wouldn’t have gotten into that crash. No one may ever know.
a blog from 9/27/04
04:26 pm - the first day of an expensive semester
howdy ho! Tis the first day of school and as I walked onto the green, shiny, less than standard Rider campus I could pick out each and every freshman like they were brown spots on a single, porcelain, sanctuary. I think after your first year in college, they implant a freshman detection device in you, and you can see and hear the godforsaken sounds of high school emigrants. They are cheery, red-cheeked, fresh faced and hopeful of attaining a higher level of being in their new adult life- "college". Its putrid. I hate them, just kidding. Anywhoo, my history class, US HISTORY 1 is tres boring, although I am glad to have my super intelligent, triple major, fellow Ukrainian cronie, Lada Pastushak! She is really cool, and really smart which on a good day makes me feel saavy and intelligent, and on a bad day makes me feel inferior. Friends are wonderful, but acquaintances in the classroom are even better. I am currently reading Moby Dick, something I have always been interested in reading but hear its a bitch to get through. I am on chapter 4 and have basically just been carrying around the book with me to classes, in hopes of people staring at it and thinking I am smarter than they are. Its Darwinism baby.
Herman Melville is funny and he is really excited about water and the sea. I remember sophomore year English class, we read Billy Budd and other tales by Melville and a particular John Yi raised his hand only to ask, "Is Herman Melville gay?" and since then everytime I hear the word "sailor" in Melville's books, I laugh and think of John. John may or may not have been gay but he is certainly Christian, which makes his sexual life very interesting and a topic of humor in any case.
I digress, so here is some more digression.
My mom got a pamphlet and flyer in the mail from the Sierra club which is the biggest non-profit environmental group in the country. They were asking her to join for 15 dollars, and help save Sequoia trees which Bush is trying to chop down and build Marriotts in its place. Not only do you sign petitions, but you help a good cause, so I am thinking I may in fact join...also you get a free backpack...BUT THAT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH IT. I CANT HELP IT! I am a CAPITALIST, I WANT THE FREE BACKPACK AND WOULD HAVE THROWN THE PLEA OUT OTHERWISE. Maybe not, but the backpack is a wonderful lure, and I will buy into it.
howdy ho! Tis the first day of school and as I walked onto the green, shiny, less than standard Rider campus I could pick out each and every freshman like they were brown spots on a single, porcelain, sanctuary. I think after your first year in college, they implant a freshman detection device in you, and you can see and hear the godforsaken sounds of high school emigrants. They are cheery, red-cheeked, fresh faced and hopeful of attaining a higher level of being in their new adult life- "college". Its putrid. I hate them, just kidding. Anywhoo, my history class, US HISTORY 1 is tres boring, although I am glad to have my super intelligent, triple major, fellow Ukrainian cronie, Lada Pastushak! She is really cool, and really smart which on a good day makes me feel saavy and intelligent, and on a bad day makes me feel inferior. Friends are wonderful, but acquaintances in the classroom are even better. I am currently reading Moby Dick, something I have always been interested in reading but hear its a bitch to get through. I am on chapter 4 and have basically just been carrying around the book with me to classes, in hopes of people staring at it and thinking I am smarter than they are. Its Darwinism baby.
Herman Melville is funny and he is really excited about water and the sea. I remember sophomore year English class, we read Billy Budd and other tales by Melville and a particular John Yi raised his hand only to ask, "Is Herman Melville gay?" and since then everytime I hear the word "sailor" in Melville's books, I laugh and think of John. John may or may not have been gay but he is certainly Christian, which makes his sexual life very interesting and a topic of humor in any case.
I digress, so here is some more digression.
My mom got a pamphlet and flyer in the mail from the Sierra club which is the biggest non-profit environmental group in the country. They were asking her to join for 15 dollars, and help save Sequoia trees which Bush is trying to chop down and build Marriotts in its place. Not only do you sign petitions, but you help a good cause, so I am thinking I may in fact join...also you get a free backpack...BUT THAT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH IT. I CANT HELP IT! I am a CAPITALIST, I WANT THE FREE BACKPACK AND WOULD HAVE THROWN THE PLEA OUT OTHERWISE. Maybe not, but the backpack is a wonderful lure, and I will buy into it.
Rainy Day Blog from 10/13/05 entitled "meet me at the fountain"
ey all,
So! I always feel like there is nothing to say, but oh the experiences I have everyday could fill a book! If I did that, I would have, well alot of books. Well here I am on this very rainy, very beautifully miserable Thursday in the lab on a silly mac computer listening to The Smiths self-titled waiting for class to begin at 3:30 and I feel happy. My mother told Dan, my sister and myself last night that she is thinking about getting her tubes untied and having another baby. (she is 42!) The three of us were surprised but we definitely played the spock, kirk, bones bit. I was very happy that she decided what she wanted to do with the rest of her life, my sister was bewildered and disgusted and Dan was indifferent, but I think he agreed that she should live her life the way she wanted to, very very Nietzsche.
I think I am seriously going to travel next summer. Dan wants to go cross-country in a van but I want to go overseas. We cant agree on anything, but they say that the best friend you have is also your adversary because they help you make yourself better, sharper, more ambitious. Also being veg again is very very good.
I have really done nothing except for spending my days lounging and avoiding studying. Although, I am devoted to my several clubs and I am making friends somewhat, a cool, stoner Bengali in Platforms and a sister of a kid I went to high school with who is unlike any of her siblings, smart, ambitious, red-headed, confrontational, opinionated. She makes me feel like an empowered woman, and the Bengali makes me feel like a giddy child with wide, open eyes. My one friend graduated and I have not seen him or heard from him since, but that happens very often at Rider. I meet people in classes and never see them again, actually that happens alot in life.
I am disgusted with myself as usual. This slave-morality I have, this debt I have makes me miserable. I must become the ubermensch, but what kind of existence would it be without this misery?
The other day, i put some foundation makeup on my face, looked at myself and almost threw up. I washed it off immediately and fell asleep.
This rain is fabulous, aside from the barometric headache I have, but the rain always washes away all the bad feelings you have. In fact, the rain almost seems to wash away bad people, bad dreams, anything that bothers you goes tabula raza when the rain comes.
Also, Fuck Plato.
So I am having this Halloween party in two weeks and I am concerned. We have people coming, Dan's hometown friends, his Field Camp friends, some of our Rider friends, a few personal friends of mine but I have contacted many of my hometown friends who go to college nearby and noone is responding to me at all. Perhaps they did not enjoy the last one or perhaps I am but a distant glimmer of a thought in their memories of high school which seems like decades ago whereas for me, these people are huge portions of my life and very distinct characters in my story. Well, I dont feel bad, I am just wondering. Maybe it is as simple as they dont want to come. Fair. I dont want to dress up because its too much work and money. Maybe I will do some crazy hair and a mask.
Well, I am done.
love,
stephanie
So! I always feel like there is nothing to say, but oh the experiences I have everyday could fill a book! If I did that, I would have, well alot of books. Well here I am on this very rainy, very beautifully miserable Thursday in the lab on a silly mac computer listening to The Smiths self-titled waiting for class to begin at 3:30 and I feel happy. My mother told Dan, my sister and myself last night that she is thinking about getting her tubes untied and having another baby. (she is 42!) The three of us were surprised but we definitely played the spock, kirk, bones bit. I was very happy that she decided what she wanted to do with the rest of her life, my sister was bewildered and disgusted and Dan was indifferent, but I think he agreed that she should live her life the way she wanted to, very very Nietzsche.
I think I am seriously going to travel next summer. Dan wants to go cross-country in a van but I want to go overseas. We cant agree on anything, but they say that the best friend you have is also your adversary because they help you make yourself better, sharper, more ambitious. Also being veg again is very very good.
I have really done nothing except for spending my days lounging and avoiding studying. Although, I am devoted to my several clubs and I am making friends somewhat, a cool, stoner Bengali in Platforms and a sister of a kid I went to high school with who is unlike any of her siblings, smart, ambitious, red-headed, confrontational, opinionated. She makes me feel like an empowered woman, and the Bengali makes me feel like a giddy child with wide, open eyes. My one friend graduated and I have not seen him or heard from him since, but that happens very often at Rider. I meet people in classes and never see them again, actually that happens alot in life.
I am disgusted with myself as usual. This slave-morality I have, this debt I have makes me miserable. I must become the ubermensch, but what kind of existence would it be without this misery?
The other day, i put some foundation makeup on my face, looked at myself and almost threw up. I washed it off immediately and fell asleep.
This rain is fabulous, aside from the barometric headache I have, but the rain always washes away all the bad feelings you have. In fact, the rain almost seems to wash away bad people, bad dreams, anything that bothers you goes tabula raza when the rain comes.
Also, Fuck Plato.
So I am having this Halloween party in two weeks and I am concerned. We have people coming, Dan's hometown friends, his Field Camp friends, some of our Rider friends, a few personal friends of mine but I have contacted many of my hometown friends who go to college nearby and noone is responding to me at all. Perhaps they did not enjoy the last one or perhaps I am but a distant glimmer of a thought in their memories of high school which seems like decades ago whereas for me, these people are huge portions of my life and very distinct characters in my story. Well, I dont feel bad, I am just wondering. Maybe it is as simple as they dont want to come. Fair. I dont want to dress up because its too much work and money. Maybe I will do some crazy hair and a mask.
Well, I am done.
love,
stephanie
PARTY BLOG FROM 10/31/05 entitled "Fat Buddha Exits"
Here I am! Still alive! Not very surprising since I had no intention on waking up otherwise, my Halloween party was raging! Dan is the life of the party when he is drunk, its amazing...he was the king of apple-bobbing and he beat the shit out of a pumpkin pinanta that he kept calling the Nazi Pumpkin. I wore the smashed pumpkin head the rest of the night, and since a mini bottle of jack daniels broke inside it, everyone told me I smelled like booze. It was the punkin head! Well, I also drank half a bottle of whiskey by myself...but I swear it was the head! The whole party ended being a sausage party and towards the end of the night, people came in that I didnt know and ate my food and I was like "whatev". So, because it was a dude party, the only girls there was me, my sister, my cousin, and several other girls who were attached to guys. My cousin is a cutie but she wasnt uber social so my sister got ALL the attention and I was pretty glad because she has been feeling down lately and maybe all of the dudes wanting her made her feel good. I think everyone had a good time, and I only made 1 person feel bad and that was because I blurted out things I shouldnt have (usual?) but he isnt too hurt I dont think and I apologized profusely, I need to learn to shut up but whiskey makes me brutally vociferous. I love parties, but only if they are my own. Tom and Pat Sheridan ended up staying over which was cool, i like them! Skodnick didnt drink, but I think he had a good time...everyone else got ripped. My sister freaked out and kicked a hole in her bedroom wall. ack.
My next 'party' is going to be like a holiday potluck or something, so all of my friends usually in college can join in, make a dish and drink wine and see people. Here is a list of interesting things lately:
1. I am too fat.
2. Sulu is gay, but Im not entirely surprised, meaning his sexuality was never the interest or appeal of the character image in Star Trek.
3. listening to alternative radio can be wonderful but also detrimental especially when they play a shitty nu metal song just because its indie and someone you know walks in and thinks that this is the music you listen to all the time
4. i should have done study abroad in india, damn.
Names I always wanted to call people when I am angry but way too nice and/or forgetful to use them:
1. eunuch
yeah, thats it really.
so.
today I have work, class, work, work work worWORKROWRK! ahhh
good day,
steph
My next 'party' is going to be like a holiday potluck or something, so all of my friends usually in college can join in, make a dish and drink wine and see people. Here is a list of interesting things lately:
1. I am too fat.
2. Sulu is gay, but Im not entirely surprised, meaning his sexuality was never the interest or appeal of the character image in Star Trek.
3. listening to alternative radio can be wonderful but also detrimental especially when they play a shitty nu metal song just because its indie and someone you know walks in and thinks that this is the music you listen to all the time
4. i should have done study abroad in india, damn.
Names I always wanted to call people when I am angry but way too nice and/or forgetful to use them:
1. eunuch
yeah, thats it really.
so.
today I have work, class, work, work work worWORKROWRK! ahhh
good day,
steph
v-day
It has come to my attention that several parties have qualms with a day celebrated on the 14th of February known as Valentine's Day. A few arguments have been circulating including the following.
Firstly, some argue that Valentine's Day is ridiculous to celebrate since one is obliged to love a significant other or family member EVERY day, not just on Valentine's Day. While I do agree that the Day is semi-ridiculous, I think the first justification is invalid. While one is obliged to celebrate love everyday, I don’t think having one holiday to celebrate it is ridiculous. For example, we should celebrate our independence everyday, yet we have one holiday. Or (if you are a Christian) the birth and death of Christ should be celebrated everyday, yet we have two separate holidays dedicated to these events. So why then is Valentine's Day ridiculous? I argue two things. The first is that celebrating an emotion is ridiculous. Why not St. Anger's Day (no Metallica pun intended) or Ambition Day? American holidays and holidays in general (secular ones anyway) are supposed to appeal to the entire nation on some level. While this is no longer entirely true, the idea is a commemoration of something on a national or world level. Valentine's Day poses no such relationship. Halloween is arguably in the same category, although in Latin American countries, we find other validation. My second reason, entirely related to the first is that not everyone can appeal to this day and in fact, many despise it altogether. Who despises Memorial Day or the 4th of July? Not everyone can appeal to the same emotions, which is why having a major day dedicated to an emotion is semi-ridiculous.
The second argument circulating is that Valentine's Day is a Hallmark holiday or rather a Holiday just to get sales up on chocolates and cards. Why I agree, how is this holiday different from birthday celebrations, Christmas, Halloween or any other holiday in which cards and food are exchanged? My argument is, every holiday is a Hallmark holiday essentially and its no use using that argument against Valentine's Day just because you are sore about a being alone or whatever. If you are to use the argument, don’t ever celebrate any other holiday in America. Otherwise, you are a hypocrite. Except maybe the Presidents Birthdays, go ahead and celebrate.
Finally, while my goal here is to debunk arguments given by angry, bitter Americans and come up with more rational arguments against Valentine's Day, I cannot help but to appreciate my lover's chocolates and send a rose to mom and sis for a very ridiculous yet very appealing holiday.
-Stephanie M. Dedovitch
Firstly, some argue that Valentine's Day is ridiculous to celebrate since one is obliged to love a significant other or family member EVERY day, not just on Valentine's Day. While I do agree that the Day is semi-ridiculous, I think the first justification is invalid. While one is obliged to celebrate love everyday, I don’t think having one holiday to celebrate it is ridiculous. For example, we should celebrate our independence everyday, yet we have one holiday. Or (if you are a Christian) the birth and death of Christ should be celebrated everyday, yet we have two separate holidays dedicated to these events. So why then is Valentine's Day ridiculous? I argue two things. The first is that celebrating an emotion is ridiculous. Why not St. Anger's Day (no Metallica pun intended) or Ambition Day? American holidays and holidays in general (secular ones anyway) are supposed to appeal to the entire nation on some level. While this is no longer entirely true, the idea is a commemoration of something on a national or world level. Valentine's Day poses no such relationship. Halloween is arguably in the same category, although in Latin American countries, we find other validation. My second reason, entirely related to the first is that not everyone can appeal to this day and in fact, many despise it altogether. Who despises Memorial Day or the 4th of July? Not everyone can appeal to the same emotions, which is why having a major day dedicated to an emotion is semi-ridiculous.
The second argument circulating is that Valentine's Day is a Hallmark holiday or rather a Holiday just to get sales up on chocolates and cards. Why I agree, how is this holiday different from birthday celebrations, Christmas, Halloween or any other holiday in which cards and food are exchanged? My argument is, every holiday is a Hallmark holiday essentially and its no use using that argument against Valentine's Day just because you are sore about a being alone or whatever. If you are to use the argument, don’t ever celebrate any other holiday in America. Otherwise, you are a hypocrite. Except maybe the Presidents Birthdays, go ahead and celebrate.
Finally, while my goal here is to debunk arguments given by angry, bitter Americans and come up with more rational arguments against Valentine's Day, I cannot help but to appreciate my lover's chocolates and send a rose to mom and sis for a very ridiculous yet very appealing holiday.
-Stephanie M. Dedovitch
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
Not me for one thing. Actually, as my first blog I am going to recite very specifically and very humourously the events of my life in the past-oh let's say 2 months.
Timeline:
Beginning of April- Here I am starting to sweat. I have several important grade-determining papers to be done, and I have not even begun a researching process and in some instances I have not even decided exactly what topic I will be doing. Once again, starting to sweat but not drenched yet because the end of the semester is still weeks away. Furthermore, home life is deteroriating and the parents are splitting in an angry and bitter manner. Sweating, but as I said not completley drenched.
Mid-April- Becoming drenched. I am working every single weekend. Between the week I am torn halfway between getting to classes and halfway between a damn film festival internship that is eating me alive. I have not begun any papers yet, and have no time to delegate to them either.
End of April- All seems much better and the profuse sweating is become a slight dampness. I finished most of my papers with one more to go. However, I find out one day before the paper is due that my boyfriend of 2 years has cheated on me and not in the ordinary way. Let's just say its bad. Lots of crying, lots of denial but mostly bitterness and distrust of everyone. My parents have really called it quits and the step-dad is totally going off the deep end. I am depressed, angry, and now it seems I am totally lost. I quit my job-sort of. I actually called my boss, told her I dont think I could work and I would call her later, and then never did.
Beginning of May- I decided to keep the old man around, did not decide to call it quits. However, I was going to wait until the summer was over, he would be away for 2 months and then see how I feel. Things seem to be better, things are looking up actually and a huge sign of relief has come over me.
Mid-May- Things have once again spiraled down the rabbit hole. We have been essentially evicted from our home and reside in a hotel room. My mother has no car, I cant seem to get any financial aid for summer classes and we dont know what to do.
End of May- So here I am and things have bumped up on some sort of plateau. We are in an extended stay hotel and attempting to find a house. I finished my unfinished paper, got myself a loan for summer school and the repairs with the boyfriend seem to be going smoothly. This weekend I am going to a grad party, meeting johnathan frakes and other cats from star trek and going to a picnic for dan. Then we are leaving for montana and I get a week of dan straight. Hopefully it will go well, but it could go either way. All I know is that we better hit up Waffle House, not even playin.
So those are the events that have occured and I hope that these few months have taught me some life lessons. Although I cannot see them now, things should pick up.
Timeline:
Beginning of April- Here I am starting to sweat. I have several important grade-determining papers to be done, and I have not even begun a researching process and in some instances I have not even decided exactly what topic I will be doing. Once again, starting to sweat but not drenched yet because the end of the semester is still weeks away. Furthermore, home life is deteroriating and the parents are splitting in an angry and bitter manner. Sweating, but as I said not completley drenched.
Mid-April- Becoming drenched. I am working every single weekend. Between the week I am torn halfway between getting to classes and halfway between a damn film festival internship that is eating me alive. I have not begun any papers yet, and have no time to delegate to them either.
End of April- All seems much better and the profuse sweating is become a slight dampness. I finished most of my papers with one more to go. However, I find out one day before the paper is due that my boyfriend of 2 years has cheated on me and not in the ordinary way. Let's just say its bad. Lots of crying, lots of denial but mostly bitterness and distrust of everyone. My parents have really called it quits and the step-dad is totally going off the deep end. I am depressed, angry, and now it seems I am totally lost. I quit my job-sort of. I actually called my boss, told her I dont think I could work and I would call her later, and then never did.
Beginning of May- I decided to keep the old man around, did not decide to call it quits. However, I was going to wait until the summer was over, he would be away for 2 months and then see how I feel. Things seem to be better, things are looking up actually and a huge sign of relief has come over me.
Mid-May- Things have once again spiraled down the rabbit hole. We have been essentially evicted from our home and reside in a hotel room. My mother has no car, I cant seem to get any financial aid for summer classes and we dont know what to do.
End of May- So here I am and things have bumped up on some sort of plateau. We are in an extended stay hotel and attempting to find a house. I finished my unfinished paper, got myself a loan for summer school and the repairs with the boyfriend seem to be going smoothly. This weekend I am going to a grad party, meeting johnathan frakes and other cats from star trek and going to a picnic for dan. Then we are leaving for montana and I get a week of dan straight. Hopefully it will go well, but it could go either way. All I know is that we better hit up Waffle House, not even playin.
So those are the events that have occured and I hope that these few months have taught me some life lessons. Although I cannot see them now, things should pick up.
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