Family
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Recognizing similarities between my parents and me always tickles me (because irony, for whatever reason, always gets me), largely due to our "complicated" history.
The similarity between me and my mother (other than I'm starting to notice really creepily similar – I need a different word than similar now – habits we have in dealing with anxiety) is that we were both exceedingly harmed in life. This has resulted in us both being distrustful of others (notably, for reasons I still don't fully understand, the same can be said of my sister).
As I've mentioned in past entries, this has lead to results such as not trusting her own siblings fully or even her husband for the first years of her marriage.
And then it dawned on me that I could pinpoint the exact difference in our similarity.
My mother was hurt and she resolved to ensure that she would never be hurt again like that, no matter what. I was hurt and I resolved to ensure that no one else would ever be hurt like I had been, no matter what.
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Father: Thanks, Jonathan. Like I said before, I read the stories and poems. They're not bad, but I do think you could do better. You should write more and write longer stories. I genuinely think you're a good writer.
Confusing length with good writing is a folly that I'm not sure I even know how to properly respond to. I would like to know upon what qualification he bases his arraignment. To think I've always wondered where I retained my ironic sense of humor.
Sorry, do I sound miffed? We'll put aside that each of the pieces I exposed revealed concepts which I've struggled with, particularly in trying to make sense of them (the pieces were "The Only Thing We Have", "The Darkling Plain", "The Phonecall", "Fabrication to a Love Ode", and "A Memory"). Really, in all honesty, that's not the point.
It's that he's, somehow, designated judgement without the least bit of reasoning. Perhaps I'd be more understanding if I were less certain about the pieces (so perhaps my peeve is, once again, the complete lack of assumption of possible, even remote, fault in such an assured statement).
Sure, the pieces, to a degree, could be perceived as mere exercises in writing (and thus not trying to achieve something exceedingly beyond the pale at the sacrifice of the obsession with a particular technique or concept); I've always seemed to have a taste for the technical. I've also preferred doing a job that leaves no room for fault, even if that means it's short and doesn't achieve fame-level work. "A Memory" is not significant for being the next "Paradise Lost". It's significance lies in what it's able to accomplish and communicate in a mere three sentences; it may not be Hamlet material but it is well done.
I mean, there were five fucking pieces in that document. That's five pieces to dissect and tear apart and pillage for meaning. And how do you summate five pieces of writing? "They're not bad[…]."
Forgive me; perhaps I'm undercutting his sentences. The full sentence is, "They're not bad, but I do think you could do better." This is followed by the advice that I should write more and longer stories. Seeing that the following sentence moves focus from the writings I provided to future writings, I can only assume that his take on the pieces was that, "Sure, they're writings in the proper sense; but, really, give me something which I don't have to give, at best, one sentence of attention to."
On that note, here's an old piece I've done some revision to. You can find the original here. I've cut out good chunks of it just to trim the fat. Notably, it changes the focus of the piece a bit; certainly makes it more of a meditation on depression, though it also fleshes out the technique I was trying for the piece (even if not for as long of an amount of text).
I'm still on the fence about it, given that it really doesn't reach for much; it's certainly not nearly as busy as "Fabrication to a Love Ode". But it is an interesting technique and not one immediately noticeable; plus I think it captures what living with depression is like quite well. Oh well, here's my short piece of writing that's not even worth the time for a likewise-length dissection.
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"Wha– sorry. Could you say it again? I jus-I wasn't listening. …. I see. Well…heh, well, who's to say? I mean – I suppose I just don't understand denial.
It just becomes…suffocating, sometimes. It’s like I'm continually under this expectation to match every single internal and external action with the right response. Because when you respond incorrectly, that sends the wrong message. Which I'd hate to do. Because it's not unreasonable! Remember a birthday, remember Mother's Day, look happy to see someone when you say hello, go see the play your friend has been working on for God knows how long, check in on them when they're sick keep in mind when they had an interview attend their speech talk during the conversation respond make eye contactnodarcheyebrowsblinkbreathe
"I spent the entire last weekend in my room. Heh – yeah…the entire thing. I just…didn't see the point in leaving. It took too much effort to get out the bed. And I was tired. So I tried to make sense of my computer screen for 36 hours. And it was…nice, because I didn't have to put any effort into anythin- no, I – I got lonely. I jus-
I just needed to breathe. -
A friend of mine once (in what seemed, to me, out of the blue) E-mailed the listserve of (I think) the marching band, noting that it had come to her attention that there were members of the group which had never had the experience, despite growing up in the 90s, of hearing "No Scrubs" by TLC; this had to be corrected, she noted.
Seeing as I had only heard, and remembered, the song tangentially from hearing it on the radio once or twice back in my childhood (plus I'm sure my cousins may've helped to some degree), this may be something rather prevalent. And my xanga would be remiss if it did not partially exist as a place where one of the greatest decades of human existence could live.
As far as I'm concerned, the 90s never ended.
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Mother: Jonathan, could you come here, please?
Me: Yes'm?
Mother: Did you know that your brother is having sex?
Me: Uhh…what?
Mother: Did…you know…that…your brother…is having sex?
Me: So…you found the condom in his wallet*, huh?
Mother: So you knew‽
Me: Well, Mom, you really should have seen this coming. Umm…that pun was actually unintended.
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Brother: So, what were you and Mom talking about on the couch when my friends were over?
Me: Oh, just discussing your sexcapades in college.
*Both I and him burst out laughing*
Brother: Well, if you don't go digging through people's stuff, you don't find out things you don't want to know.*As discussed here, you should never put condoms in a wallet. This chafes them and wears them out.
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I happened across this image on imgur. Some might remember that I posted an image from the same event a long while ago in another post on here (http://thirst2.xanga.com/716273608/race-sex-sexual-orientation---an-intelligent-assessment-of-controversy/).
Longstanding tensions between disgruntled African American sanitation workers and Memphis city officials erupted on February 12, 1968 when nearly one thousand workers refused to report to work demanding higher wages, safer working conditions, and recognition of their union, local 1733 of the American Federation of State, County, and Municipal Employees. Despite organizing city-wide boycotts, sit-ins, and daily marches, the city's sanitation workers were initially unable to secure concessions from municipal officials. At the urging of Reverend James T. Lawson, Martin Luther King, Jr. agreed to come to Memphis and lead a nonviolent demonstration in support of the sanitation workers. On March 29 over five thousand demonstrators, carrying signs which read "I Am A Man," participated in King's march. However, the peaceful demonstration took a turn for the worse when an estimated two hundred participants began breaking storefront windows and looting. The ensuing violence resulted in the death of Larry Payne, a sixteen year old African American who was killed by Memphis police officers, the imposition of a city-wide curfew, and the mobilization of nearly four thousand National Guard troops. Deeply troubled by the violent outbreak, King vowed to return to Memphis to lead a peaceful demonstration. On April 3, 1968, nearly two months after the initial start of the strike, King returned to Memphis and delivered what would be his last public speech. The following evening King was assassinated on the second-floor balcony of the Lorraine Motel. In the wake of King's death, President Lyndon B. Johnson sent James Reynolds, undersecretary of labor, to Memphis to help resolve the strike. Nearly two weeks later on April 16, the Memphis sanitation workers' strike ended when the city agreed to issue raises to African American employees and recognize the workers' union.
There are those who would call the image (or at least the sign) iconic. Reading the comments of imgur, it would seem otherwise.
They see his beard and know he is a man.
Who let beardy in line without a sign?
Epic Beard.
You say you a man? You a funky man...
so racist... white people can be men too
Who brings a sign to a gun fight?
Talk about irony. The beardy is not a man.
I think anyone who reads this xanga readily understands that I'm not very fond on the concept of gender-roles; that being said, they existed (stiflingly) in the 50s and the notion of being a man held importance. The phrase "I AM A MAN" here refered not only to the fact that African Americans were human but that they ought to have the same rights that white men had: the ability to work, the right to respect, etc. Literally that White America consistently and systematically emasculated black men.
The reason the white person does not have a sign, imgur, is because he has all those things already. He is there as an ally and to support.
While three or so comments seem to understand that this is related to civil rights (not entirely difficult to figure out), none seem to be aware of what this picture is of, specifically. Iconic indeed.
And, don't get me wrong. I'm generally of the opinion you can make a joke out of almost anything. Some of those comments would be funny with the understanding that everyone knew what the picture was of and respected what it represented. See, this is imgur; this is the photo upload site where, if you upload a picture of the military or something related to Queer rights, everyone goes somber, talking about the need to respect these sacred things.
Apparently not for race.
But we know that's not actually it; they're just woefully ignorant of black history – which really isn't their fault. As I was talking about jazz music with my dad, I off-handedly mentioned the Harlem Renaissance – at which point he asked me to explain what that was.
He had never been taught about it; he had never even heard of it.
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It's old news but I have pictures.
My sister's dog got a haircut (if you don't remember what he looks like, you can find pictures here: http://thirst2.xanga.com/751582568/item/). We hadn't been able to take him to get groomed in a while so the amount of knots in his fur he had accumulated called for a thorough shaving.
It seems my mother isn't nearly so fond of it. I think it's hilariously cute. Plus, the benefit of his new "rat tail" (as my mother would call it)? He chases it now.
I'm also very easily amused.
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