31. Birds

DOREEN.    I can find no rest. My head is filled with horrible
                images. I can't say I actually see them, it's more
                that I feel them. It seems that my mouth is full of
                birds which I crunch between my teeth. Their
                feathers, their blood and broken bones are choking
                me. I carry on my work as a secretary.
-A Mouthful of Birds, Caryl Churchill and David Lan

This'll be a slight way to check how many of you still read this thing, largely because I know some of you no longer update yet still receive updates. And I never bother to remove any of my old subscriptions.

So, basically, I've had this layout since I got my xanga. If you didn't know, I greatly dislike change unless something is faulty; thus, I won't change anything, even if it no longer has any use. This is largely the reason some random papers and stuff end up staying stashed places for years on end - being a packrat is a full time job.

However, I do have another layout which I whipped up entirely on my own which (I think) is quite good. It's a tad bit more descriptive of me in the way it looks.

Yet, there are a lot of things I like about this one. One, it's the original. I like the contrast of having Eminem as the focus (along with his songs and alias in the rotating words below the picture) and then having Ozzy playing in the background. The Ozzy song also has a history for me. It's one of my favorite songs and my favorite "romantic" song (which, of course, is the type of contradiction I love, considering the singer is Ozzy Osbourne). I also like the blue (and some white) on black. I mean, overall, it's not a bad layout. Plus, it's rather simple, when all's said and done; I like simplicity, to an extent.

On the other hand, I don't think Em is my second favorite artist anymore. I haven't listened to his stuff in ages. Plus, I haven't changed my profile picture in years. Heh, it's still from when the Band went to San Antonio. And if I keep this layout, I'm not changing it. If I change this layout, I'm not replacing it with a human profile pict.

So, while I don't want to get rid of this layout, I kind of want to use the other one. Thus, I've decided to let you guys decide. I'll put it to a vote. If I get no more than 3 votes, the election's considered void and no change is made.

Just comment and tell me whether I should change or not. However, I have two versions of the background for the new layout, so if you vote change, leave a 1 or 2 (1 for the first picture I show after this, or 2 for the second).

We may have all come on different ships, but we're in the same boat now.
-Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

A hundred years from now, it will not matter what my bank account was, the sort of house I lived in, or the kind of car I drove...but the world may be different because I was important in the life of a child.
-Forest E. Witcraft

We all wanted that high school sweetheart
We wanted to be young in the 50s with meatloaves and sock hops
And lawns, lawns so perfect they looked like Clark Gable was kissing them

We wanted to be thirteen and alive and meet a girl that was thirteen and alive
And walk with her past the grandstands, to sit and hold hands, to sit and kiss, to sit and sit,
Like it was something you would miss, but that - never was

We once went to bed like between the bed sheets was a valley with dinosaurs still breathing
And how we capture these triceratops?
And brontosauruses?
But even they were opened up with the smoke that rose out of the homes and the corners that we once climbed through,
The streets and the footballs which we once threw,
The school desks upon which we once drew,
The windows that sat open through we once flew,
Before the outside world of parking spaces and dead friends came flooding on in
And we forgot what we wanted
And we became what we become:
Waitresses and bartenders, city employees and temp positions,
We are junkies and one kiss poems and we cry the stars
As we write our scars onto dumpsters and electric boxes
Because the only thing that we can hear is our hearts
And the only ones listening are the streets

That the blood that breaths through the letters we leave
And we dream to rise ourselves up out of these burning buildings
But instead we get buried somewhere beneath

Because I know my life is like some high school kids notebook
A high school kid that shuffles back and forth between school and home
Stacking the letters and the pictures too close for anyone outside of his own imagination to read
Because it's through the ink that his heart beats,
That his heart breaths
And we all just wanted to write these notes

Check if you like me:
Check if you don’t:
Check if you'll date me:
Check if you won't

Because we all wanted the love songs to be true
And we did love dinosaurs once
And we wanted the stars to hold our hands,
To lick the teeth to fuck us,
but they ended up fucking us...up
Let your smile twist
Like my heart dancing precariously on the edge of my fingertips,
Staining them like that same high school kid licking his thoughts,
Using his sharpie tip writing:

"I was here/I was here, mothafucka/And ain't none of y'all can write that in the spot that I just wrote it in/I’m here, mothafucka, and we all here, mothafucka, and we all mothafuckas, mothafucka"

Because every breath I give brings me a second closer to the day that my mother may die
Because every breath I take takes me a second further from the moment she caught my father's eye
Because every word I carry is another stone to put into place in the foundation that I'm building
Because the days can erase something that I never saw
What all of us wanted and what none of us got
What we all had and have and what we all forgot
That we all wanted to be something
That we all became something
And it might not be the shit we once though we'd be when we were kids but something is still something
And like some cats say, something is better than nothing

Feet are smarter than an engine
And dreams are stronger than thighs
And questions are the only answers we need to know that we are alive as I am when I have the mind of a child
Asking why is 2+3 always equal to 5?
Where do people go to when they die?
What made the beauty of the moon?
And the beauty of the sea?
Did that beauty make you?
Did that beauty make me?
Will that make me something?
Will I be something?
Am I something?

And the answer comes: already am, always was, and I still have time to be
-Anis Mojgani

I think what we want is a confirmation of those dreams we have. We have these visions - let's face it, we were brought up being told anything was possible so long as we fight for it. So we fight 'til our knuckles are bloody, trying to confirm what our broken hands are trying to tell us cannot exist. So we just get to the point that we ask that we're shown just one thing - confirm that it isn't impossible. I can simply breathe knowing that these ideas and hopes and dreams are possible.

Someone confirm it for me - show me one person that does what I believe is possible for us to do and confirms my thoughts of this better world.

Of course, who's to say until we witness it.

Whenever I see a blog or any writing where the individual identifies themself as being in high school (or so), I immediately expect to find, in some fashion, complaints of how things are and how they ought to be. Maybe that's just what I had been used to. I'm more likely to think that's what I had come to expect because I hated the notion that just because I was younger I was incapable of constructing ideas with validity. Of course, there are many things I've done in the past which I now disagree with. We grow with time. But does that mean that I didn't retain (in the exact way the ideas were concieved, surprisingly) some ideas which had been crafted way back in my childhood? Of course not. Think big, plan, stick by your ideas, and craft your own. Don't bother to take what is as the end-all or what you're stuck with.

Which is, I suppose, why it makes me marvel when I don't see an ounce of trying in those written words. They just are. They're arrogent, they complain, they're disgustingly selfish, and they're content with this.

Everything starts with you.

Well, it ain't no secret
I've been around a time, or two
Well, I don't know, baby
Maybe you've been around too
So, there's another dance
All you gotta do is say yes
-Bruce Springsteen

Remember the day that shall forever remain in infamy.

I've expressed before how, given I do try to be as courteous as possible, I get rather irritated when people act rudely in any fashion when talking to me.

So there's this woman who serves in one of the dining halls who, everytime to just about every person, scowls and barely gives you a second to speak, she's that eager to just get rid of you and move on to the next person. There's a very select few, I've noticed, she does give the time of day to, however. In any case, I always try to be polite, saying thank you everytime she gives me my meal, smiling despite my irritation with the same treatment everytime, etc.

So, today, as I went to get my food, her demeanor was totally different. She was quite laid back, friendly, and we had a brief conversation. I'm terrible with first conversations, so I'm sure I walked away looking like a total idiot, but she was nice! I'd like to think it was a combination of being nice everytime and also becoming a familiar face over time. You can reach anyone, I'd like to think.

Everyone can be reached. Everyone can be...helped. You think some people are hopeless - not me.
-Harvey Milk

I was talking to Katie some days ago. We were discussing our lives. Hers, if you hadn't heard, is quite better these days. She says she's happy. I believe her. God knows, she deserves to be. Heh, but don't we all...

So, being the typical teens we are, our conversation turned to our perspective depressions (or lack thereof, as is the case). I'm sure you can guess my case. Not bad. No, heh, certainly have had worse. I'm at a point where the dismal is utterly appealing (it's better than how these words sound; I can assure you of that). And, of course, she asked the question we all ask - do you ever feel like you want to go back? Do you want the frank answer? Yes, of course. Ignoring the cycle (which you cannot break - I have it for life, let's just be honest. I should be treated, but I never expected kindness from any outcome), there's so much that is utterly appealing about the hurt, the broken, the sick. Heh, I think anyone else would recoil at such desriptions. Oh well. Of course, this is me. This is the last thing I'd ever wish for Katie. Perhaps, were I not caught in the chemical fixture, endulging in the dark wouldn't be so costly. I wouldn't know, though.

She doesn't have to deal with it anymore. I wouldn't tell her to go back. But, of course, as she agreed, there is this appeal in the dark. To which we were wondering, how does one get around this snag? I put forth that maybe if you had a buoy, of sorts, something to keep you afloat when things got bad, so your head stayed above the water. Something that was constant and gave you joy in your life. Then again, who's to say you won't want more once you get that? I've often wondered if all I ever did was want, want, want. I wouldn't be suprised.

In any case, this lead to me observing how I don't think in terms of an emotional level. Things were goals - get it done, achieve this, etc. I never thought about the emotional cost. Like, get the hw done. Okay, 5, 10, 1 in the morning. So long as it gets done. But the later it gets, the more the emotions fly off the scale (as we all too dearly know).

To which I noticed a larger flaw in my thinking. Generally, when writing, the work focuses on two characters and watched there development. You can tell I think very much so of interactions between people. In any case, these two develop one or the other or both. Yet the situations I want to set them in - I've been tossing around this idea of a city setting (I love the city). The graffiti, the grime of the tiles of a subway, the dirt the sun passes through in a window - I like the broken, wounded aspect of it. But if the characters are to be healing, you'd have to do without the dark, the towering of the buildings, the abandonness of it, the way it can be full, just bursting and you still feel utterly alone, the cold as you suck air into your lungs on a night you stayed out for way too long for, a cold that just bites, so that your eyes water. Ooh, you'd have me toss this away?

I'm placing these characters, these connections they make between each other in places that are in themselves hurting. How can you have them heal?

I dunno. I barely have answers for my own life. I suppose I should enjoy this relative calm. Almost break. I shouldn't let the hw get to me. Ignore the grades, right? I haven't felt calm for a while, though. Oh, I'd love to just write, state and state - and do nothing. Indulge in the misery of emotions even though it does me no good. Because it's just a ride, it's just getting through life, with no solutions, no end, no point. And I swear I will go crazy if that's what I must settle for. So, as much of a thrill this damn cycle of depression is (heh, of life and death preportions...), I'd rather not settle for it.

I guess I just have to figure out when it's appropriate.

The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand;
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the A gaean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
-Matthew Arnold

Was an interesting day. I went downstairs to do laundry. After washing my two loads ($1.25 each), I went to dry them. I realized them I only had $1.25 left on my card. Thinking I had no more laundry money, I went up 5 floors to my room to check anyway. Once there, I found I had a 20. I go back down. I realize I don't have my card. Go up and down about 2 more times looking for it. Finally, found I dropped it in the drawer where I got the 20. Go back down, enter my final $1.25, head next door to Paresky. I find out both machines are out of order. I go to one of the offices, they tell me to try Sawyer (the library). I head there, look around a bit - nada. So I ask the librarian, she tells me try Hopkins. I try Hopkins, ask someone in the Registrar office, they tell me to try security. I go to security just to find out they're ordering new ones and I need to use quarters. Having little, I ask around for quarters, get two from Heather and finally do my laundry.

And just when I think I can forget and put behind my back Prop. 8.

Anyone remember when I posted the Supreme Court of California's decision on gay marriage? I made a huge deal out of it. Why? Second state to allow gay marriage (and now the dumbasses allowed Conn. to steal it from them), it was decided upon by conservative judges, and it played within the system. It was the system working as it should. The judicial branch decided that something was unconstitutional due to the fact that our government is based upon equal treatment of all. That's where it should have ended. This is why we're a Republic, not a Democracy. This is why these stupid innitiatives (and I mean all, not just those dealing with gay marriage or adoption) ought to not be. But, at the moment, our government does have these innitiatives and the decision was revoked.

We lost.

And I remember just feeling connected as a community. Just about everyone I talked to who was gay, bi, etc. remarked on it. I think someone said they just felt like they were stabbed. And there were more than enough allies, I noted, that were just as angered. We all - maybe because we're in a time when we can actually be out of the closet more, maybe because I'm more involved now, because I'm paying closer attention to gay events - seemed to mourn that day, in some way. We either said it wasn't over (maybe we just couldn't believe that it would be) or we just felt remourse.

And I remembered thinking, how do we come back from this? Well, I can't judge how much it's being made known, but perhaps you've heard there are protests spurting up. Like mad. I said when Cali. got gay marriage, it was history. Now we're in the middle of something remnicent of the civil rights movements. But I worry. I worry because people have already begun to say, "They're never be satisfied. They have no regard for anything else and they won't be happy 'til they get what they want." We're whining, it seems. And our image is suffering.

And then I'm reminded that, this isn't fair. When MLK, Jr. fought, it wasn't with what others were saying. He was questioning laws which were considered acceptable by the courts. He was saying they were wrong.

And part of me wants us to yell. Give gay people these protests, at least, damn it - they lost the ability to formally consumate their love. Give them this, at least. And we aren't holding back. You can feel the anger, the frustration, and the refusal to say no that we all felt that night as those polls came it. It's mostly Morman churches that are being targeted, because the Morman church as an institution incouraged its members and poured tons of money in. So the signs read, "I didn't vote on your marriage", "You have three wives - can I have at least one husband?", "Your church is not my state", and "I'm a second class citizen". And it's not just Cali. It's Utah and New York and Mass. We are not pleased.

And as some pointed out - where were these crowds for the amendment? When we needed to oppose Prop. 8, where were these people? And I've always wondered that, because gay people have a history of being complacent. They sit back and enjoy the little they carve out until it hits them upon the head that it's not enough - that they're settling for little, for less than equal. And the rest of us who actually want those rights a reality sit and wonder why. We get frustrated. And to be honest, I don't think the civil rights movement for us is over - it's just been dormant for a long while. But where are our leaders? Either dead or too old. We need new ones, and it seems fast, if I judge the times.

But then someone put it so clearly and I finally got why this is. It needs to be changed, mind you (or we need good enough leaders to propel us forward), but I finally got why it was.

Gay people generally aren't the placard-waving, bomb-throwing, chaps-wearing, communion-wafer-stomping radicals we're made out to be by the Bills O'Reilly and Donohue. Most gays and lesbians are content to be left to alone; many gays and lesbians go out of their way to ignore political threats and political activism and political activists. Only when gays and lesbians are attacked—only after the fact—do gays and lesbians take to the streets. Remember: the Stonewall Riots were are a response to a particularly brutal and cruelly-timed (we'd just buried Judy!) police raid on a gay bar in New York City; ACT-UP and Queer Nation were a response not to the AIDS virus, but to a murderous indifference on the parts of the political and medical establishment that amounted to an attack.

Most gay people grow up desperately trying to pass, to blend in; most of us flee to cities where we can live our lives in relative peace and security. We don't go looking for fights. And most gay people walk around without realizing that they've internalized the dynamics of high school hells some of us barely survived: it's better to pass, to stay out of sight, to avoid making waves, lest you attract negative attention, lest you get bashed.

But once you get bashed, once someone else throws the first punch, then you fight back—what other choice do you have?
-Dan Savage of SLAG (http://slog.thestranger.com/slog/archives/2008/11/12/and_here_s_what_s_wrong_with_g)

 

I once stated on here that race relations in America were heading towards a train crash that most seemed to be conveniently oblivious to (with no further explanation of what I meant, of course). Well, maybe a train crash was a bit dramatic, but that they are confused and screwed up, I would certainly be willing to argue.

 

The first thought you would probably have is that I’m talking about racism (and, if that is the case – in our American minds, white on black racism). However, I am not. Where to start?

 

Simplistically, I am of darker skin. On a more complex level, I would be labeled half black and half white. Truly, I am multiracial. My mother was born and raised in Haiti. Her grandmother was from the lighter side of the country, her French heritage clear upon her. My grandfather was from the darker side, a mix of Haitian and Spaniard. My father is European, for the most part – his lines run from England to Poland to Scotland to Germany.

 

But if you were to talk to anyone, they would generally call me black. I am reminded of the time in elementary school that my mother made a fuss over what race the school marked me down as; the secretary wanted to simply check African-American and be done with it; my mother insisted that’s not what I was.

 

Yet in America, it doesn’t matter whether you’re really from Nigeria rather than born and bred here. No, it won’t always even matter if you happen to be Japanese instead. You’re not white – racism will follow you. In that sense, I am black. People will see me as that and I shall be treated accordingly. I have no qualms with this. I understand it and take it. My skin is dark.

 

Even still, I have never understood most demonstrations and protests in justification of being black. I have studied and followed the history in America, yes – I know well slavery, done projects on it; one of my favorite time periods is the black civil rights movement; one of my favorite speeches is I Have a Dream. I’ve been subject to racism (though I doubt no one hasn’t been or isn’t well aware of it). Even before I faced it, a favorite movie in my household is Roots. I knew of racism since I was born.

 

There was a problem, though. I’m middle class. The majority I’ve always known is white because that was what my classmates were for the most part. In fact, as I got older, the less racism I faced and the more my skin became an irrelevancy. I know better, so I’ve often wondered in awe how you could view someone who was different as the same as you so easily – my greatest acceptance (when it came to my skin) was from the majority. Other races for me were the many types of Asian. And while I have a deep love for rap, I’m a complete metal head, while my all time favorite artist happens to be Bruce Springsteen (taken from my dad, I admit). It was a white rapper who interested me in genre first, and Big Pun made me realize that my own windings among rhyme and alliteration were hardly anything in comparison. I consider myself a video game nerd. Some of my closest friends were the techies working backstage at the concerts (I have since become one since applying for a job in college, I am happy to report). My list of girlfriends has been Caucasian (if only for the reason I had little other choice, given my raising). And I have a fierce love for the gothic subculture; I remember listening to a spoken word poet listing the ways the majority stays complacent, shutting out the problems of the world; she lists the indignity of Columbine being placed on rap and video games; and then she cries, “Go back to your ‘goth’,” and I wanted to shout objection; did you forget they targeted us after Columbine just as much as the previous two?

 

So am I any less black? Will I be viewed and judged differently? In the days leading up to the primaries for the Democratic Party, some of the “black leaders” said that Obama didn’t share with other blacks in America that history of slavery and was, therefore, different from them.

 

One of my “brothers” happens to be a Jew. Of my “sisters”, one happens to be blue-eyed and the other a mixed Hispanic.

 

I don’t know (nor understand) a “black” culture. I don’t understand what the green, black, and red colors of an African continent does for an American like myself, nor would I suppose it make much sense, if I considered my own heritage.

 

So you’re probably thinking – are you criticizing black people? Is this some type of perverse racism and you feel the need to separate yourself from black people? Are you really this bored?

 

America is characterized as a people of no color. In my mind, that has always meant that we were a people despite our differences. As I viewed the statue of Thomas Jefferson in Washington, I stood in the shadow of a man who shaped our nation – of which I was just as much a part of. This man may have not been Haitian, but he was certainly me. With every word of the Declaration of Independence, he was crafting my beliefs and my future.

 

I may not have ancestors who suffered the pains of slavery in America, yet I view with pride the abolitionists who spoke out against it and the slaves who wove their own culture into the American fabric.

 

I am a child of Western thought. The Greeks laid out the idea of a free government and the Romans crafted a form of what would be our own, someday. To those minds I owe and I make no mistake of it.

 

I did not find alienation in the women’s civil rights movement and I use the words of Jane Addams and Sojourner Truth often enough.

 

I wasn’t hosed down during the 60s, but it is one of my favorite times to study. It was those people who paved the way to the acceptance I receive today. It was a moment when we said, “We might have inherited many problems, but at no point can we not overcome them.”

 

When I think of America, the words, “Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand/A mighty woman with a torch…/‘Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!’ cries she/With silent lips. ‘Give me your tired, your poor,/Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,/The wretched refuse of your teeming shore./Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,/I lift my lamp beside the golden door!’” grace upon my lips, heaving with the spirit that must have infected the many who came to our land.

 

The Grapes of Wrath, for me, didn’t describe a strange people or a landscape I didn’t know. I read with dislike the internment of Americans with Japanese ancestry. I rejoiced at the discovery of Stonewall. I sat with solemn acknowledgement at what the two Marches on Washington (1963 and 1979) meant for us as a nation.

 

In short, every facet of American history defined me. We never got it right everytime – indeed, our grievances are many. But I take pride in what we have done. And I don’t understand why any person would isolate themselves to one position based on their heritage. Perhaps I’ve been too swayed by the words of King, but unification is the only route in my mind. I characterize myself as an American first and foremost.

 

There is no “black” culture but only what of our culture was taken from people of color. I will identify myself as a German (among other things), I eat everyday now with chopsticks (something I always wanted to do since a kid), and I proclaim loudly, “In the future days which we seek to make secure, we look forward to a world founded upon four essential human freedoms. The first is freedom of speech and expression…. The second is freedom of every person to worship God in his own way…. The third is freedom from want…. The fourth is freedom from fear…”, “It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us — that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion…— and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth”, and “Yesterday the greatest question was decided which ever was debated in America; and a greater perhaps never was, nor will be, decided among men. A resolution was passed without one dissenting colony, ‘that these United Colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and independent States.’”

 

And, perhaps, most importantly, I believe deeply in that Latin saying – e pluribus unum.

 

So what am I, America? Should I cling to an identity – whether that be black or Haitian or German or male – and define myself by it, letting no others share it?

 

What am I, America? Should I find connection in only those like myself? Should I see my history only from those eyes?

 

What am I, America?

 

I thought I was American.

I suppose this is a long-delayed response to another entry, in a way. They're a frequent reader (heh, of my, like, three). I've been thinking of parenting often, for some odd reason. Various things in relation to it, but part of it was what we, as parents, will have to tell our children or may pass to our children. I think every parent fears that, to an extent. And all I can think of is being utterly sure that things will be fine. I've noticed lately I seem to be attracted most to people who have or have had history with depression - think the product won't have it? Have to explain the complex family situation on my side. That one'll be fun. Yet why should it be impossible? Been there, done that (for some, all too literally). Children are all so accepting, so long as you raise them that way. A child doesn't love because they're instructed, but because it's instictual. What do you tell them? That's just it - you simply tell them. The second you start building those walls, you weaken and ruin any kind of relationship; further, for all marks, there are those who still see you perfectly.

I smile into the rearview mirror instead. Why with such a nice smile are you trying to weep? he asks as we pull up to my building.
-Don't Let Me Be Lonely by Claudia Rankine, pg. 90

So, another installment of the Optimism versus Realism debate. I'm starting to see how necessary Optimism really is. Realism has had most of the spotlight, really. Yet for all his show, he may come off more as cynisism. This is not the case, though. He can have a cynical nature, always reminding the downside of life. But that's because he sees all sides. He sees what is and states it. It is what it is; it is realistic. I saw somewhere that a cynic, when he/she smells flowers, asks where the funeral is. The Realist simply points out that there could be a funeral. And the Optimist hopes it's two loved ones (not dead, of course). Yet what happens when Optimism is gone? Realism has nothing to fight against. Granted, Realism is the one that sets the stakes, in reality - he's the one that looks and life and decides what is realistic or not. And, in turn, Optimism looks at what Realism has discovered and says where things could look up and be good. But, for cinematic purposes, see it as Optimism disappearing and Realism finding nothing happy to acknowledge. Everything becomes gloom, then. I need that optimism, those things to look forward to and to strive for. I need to believe there are answers, I suppose. Realism can state; "This is real! This is what is!" But optimism points to the solutions, that things can get better. Maybe I'm just stuck in that Optimism vs. Realism mindset and that things are what they are, simply, is not an applicable idea for me. But I suppose that would then assume that I am not happy with things as they are. To which I wonder why. To which, again, I have no answer. I don't know and that's the most obnoxious part. To not know is to not know how to proceed.

In my dream I apologize to everyone I meet. Instead of introducing myself, I apologize for not knowing why I am alive. I am sorry. I am sorry. I apologize. In real life, oddly enough, when I am fully awake and out and about, if I catch someone's eye, I quickly look away. Perhaps this too is a form of apology. Perhaps this is the form apologies take in real life. In real life the looking away is the apology, despite the fact that when I look away I almost feel guilty; I do not feel as if I have apologized. Instead I feel as if I have created a reason to apologize, I feel the guilt of having ignored that thing - the encounter. I could have nodded, I could have have smiled without showing my teeth. In some small way I could have wordlessly said, I see you seeing me and I apologize for not knowing why I am alive. I am sorry. I am sorry. I apologize. Afterwards, after I have looked away, I never feel as if I can say, Look, look at me again so that I can see you, so that I can acknowledge that I have seen you, so that I can see you and apologize.
-Don't Let Me Be Lonely by Claudia Rankine, pg. 98

I almost want to take a page from your book, Lizzie, and write out all my secrets, for those that I have. But therein lies the problem; I'm not sure I'd know them. I have this nagging feeling in the back of my head that any true ones I do have, I have very good reason for them remaining secrets. Maybe I wouldn't even recognize. What a way to end an entry. A random thought unrelated to the topic (or linked topics) at hand. Oh well.

Is any one else irritated by how they display love in the media? Probably. Do I really need to elaborate? Damn, there goes my rant.

So, in English, we're reading an incredibly depressing book that focuses a lot on death and, I believe, depression. So, the beginning parts, the girl mentions her interest in death from a young age. Throughout what we've read so far, everyone else seems to find it playful and poking fun - funny. I totally didn't see that. There is some dark humor, but I read it more as sarcasm. It didn't seem playful; it seemed resigned and observatory.

In one portion, she sees the number 1-800-SUICIDE flash across the T. V. screen and, for whatever reason, calls it.

Do you feel like killing yourself? the man on the other end of the receiver asks. You tell him, I feel like I'm already dead. When he makes no response you add, I am in death's position. He finally says, Don't believe what you are thinking and feeling. Then he asks, Where do you live?

They read that portion and think she's exploring death, then gets stuck in a situation by calling the number so doesn't know how to respond. This is funny. I see a society that has no clue how to deal with the depressed. There is humor to this piece, but it is dark - the irony. Is it just me? Am I reading it wrong?

The entry is not meant to depress but marvel at how my interpretation of this book can be so far from what they see. I read this and the voice is tired, too tired for even misery. Not because of some self-reflection or anything like that but because that is the only logical viewpoint I can see this narrator possessing, considering what she's going through.

As I watch my mother's mouth move, I ask myself: Am I often troubled by constipation? Have I ever vomited love or coughed up blame? Is anything wrong with my mind?

Next to the paragraph in the book something wrote confusing. Is it really that much so?