She patted my shoulder and leaned in close, with a firm, pressed smile in her rosy face. "Excuse me," she said.
Startled, I pulled down my glasses instead of my headphones, to hear her. When responding to spontaneous strangers, I feel the pressure to pick one action and stick with it. You know, like saying, "You too" to someone who said, "Thanks". Yeah, I don't know anyone who's discovered a way to remedy these passing social pressures. And either way, you're going to kick yourself, whether or not you try to right the situation.
"Can I just tell you," her hand pressed onto my shoulder, she was unusually close, but not threatening or uncomfortable. I tried to imagine what she wanted to tell me. There was definitely a "dear" vibe. Her physical impression was too strong for a passing warning, or 'I know your mother' conversation.
So, there I sat, inches away from her face, glasses pulled down to the tip of my nose, peering up blindly, eyebrows arched cluelessly. "You have the prettiest hair," she said definitively. The man accompanying her looked on approvingly. She patted my shoulder again, as I feebly thanked her, and they walked out the door.
For a moment, I paused my work and listen flow. Last night, I took a shower and braided my hair before bed, so it would turn out in, at least, some sort of predictable mess the next day. This morning when I went out to our local greasy spoon to eat grease and use free WiFi, I assumed no one would notice my hair . And, being in my own neighborhood, didn't care. Well, I guess it just goes to show. One woman's rumpled braid is another woman's adoration.
It is no small task to be yourself, though for some it's merely morning laze. But this is the greatest gift you can give. Share your light and joy with the world around you. Prepare for the best in the universe's smiling reflection, and fear not the worst. Have a meaningful holiday everyone.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Monday, Monday...
so good to me. Monday, Monday, it was all I hoped it would be.
It sure was. Well, it's been a while since last our souls melded, bloggerland. I find myself at the edge of paradise once again tonight, looking over my shoulder at the most amazing day of the term. The day's experience was not something to be passed up, and required heartfelt documentation. Where better than a place of perpetual bliss... my blog.
The Simpsons, a great inspiration, once ran an episode which featured a life coach character. He asks a group of Springfield slack jawed locals, "Life is hard, right?" Their answer returns staggered, "Yeah, sure, uh-huh." "WRONG!" says the man,pointing an accusing finger in the collective face of the crowd. "Life is easy! You suck!" He goes on to tell the classroom that "you've got to grab life by its little bunny ears and get in its face!" When it comes to impossible days and weeks that are all Mondays, this character's declaration is food for my soul.
Meetings upon meetings, upon cameras and video and handshakes and questions. When the day's obligations were through a small group of UO Ad students were privileged enough to take out two of the biggest minds in the advertising industry. The experience was priceless. During classroom presentations each made some mind widening comments, but spending personal time with the two professionals caused my exploring brain cells to set up vacation in a far flung corner.
Not only did I receive an in depth and human look into the life and industry of these guys, but I learned about myself as well. In my mind, and occasionally outloud, I would identify or disagree with a direction, a path, an angle. Listening to the opinion of an established individual and also forming my own take became the most thrilling brainhurricane of the quarter.
I am so proud of my department and the amazing people we foster and feature. After a long day of only the advertising department in the UO Jschool, with its lofty demands and recommendations, I walked home feeling completely charged. I think this is a good sign. The best sign.
It sure was. Well, it's been a while since last our souls melded, bloggerland. I find myself at the edge of paradise once again tonight, looking over my shoulder at the most amazing day of the term. The day's experience was not something to be passed up, and required heartfelt documentation. Where better than a place of perpetual bliss... my blog.
The Simpsons, a great inspiration, once ran an episode which featured a life coach character. He asks a group of Springfield slack jawed locals, "Life is hard, right?" Their answer returns staggered, "Yeah, sure, uh-huh." "WRONG!" says the man,pointing an accusing finger in the collective face of the crowd. "Life is easy! You suck!" He goes on to tell the classroom that "you've got to grab life by its little bunny ears and get in its face!" When it comes to impossible days and weeks that are all Mondays, this character's declaration is food for my soul.
Meetings upon meetings, upon cameras and video and handshakes and questions. When the day's obligations were through a small group of UO Ad students were privileged enough to take out two of the biggest minds in the advertising industry. The experience was priceless. During classroom presentations each made some mind widening comments, but spending personal time with the two professionals caused my exploring brain cells to set up vacation in a far flung corner.
Not only did I receive an in depth and human look into the life and industry of these guys, but I learned about myself as well. In my mind, and occasionally outloud, I would identify or disagree with a direction, a path, an angle. Listening to the opinion of an established individual and also forming my own take became the most thrilling brainhurricane of the quarter.
I am so proud of my department and the amazing people we foster and feature. After a long day of only the advertising department in the UO Jschool, with its lofty demands and recommendations, I walked home feeling completely charged. I think this is a good sign. The best sign.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Mad World
So, it's true, without argument, that I'm a little nutz. We all are. And, from time to time, it shows more than usual. Yeah it scares the people you don't know, but it just feels great to let it go and indulge your instincts.
Then there are those other times, when you feel the same roar in your chest, but you can't let it out. It's trapped inside your body and if you don't find the cork it's going to explode you. Sometimes it does. We have meltdowns. We lash out at others. We cry, slash tires, break things, and make compulsive decisions. What is it that keeps us from sublimating our emotions? Why do they overwhelm us? Where is the tipping point from enjoying the ride to screaming bloody-murder at the driver?
Maybe we just feel un-heard. What you want is to yell, to scream it all out. When you are with the people you love and trust, you can. We perhaps enjoy the fact of that relationship more than the act of spilling our wildness into society. We spill it out on the streets, splash it onto other people's cars, pick fights that aren't ours and act out because, too often we feel our society pushing that ferocity on us. We feel un-fairly pressured, mis measured, our worth folded up in our wallets. As human beings we want to be more, than a drone in a box, a number on a screen. And if we can't convince ourselves that we are, we corrupt. In the smallest ways of the smallest people we tell the city to shove it. We attack other drones to prove that we are real. Mischief becomes vandalism, becomes hate. Directed at the whole, we think we will be separated, liberated to our individualism. But our individualism is not what earns us freedom, it is what unites us.
To recognize others, and see the human in them, is to see the human in yourself. Act in celebration of our lives, instead of defiance of our collective. I have yet to understand what it means to be an individual, and stand on our own tooth-pick legs. Right now what I try to do is listen, for the answers. But I can barely hear above the roar in my own head.
Then there are those other times, when you feel the same roar in your chest, but you can't let it out. It's trapped inside your body and if you don't find the cork it's going to explode you. Sometimes it does. We have meltdowns. We lash out at others. We cry, slash tires, break things, and make compulsive decisions. What is it that keeps us from sublimating our emotions? Why do they overwhelm us? Where is the tipping point from enjoying the ride to screaming bloody-murder at the driver?
Maybe we just feel un-heard. What you want is to yell, to scream it all out. When you are with the people you love and trust, you can. We perhaps enjoy the fact of that relationship more than the act of spilling our wildness into society. We spill it out on the streets, splash it onto other people's cars, pick fights that aren't ours and act out because, too often we feel our society pushing that ferocity on us. We feel un-fairly pressured, mis measured, our worth folded up in our wallets. As human beings we want to be more, than a drone in a box, a number on a screen. And if we can't convince ourselves that we are, we corrupt. In the smallest ways of the smallest people we tell the city to shove it. We attack other drones to prove that we are real. Mischief becomes vandalism, becomes hate. Directed at the whole, we think we will be separated, liberated to our individualism. But our individualism is not what earns us freedom, it is what unites us.
To recognize others, and see the human in them, is to see the human in yourself. Act in celebration of our lives, instead of defiance of our collective. I have yet to understand what it means to be an individual, and stand on our own tooth-pick legs. Right now what I try to do is listen, for the answers. But I can barely hear above the roar in my own head.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
College RiffRaft
First Friday
6.29.07
2100
So. Here I am in Nowhere, Oregon. Wait, I didn’t check my sources on that. Roseburg. Roseburg,Oregon. I am working my first full-time, forty hour a week, ironically boring, teeth-pulling, job. I am also spending what could very well be the first weekend all by my lonesome. And, as it was recently pointed out to me by the omnipotent and cruel world, I am college rift-raft.
“Why, Rachel,” you might say, “you are eighteen years old and already becoming a college junior. You are working a full-time job that offers great security. You are the Miss Miss —vice president— of AdSociety. You have a 3.5 college GPA, the UO Women’s Center created a new position in order to accommodate your talents…” etc. But, my dear friends, consider this: I do not have a car. I ride a borrowed bicycle which operates as well as a sixty-five-year-old cutting fire line. I have no friends, and absolutely no social agenda. Essentially, nothing to do outside of work. I don’t have internet service, so I bum it where I can, like behind a wall of the Sleep Inn. There, while sitting on concrete ground, because the world is my comfy car seat, I was hit on by a self-proclaimed meth-head in his late forties.
Apparently he was just fired from his job, as a trucker, who did toot the horn when civilian drivers made the “toot toot” motion. But he had never been a bus driver. He is now burdened with a restraining order from his wife of eighteen years, even though he is not a violent person. He asked me where I live and what I do, which I tried to be vague about. And he instructed that if he was being too nosy I should just bitch-slap him. He wishes he had attended college, but instead moved to the crank capital of the United States, Roseburg. He was clean for a year and a half, but is now doing methamphetamines again. I didn’t throw in that, perhaps, this is why he was fired from his job. No, I couldn’t go grab a bite to eat because I had imaginary dinner reservations with friends who were still out in the field, who might save me from this meth-head, even though they weren’t real. And no, I wasn’t old enough to drink. Yes, you are old enough to be my father. Yes there is “more money” in Western Washington. And I am about done with this conversation. And I hope he doesn’t try to steal my really-nice computer. Good luck finding a new job. Oh dear lord, I am riff-raft.
I have $50 to live on before my first paycheck rolls in. I stole salt packets from the coffee shop where my Mac couldn’t connect to the Internet. You see, sitting on the ground outside of a third rate hotel was not my first plan. And, by the way, the bench was occupied. I am riff-raft. At the grocery store on Tuesday, I had to choose between olive oil and a spatula. In the end, I decided that I could turn my chicken with a fork, but for the pasta to taste good, I needed the oil. The next day I was invited to the Forest Leadership Team’s barbeque. Because my last name begins with the letter “H” I was requested to bring a salad. I have lettuce, but when I looked at it, I realized that I did not have the resources to bring said dinner item. So, hoping charm and improvisation would count for something, I brought my flute instead. Riff-Raft.
6.29.07
2100
So. Here I am in Nowhere, Oregon. Wait, I didn’t check my sources on that. Roseburg. Roseburg,Oregon. I am working my first full-time, forty hour a week, ironically boring, teeth-pulling, job. I am also spending what could very well be the first weekend all by my lonesome. And, as it was recently pointed out to me by the omnipotent and cruel world, I am college rift-raft.
“Why, Rachel,” you might say, “you are eighteen years old and already becoming a college junior. You are working a full-time job that offers great security. You are the Miss Miss —vice president— of AdSociety. You have a 3.5 college GPA, the UO Women’s Center created a new position in order to accommodate your talents…” etc. But, my dear friends, consider this: I do not have a car. I ride a borrowed bicycle which operates as well as a sixty-five-year-old cutting fire line. I have no friends, and absolutely no social agenda. Essentially, nothing to do outside of work. I don’t have internet service, so I bum it where I can, like behind a wall of the Sleep Inn. There, while sitting on concrete ground, because the world is my comfy car seat, I was hit on by a self-proclaimed meth-head in his late forties.
Apparently he was just fired from his job, as a trucker, who did toot the horn when civilian drivers made the “toot toot” motion. But he had never been a bus driver. He is now burdened with a restraining order from his wife of eighteen years, even though he is not a violent person. He asked me where I live and what I do, which I tried to be vague about. And he instructed that if he was being too nosy I should just bitch-slap him. He wishes he had attended college, but instead moved to the crank capital of the United States, Roseburg. He was clean for a year and a half, but is now doing methamphetamines again. I didn’t throw in that, perhaps, this is why he was fired from his job. No, I couldn’t go grab a bite to eat because I had imaginary dinner reservations with friends who were still out in the field, who might save me from this meth-head, even though they weren’t real. And no, I wasn’t old enough to drink. Yes, you are old enough to be my father. Yes there is “more money” in Western Washington. And I am about done with this conversation. And I hope he doesn’t try to steal my really-nice computer. Good luck finding a new job. Oh dear lord, I am riff-raft.
I have $50 to live on before my first paycheck rolls in. I stole salt packets from the coffee shop where my Mac couldn’t connect to the Internet. You see, sitting on the ground outside of a third rate hotel was not my first plan. And, by the way, the bench was occupied. I am riff-raft. At the grocery store on Tuesday, I had to choose between olive oil and a spatula. In the end, I decided that I could turn my chicken with a fork, but for the pasta to taste good, I needed the oil. The next day I was invited to the Forest Leadership Team’s barbeque. Because my last name begins with the letter “H” I was requested to bring a salad. I have lettuce, but when I looked at it, I realized that I did not have the resources to bring said dinner item. So, hoping charm and improvisation would count for something, I brought my flute instead. Riff-Raft.
Shooter: A Coveted First Person Narrative
This spring I took a mandatory class: Writing 122. I loved my gtf, and the space she gave us for our papers. Our first paper needed to be "something about art. How you think of it, what it is, where you find it, be creative. Or you can write about the Virginia Tech shooting." Well, duh.
20 April 2007
Shooter: A Coveted First Person Narrative
Adam was backed up against the brick wall. He looked frantically from side to side. "What are you doing?” He screamed. “You think you can just solve all of your problems right here!?” In answer, I looked straight down the barrel, steadying my aim. Everything was right; shooting-range grasp, arms braced for the recoil, feet in a broad, resolute stance. I pulled the trigger. Unflinching, I closed my eyes and felt his blood spray onto my face. I exhaled cathartically, and slowly rolled my gaze to the left. The glare of a steeled killer reflected back at me.
Only days after the Virginia Tech massacre I acted in a film a friend of mine is making. The script was delivered to me shortly before filming, so I didn’t have much time to analyze the overall plot or action in my scenes. Besides, I needed only concern myself with the deliverance of my lines, not the content of his film.
During the filming I was handed a plastic gun, which had been spray-painted black to look convincingly real. Then the stage direction “pulls trigger” made complete sense. My character was responsible for abruptly extinguishing the life of the protagonist. Shooting my friend, Adam, point blank required many takes, after each of which someone wiped the red cornstarch blood off of my face. Earlier we all praised the creator of the stage blood for its realistic color and texture.
Though I act in the University of Oregon’s campus TV show, and have played violent parts, never had I been recruited to perform such an intense role. With it, there was a promised sense of empowerment. The confident handling of a firearm, the not-taking-shit attitude, the calculating precision, all personas were alluring to an amateur actress. I was honestly anticipating my ability to pull of the character of an assassin.
As if anticipating killing another human, in any fashion, wasn’t horrifying enough, I hadn’t realized the grotesqueness of my excitement until days later. The blood looked so real, I looked so sure, and when it finally sunk into my palate, it tasted like bile. Most Americans would describe the taste of blood as metallic, like the cold steel and hot lead bullet that rips a body apart. The taste of blood has been glorified; and we love it.
Days after the biggest school massacre in history I was, completely willingly, perpetuating the culture that thrives on such violence. I am an active part of this culture, destroying itself from the inside out, which is something each and every responsible American needs to recognize for themselves. And then maybe we will understand how we all played a part in the Virginia Tech tragedy.
It is common for people to ask, “Why did he do this? Was he refused treatment? How can we help people like this?” While these questions are coming from a compassionate place, they are examining the wrong side of the issue. By asking, “Why him?” We are also saying, “Him and not us.” We dislocate ourselves, making this a matter of isolated incidents, rather than the obvious symptoms of a diseased culture. The real question is how we could create, and maintain, an environment that fosters this kind of behavior.
After the massacre, threatening and tragic images saturated all forms of media; television, internet, magazines, newspapers. We communicate in images, which is something Cho Seung Hui bet all his marbles on, and rightly so. After committing such an atrocity, he spoon-fed it to us. News agencies thirsted for it. NBC slapped their brand on the propaganda package mailed to them faster than a doctor slaps a newborn. CNN did the same thing with a piece of cell phone footage, filmed by a VT student. Periodicals wallowed in the shock value of the pre-assembled press kit. Our media agencies served as the perfect tool for Cho’s violent message. He used us to hurt us. We let it happen, and we make it happen every day.
Our media distributors provide us with thousands of daily images, which makes them accountable for treating their audience ethically, and setting a standard. It is the very coverage of such incidents that shapes our perception of reality. The more violence we see and hear about, the more there will be. We make it real. We create violence by showing it because the media is a tool for reflecting ourselves. Is this how we want to see ourselves? Is this what we will continue to support?
By circulating images of the killer we thoroughly perpetuate the attitude he created. However, in defense of the average violence and media consuming American, it could be argued that we are burned out on the news, and all the terrible things shown at nine o’clock. People don’t like living in a shadow of violence. They don’t want it in their everyday life. Which must be why God invented movies.
A movie is the glossiest portrayal of life. Here we have the pretty faces, the budgets, the resources, and the most creative intellects in the world, to compose or retell stories for a global audience. With that in mind, what was the best picture this year? Was it a striking film about communication across cultures? How about one of dignity and courage? Maybe it was a heart-warming family film about loving each other for all that we are? It was none of these. It was incredibly violent and harsh: The Departed. It is a shame that a gory, violence oriented film managed to beat out spectacular competition. It’s as if the Oscar board decided, “Well, the creative solutions are cute, but we wish we could just kill our problems instead.” These films are some of the most powerful art forms known to our culture. They speak to us. They are widely available. We, and our macabre fantasies, are the main stars.
Art is a word connected to vast interpretations. Art means beauty, invention, inspiration, provocation. The advancement of the human race is characterized by the forms of art it produces. Does our art reflect us, or do we reflect our art? Though the answer to this question is debatable, our actions aren’t. It is obvious how we choose to spend our money and time. Why would we call glorified killing “art”? Why do we praise it, feeding it millions of dollars?
The Korean film “Old Boy” artistically inspired Cho’s rampage. Stills of Cho are patterned just like the movie. For a quick fix, it’s easy to place blame on a source that can’t speak for itself, like a movie or video games. Then let the Internet Movie Database describe this film. Some of the plot key words are “Tooth Pulling, Revenge, Suicide, Torture, Hammer, Knife In Back, Scissor Stabbing, Severed Hand, Shot In The Head, Stabbed In The Ear, Murder of Wife”. It won the 2004 Cannes Film Festival.
The public speaks clearly about what it wants. For some reason, we don’t want to see people killed in real life, but we do want to see people killed in movies. And we want to point the finger at individuals who act unethically, supposing that they, alone, have a problem and they, alone, need treatment. It has been hotly debated whether or not it was ethical for periodicals to publish the images of Cho pointing a gun at the readers. People found it assaulting and threatening, and they should. We should feel threatened by the culture that we have created. We are a part of this history and we all need to be a part of the solution.
My friend’s film is scheduled to premier in late May. I am still going to see it on opening night, but with newfound reservations, and a burning guilt for my direct contribution to our bloodthirsty society. When I later asked the filmmaker why the protagonist needed to die amidst such gore and malice, he replied, “Because it’s art. It’s contemporary.”
20 April 2007
Shooter: A Coveted First Person Narrative
Adam was backed up against the brick wall. He looked frantically from side to side. "What are you doing?” He screamed. “You think you can just solve all of your problems right here!?” In answer, I looked straight down the barrel, steadying my aim. Everything was right; shooting-range grasp, arms braced for the recoil, feet in a broad, resolute stance. I pulled the trigger. Unflinching, I closed my eyes and felt his blood spray onto my face. I exhaled cathartically, and slowly rolled my gaze to the left. The glare of a steeled killer reflected back at me.
Only days after the Virginia Tech massacre I acted in a film a friend of mine is making. The script was delivered to me shortly before filming, so I didn’t have much time to analyze the overall plot or action in my scenes. Besides, I needed only concern myself with the deliverance of my lines, not the content of his film.
During the filming I was handed a plastic gun, which had been spray-painted black to look convincingly real. Then the stage direction “pulls trigger” made complete sense. My character was responsible for abruptly extinguishing the life of the protagonist. Shooting my friend, Adam, point blank required many takes, after each of which someone wiped the red cornstarch blood off of my face. Earlier we all praised the creator of the stage blood for its realistic color and texture.
Though I act in the University of Oregon’s campus TV show, and have played violent parts, never had I been recruited to perform such an intense role. With it, there was a promised sense of empowerment. The confident handling of a firearm, the not-taking-shit attitude, the calculating precision, all personas were alluring to an amateur actress. I was honestly anticipating my ability to pull of the character of an assassin.
As if anticipating killing another human, in any fashion, wasn’t horrifying enough, I hadn’t realized the grotesqueness of my excitement until days later. The blood looked so real, I looked so sure, and when it finally sunk into my palate, it tasted like bile. Most Americans would describe the taste of blood as metallic, like the cold steel and hot lead bullet that rips a body apart. The taste of blood has been glorified; and we love it.
Days after the biggest school massacre in history I was, completely willingly, perpetuating the culture that thrives on such violence. I am an active part of this culture, destroying itself from the inside out, which is something each and every responsible American needs to recognize for themselves. And then maybe we will understand how we all played a part in the Virginia Tech tragedy.
It is common for people to ask, “Why did he do this? Was he refused treatment? How can we help people like this?” While these questions are coming from a compassionate place, they are examining the wrong side of the issue. By asking, “Why him?” We are also saying, “Him and not us.” We dislocate ourselves, making this a matter of isolated incidents, rather than the obvious symptoms of a diseased culture. The real question is how we could create, and maintain, an environment that fosters this kind of behavior.
After the massacre, threatening and tragic images saturated all forms of media; television, internet, magazines, newspapers. We communicate in images, which is something Cho Seung Hui bet all his marbles on, and rightly so. After committing such an atrocity, he spoon-fed it to us. News agencies thirsted for it. NBC slapped their brand on the propaganda package mailed to them faster than a doctor slaps a newborn. CNN did the same thing with a piece of cell phone footage, filmed by a VT student. Periodicals wallowed in the shock value of the pre-assembled press kit. Our media agencies served as the perfect tool for Cho’s violent message. He used us to hurt us. We let it happen, and we make it happen every day.
Our media distributors provide us with thousands of daily images, which makes them accountable for treating their audience ethically, and setting a standard. It is the very coverage of such incidents that shapes our perception of reality. The more violence we see and hear about, the more there will be. We make it real. We create violence by showing it because the media is a tool for reflecting ourselves. Is this how we want to see ourselves? Is this what we will continue to support?
By circulating images of the killer we thoroughly perpetuate the attitude he created. However, in defense of the average violence and media consuming American, it could be argued that we are burned out on the news, and all the terrible things shown at nine o’clock. People don’t like living in a shadow of violence. They don’t want it in their everyday life. Which must be why God invented movies.
A movie is the glossiest portrayal of life. Here we have the pretty faces, the budgets, the resources, and the most creative intellects in the world, to compose or retell stories for a global audience. With that in mind, what was the best picture this year? Was it a striking film about communication across cultures? How about one of dignity and courage? Maybe it was a heart-warming family film about loving each other for all that we are? It was none of these. It was incredibly violent and harsh: The Departed. It is a shame that a gory, violence oriented film managed to beat out spectacular competition. It’s as if the Oscar board decided, “Well, the creative solutions are cute, but we wish we could just kill our problems instead.” These films are some of the most powerful art forms known to our culture. They speak to us. They are widely available. We, and our macabre fantasies, are the main stars.
Art is a word connected to vast interpretations. Art means beauty, invention, inspiration, provocation. The advancement of the human race is characterized by the forms of art it produces. Does our art reflect us, or do we reflect our art? Though the answer to this question is debatable, our actions aren’t. It is obvious how we choose to spend our money and time. Why would we call glorified killing “art”? Why do we praise it, feeding it millions of dollars?
The Korean film “Old Boy” artistically inspired Cho’s rampage. Stills of Cho are patterned just like the movie. For a quick fix, it’s easy to place blame on a source that can’t speak for itself, like a movie or video games. Then let the Internet Movie Database describe this film. Some of the plot key words are “Tooth Pulling, Revenge, Suicide, Torture, Hammer, Knife In Back, Scissor Stabbing, Severed Hand, Shot In The Head, Stabbed In The Ear, Murder of Wife”. It won the 2004 Cannes Film Festival.
The public speaks clearly about what it wants. For some reason, we don’t want to see people killed in real life, but we do want to see people killed in movies. And we want to point the finger at individuals who act unethically, supposing that they, alone, have a problem and they, alone, need treatment. It has been hotly debated whether or not it was ethical for periodicals to publish the images of Cho pointing a gun at the readers. People found it assaulting and threatening, and they should. We should feel threatened by the culture that we have created. We are a part of this history and we all need to be a part of the solution.
My friend’s film is scheduled to premier in late May. I am still going to see it on opening night, but with newfound reservations, and a burning guilt for my direct contribution to our bloodthirsty society. When I later asked the filmmaker why the protagonist needed to die amidst such gore and malice, he replied, “Because it’s art. It’s contemporary.”
Thursday, March 8, 2007
Daffodil Damnation
Speaking of flowers, I have recently noticed patches of daffodils popping up all over the place. And this bothers me. "But why, Rachel, should the glorious tidings of spring irritate you delicate moral senses?" Yes, I am a chronic sufferer of hayfever, but this is not why. I find the daffodils very suspicious, for the following reasons:
They are all the same size, which appears to be fully grown.
They have the same number of flowers in each cluster.
They sprung up at the beginning of this week.
They are all the same.
I never saw them growing, nor anyone planting them.
They're perky and perfect, and I despise them like other things that are perky and perfect but made of silicone. (Not really, plastic boobs attract plastic minds. Haha... They don't bother me as much as these flowers.) It's as if they magically appeared, locked and loaded, ready to bring a splash of yellow into a dreary March.
Okay, they've been planted fully grown, in little clusters around campus to look nice. I'll get over it. Their life here is fake. They are intended to look nice for students and visitors and squirrels and whoever. I just find it a little surprising that the spontaneous, natural beauty of spring has been cultivated to please us.
Not even the perfect beauty of the cycle of life is beautiful enough for a college campus. Apparently, when it is "time" for flowers, there will be flowers. Bam, flowers. "Like it. They have natural beauty. It will make you feel serene and connected."
There isn't much more to point out about this, except how we cultivate beauty for aesthetic reasons, and therefore lose the deeper, essential meaning of such things... But really, that's all.
They are all the same size, which appears to be fully grown.
They have the same number of flowers in each cluster.
They sprung up at the beginning of this week.
They are all the same.
I never saw them growing, nor anyone planting them.
They're perky and perfect, and I despise them like other things that are perky and perfect but made of silicone. (Not really, plastic boobs attract plastic minds. Haha... They don't bother me as much as these flowers.) It's as if they magically appeared, locked and loaded, ready to bring a splash of yellow into a dreary March.
Okay, they've been planted fully grown, in little clusters around campus to look nice. I'll get over it. Their life here is fake. They are intended to look nice for students and visitors and squirrels and whoever. I just find it a little surprising that the spontaneous, natural beauty of spring has been cultivated to please us.
Not even the perfect beauty of the cycle of life is beautiful enough for a college campus. Apparently, when it is "time" for flowers, there will be flowers. Bam, flowers. "Like it. They have natural beauty. It will make you feel serene and connected."
There isn't much more to point out about this, except how we cultivate beauty for aesthetic reasons, and therefore lose the deeper, essential meaning of such things... But really, that's all.
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
How to: Press Friendships in a Facebook
We are the inhabitants of the 21st century. We have amazing technology that allows us to do things that are impossible in nature. And though we are able to alter the course of nature, one must ask if we are simply fooling ourselves. Sure, we are able to deny organic or biological order, but what about the indisputable way of things? Take, for a very small scale example, keeping friendships with digital tools like “MySpace,” and “Facebook”.
Such tools make it easy for us to communicate and keep in touch with people that we might otherwise never hear from again; who are not a priority. We can keep up with that friend from elementary school, the random hookup from your freshman year in college, the first young love, that girl you met at the grocery store, and potentially, everyone you ever encountered.
But what about new people, or friends who are most important? Can we realistically make enough room for the old and new alike? Are we expected to network and network until our social webs are nebulous and we walk by a blonde and say, "hi Ashley!” when her name is actually Sarah, because her profile picture looks just like another blonde's? Or, is there a critical mass, a maximum capacity of humans in our life?
Are these new social tools appropriate for our use? Maybe there just isn’t enough room. What if our minds and our hearts only have 5 positions to fill (dependent on individual emotive capacity)? Can we fit all the people we ever liked inside of us: in our heads, on our hard drives? And how many friends do you need? The best ones will always be a part of your life, like friendships before digital networking.
It is gluttonous for us to want to keep it all. Relationships can suffer while someone is still on your "friends list” but you never "write on their wall." People are “friends” with hundreds, thousands of other people. I doubt anyone keeps in touch with all of those people on a daily basis. It would be the only thing they do. So, if we can't possibly or consistently show that we care about all the people we’ve met, should we act like we can?
Why line them all up in front of us? You will hear about your cyber, quasi friends every day, whether or not you like them. And they will just be friend number 340 on a list of 500. They will continue to take up space in your life long after you have stopped interacting. We are trying to make social connections into a material thing that lasts, removing the ephemeral beauty of serendipitous encounters. You keep them around because you’re greedy and not because you actually value the experience you had. Because friendships are now material, people want to show them off, like jewelry. And, like our other possessions, our commitment to them, which is in public writing, will burden us. These material relationships will clutter our lives just like all the other junk sitting on the kitchen counter.
Friendships are not, and shouldn’t be made a material thing. Think of the commitment and the clutter, and the desire. Taking a page out of the Therevada Buddhist philosophy, it is our desire that causes suffering. We are only heightening our suffering by entertaining the fantasy, the desire to possess friendships, which are just one of many beautiful things we wish could last. When they are material then we can possess them, and the more we think we can, the more it will hurt when we realize we can’t.
The emotional conundrum comes not in the technology, but in what it really means to us. The technology isn’t a problem; it has practical, expansive, potential and application. But it is also convincing us that everything that was ever important can be permanent.
So thank you, creators of “MySpace” and “Facebook”, for also indulging our fantasy that friendships can be pressed like flowers. Just press the Faces and images and text into a cyber book, and it will all last forever.
Such tools make it easy for us to communicate and keep in touch with people that we might otherwise never hear from again; who are not a priority. We can keep up with that friend from elementary school, the random hookup from your freshman year in college, the first young love, that girl you met at the grocery store, and potentially, everyone you ever encountered.
But what about new people, or friends who are most important? Can we realistically make enough room for the old and new alike? Are we expected to network and network until our social webs are nebulous and we walk by a blonde and say, "hi Ashley!” when her name is actually Sarah, because her profile picture looks just like another blonde's? Or, is there a critical mass, a maximum capacity of humans in our life?
Are these new social tools appropriate for our use? Maybe there just isn’t enough room. What if our minds and our hearts only have 5 positions to fill (dependent on individual emotive capacity)? Can we fit all the people we ever liked inside of us: in our heads, on our hard drives? And how many friends do you need? The best ones will always be a part of your life, like friendships before digital networking.
It is gluttonous for us to want to keep it all. Relationships can suffer while someone is still on your "friends list” but you never "write on their wall." People are “friends” with hundreds, thousands of other people. I doubt anyone keeps in touch with all of those people on a daily basis. It would be the only thing they do. So, if we can't possibly or consistently show that we care about all the people we’ve met, should we act like we can?
Why line them all up in front of us? You will hear about your cyber, quasi friends every day, whether or not you like them. And they will just be friend number 340 on a list of 500. They will continue to take up space in your life long after you have stopped interacting. We are trying to make social connections into a material thing that lasts, removing the ephemeral beauty of serendipitous encounters. You keep them around because you’re greedy and not because you actually value the experience you had. Because friendships are now material, people want to show them off, like jewelry. And, like our other possessions, our commitment to them, which is in public writing, will burden us. These material relationships will clutter our lives just like all the other junk sitting on the kitchen counter.
Friendships are not, and shouldn’t be made a material thing. Think of the commitment and the clutter, and the desire. Taking a page out of the Therevada Buddhist philosophy, it is our desire that causes suffering. We are only heightening our suffering by entertaining the fantasy, the desire to possess friendships, which are just one of many beautiful things we wish could last. When they are material then we can possess them, and the more we think we can, the more it will hurt when we realize we can’t.
The emotional conundrum comes not in the technology, but in what it really means to us. The technology isn’t a problem; it has practical, expansive, potential and application. But it is also convincing us that everything that was ever important can be permanent.
So thank you, creators of “MySpace” and “Facebook”, for also indulging our fantasy that friendships can be pressed like flowers. Just press the Faces and images and text into a cyber book, and it will all last forever.
Monday, January 29, 2007
My Period Thinks It's A Rockstar
My period likes to show up for special occasions, often uninvited, but dressed in a tuxedo with guitar and amp in hand. "Hey, good to see you again," I'd say. "Boy, you look classy... Whoa, hey, what's the guitar for? You can't bring that inside."
"Sha baby, I'm ready to rockn'roll, and you got tickets in the front row!"
Alright, it's not really invited but, when I look on my calendar, it was scheduled for a visit that week. What I don't understand is how "that week" is always finals, or the first week at college band camp hell, or prom weekend, or Sadies, or the first week of track, the week we traveled through Bosnia and Croatia, or my stressful excursion to New York schools. Really, I must be doing Period a favor, time and time again, even though I have never received one iota of gratefulness.
I guess Period is doing something for me too. Not just keeping me an unpregnant woman, but keeping me straight. No, not heterosexual- honest. It makes me stick to my commitments. Period was, somehow, invited, and Period will come along. It just never wants to miss a single one of my important events.
In fact, my Period could even be a best friend. It is with me at all times, inadvertently. It shows up on time, every time, for big events. It keeps its word and teaches me to keep mine.
So, when I answer the door and politely say, "Welcome, you're just in time. Please have a seat," and Period, instead, smashes its guitar against the walls of my uterus screaming, "I'm Peter-fucking-Townshend!!" I just grimace and bear it. After all, who else is lucky enough to have a friend this devoted?
"Sha baby, I'm ready to rockn'roll, and you got tickets in the front row!"
Alright, it's not really invited but, when I look on my calendar, it was scheduled for a visit that week. What I don't understand is how "that week" is always finals, or the first week at college band camp hell, or prom weekend, or Sadies, or the first week of track, the week we traveled through Bosnia and Croatia, or my stressful excursion to New York schools. Really, I must be doing Period a favor, time and time again, even though I have never received one iota of gratefulness.
I guess Period is doing something for me too. Not just keeping me an unpregnant woman, but keeping me straight. No, not heterosexual- honest. It makes me stick to my commitments. Period was, somehow, invited, and Period will come along. It just never wants to miss a single one of my important events.
In fact, my Period could even be a best friend. It is with me at all times, inadvertently. It shows up on time, every time, for big events. It keeps its word and teaches me to keep mine.
So, when I answer the door and politely say, "Welcome, you're just in time. Please have a seat," and Period, instead, smashes its guitar against the walls of my uterus screaming, "I'm Peter-fucking-Townshend!!" I just grimace and bear it. After all, who else is lucky enough to have a friend this devoted?
Sunday, January 21, 2007
A Story: Religion and RaH
For my whole life, I have avoided religion. That's not to say that we are desperate enemies, but more anonymous passerbys on the busy streets of life. Yes, we've had our run-ins: a Sunday or two with relatives in a Lutheran church, awkward "Grace" at other families' dinner tables, a few years in Unitarian Christmas plays, and awesome middle school trips to hostels and sister churches in foreign locations. For the most part, Religion and I know relatively little about each other, and we had a comfortable, unobtrusive relationship. It leaves me alone and I do not badger its image ruthlessly in my own home or patronizingly in public. Our agreement is unbinding and completely consensual. Or so I thought.
Lately, Religion has been getting in my face: pushing me down stairs, tripping me up, and trying to pick a fight in general. A fight is shall receive, by george. But I'm not sure what to do just yet. You see, this has never been a problem and I have never equipped myself for defense.
Though I am not a religious person, I am spiritual. I have faith in life, in the natural order, the "way" of things. This might sound a bit like the Tao, which I like to identify as a philosophy. I love to involve myself with Philosophy because it is curious, and diverse, profound, and knowledgeable. It doesn't force you to believe one thing or the other, and twist your arm when you're wrong. I like it because it is a force that lives in you. Your ability to discern and search and, ultimately, decide. This is the opposite of Religion.
Now Religion, I'm not saying that you're unattractive, or a bully... but I will if you keep up your shenanigans. Just yesterday I went to a leadership clinic. It was nothing particularly notable, to be honest, except the last segment I was involved in. We were asked to write down adjectives for "Leadership", "Religion", and "Spirituality". I see each of these as very separate from one another, yet it was my job to understand how they were all deeply related. After the course was finished, I explained that I did not see the influence of Religion on Leadership. Apparently I had missed the entire point. But our instructor did not enlighten me, instead saying that I should talk to her afterwards. There was an implication that leaders must be religious. That your choices are influenced by your religion. But I am not religious, and I make choices. Does that mean that they are all wrong because they are not informed by a higher, nameable power; not to mention a vast network of people that don't know me?
I have a friend. He is a very dear friend of mine. He is religious, and has vowed to a choice in his life. A "permanent" choice that excludes others of different choices. I think, "Wow. That is dedication, to choose something when you are very young and ignorant, and stick to it through your whole life. Even if you chance to learn of something better. That must be Religion." But, when I asked him why he had made a lifelong choice he explained that his friends had as well. He continues making this choice because his parents told him to and so do his friends. Doesn't sound like a young man at all, does it? It is quite a telling example of Religion. He doesn't live with this choice because he thinks it's right, or because it says so in the Bible, but because his friends do. That is Religion. Doing what your told because someone told you to.
Really, it shouldn't impress me that Religion is making such a battle for my eternal soul at the moment. As long as I have never associated myself with a religion, people have equally tried to associate me with one. "You're Protestant or Catholic? Oh, Unitarian church? What's that? Like Puritans? No? Oh, okay, so you're Buddhist..." Rarely can people understand that I do not affiliate with a religion. In the same leadership workshop, the activity director gave us a handout at the end. On it was a suggested website to identify your religion.(Posted below) "Oh, thank GOD. Now I FINALLY know. I have been liberated from my own tortured soul for some other force to look after me." Like finding a pregnancy test to be negative. "THANK GOD." It's as if you need one, like a social security number. Otherwise you "technically don't exist". People want to be tolerant of any religion you are, to debate and ask questions or start wars, but they cannot be tolerant of your ultimate personal decision, to identify as an individual. They want to know your group, category, and NA is not on the list. If you don't belong somewhere in here, then you must not really be here at all.
Ultimately, I have decided to answer Religion's challenge with faith of my own. Apparently, these set of challenges have been laid before me, perhaps because I have so successfully avoided them my entire life, and I've got to deal. There are obstacles that one faces in one's life that will not resolve until they are confronted. So I'm preparing to engage in this dirty battle for the ultimate freedom of belief.
Find Your Religion Quiz:
www.selectsmart.com/RELIGION/
Lately, Religion has been getting in my face: pushing me down stairs, tripping me up, and trying to pick a fight in general. A fight is shall receive, by george. But I'm not sure what to do just yet. You see, this has never been a problem and I have never equipped myself for defense.
Though I am not a religious person, I am spiritual. I have faith in life, in the natural order, the "way" of things. This might sound a bit like the Tao, which I like to identify as a philosophy. I love to involve myself with Philosophy because it is curious, and diverse, profound, and knowledgeable. It doesn't force you to believe one thing or the other, and twist your arm when you're wrong. I like it because it is a force that lives in you. Your ability to discern and search and, ultimately, decide. This is the opposite of Religion.
Now Religion, I'm not saying that you're unattractive, or a bully... but I will if you keep up your shenanigans. Just yesterday I went to a leadership clinic. It was nothing particularly notable, to be honest, except the last segment I was involved in. We were asked to write down adjectives for "Leadership", "Religion", and "Spirituality". I see each of these as very separate from one another, yet it was my job to understand how they were all deeply related. After the course was finished, I explained that I did not see the influence of Religion on Leadership. Apparently I had missed the entire point. But our instructor did not enlighten me, instead saying that I should talk to her afterwards. There was an implication that leaders must be religious. That your choices are influenced by your religion. But I am not religious, and I make choices. Does that mean that they are all wrong because they are not informed by a higher, nameable power; not to mention a vast network of people that don't know me?
I have a friend. He is a very dear friend of mine. He is religious, and has vowed to a choice in his life. A "permanent" choice that excludes others of different choices. I think, "Wow. That is dedication, to choose something when you are very young and ignorant, and stick to it through your whole life. Even if you chance to learn of something better. That must be Religion." But, when I asked him why he had made a lifelong choice he explained that his friends had as well. He continues making this choice because his parents told him to and so do his friends. Doesn't sound like a young man at all, does it? It is quite a telling example of Religion. He doesn't live with this choice because he thinks it's right, or because it says so in the Bible, but because his friends do. That is Religion. Doing what your told because someone told you to.
Really, it shouldn't impress me that Religion is making such a battle for my eternal soul at the moment. As long as I have never associated myself with a religion, people have equally tried to associate me with one. "You're Protestant or Catholic? Oh, Unitarian church? What's that? Like Puritans? No? Oh, okay, so you're Buddhist..." Rarely can people understand that I do not affiliate with a religion. In the same leadership workshop, the activity director gave us a handout at the end. On it was a suggested website to identify your religion.(Posted below) "Oh, thank GOD. Now I FINALLY know. I have been liberated from my own tortured soul for some other force to look after me." Like finding a pregnancy test to be negative. "THANK GOD." It's as if you need one, like a social security number. Otherwise you "technically don't exist". People want to be tolerant of any religion you are, to debate and ask questions or start wars, but they cannot be tolerant of your ultimate personal decision, to identify as an individual. They want to know your group, category, and NA is not on the list. If you don't belong somewhere in here, then you must not really be here at all.
Ultimately, I have decided to answer Religion's challenge with faith of my own. Apparently, these set of challenges have been laid before me, perhaps because I have so successfully avoided them my entire life, and I've got to deal. There are obstacles that one faces in one's life that will not resolve until they are confronted. So I'm preparing to engage in this dirty battle for the ultimate freedom of belief.
Find Your Religion Quiz:
www.selectsmart.com/RELIGION/
Measuring Time
After the thought, i realized that this idea sounded eerily like that song from rent...
For just a vacation, indefinite, I would like to visit a place that does not measure time in days. Or minutes, or hours, or seconds. Has this linear, objectified style progressed us, as the human race? Everything is pressure, because the measurement never changes. The meter keeps ticking away until your life and it's end are only a compilation of seconds. It almost offends me that my life is always being pushed away by a clock.
The primitive ways of telling time were nature based. It was reasonable to measure nomadic habits with the stars or the changing of the seasons, because those are real. But, thanks to the Greeks and Christian Huygen , we now have a constant force of our own to battle those of nature. When we made clocks, that's when people's agendas deviated from nature. Now, no matter how long winter lasts, we will still have daylight "savings" time. I'm not saying that time doesn't exist, because physically, it does. But why "time"? Why these minute increments that are separate but somehow overriding of all other factors in the UNIVERSE?
How about measuring in emotions or progress? We might feel a lot better about ourselves. If time was only quantified by progress then we would be a lot farther then we are now. If time wasted didn't exist, would we waste it?
I have a paper due wednesday, two thursday, and one on friday. There are only 24 hours in a day. So, each hour I spent not writing those papers is an hour lost. And, no matter the value of what i do with that time, consequences are still brewing on the horizon. If we measured time in feelings, I would turn in that paper when I felt ready, not on Thursday. Thursday is not the day that i feel ready, but i am prepared to force myself into believing that it is. Probably it would be better if I turned it in when I felt ready. But when would that be? Who knows! Why does it matter? Because we have to know if I have learned anything. Because I only have a few years to learn what I am supposed to before people stop trying to teach me. However, try as they might, understanding is something that cannot simply be rushed along with the due dates of papers. People take years to learn things, and may never value their college experience, let's say, until they're 60.
Time is a human construct, a cognitive schema that we automatically place experiences into for them to have a meaningful area in our brains. Does anyone actually measure time without time? With experience or growth? If I decided to shape my own reality around such, could I function at all in our modern world?
Speculation aside, I have only 24 hours in each day. I have made a pie chart about what I should be doing with my time in order to better understand what I do with my time. I wonder if two hours (about 8% of the day) spent battling the idea of time will be too much. A waste.
For just a vacation, indefinite, I would like to visit a place that does not measure time in days. Or minutes, or hours, or seconds. Has this linear, objectified style progressed us, as the human race? Everything is pressure, because the measurement never changes. The meter keeps ticking away until your life and it's end are only a compilation of seconds. It almost offends me that my life is always being pushed away by a clock.
The primitive ways of telling time were nature based. It was reasonable to measure nomadic habits with the stars or the changing of the seasons, because those are real. But, thanks to the Greeks and Christian Huygen , we now have a constant force of our own to battle those of nature. When we made clocks, that's when people's agendas deviated from nature. Now, no matter how long winter lasts, we will still have daylight "savings" time. I'm not saying that time doesn't exist, because physically, it does. But why "time"? Why these minute increments that are separate but somehow overriding of all other factors in the UNIVERSE?
How about measuring in emotions or progress? We might feel a lot better about ourselves. If time was only quantified by progress then we would be a lot farther then we are now. If time wasted didn't exist, would we waste it?
I have a paper due wednesday, two thursday, and one on friday. There are only 24 hours in a day. So, each hour I spent not writing those papers is an hour lost. And, no matter the value of what i do with that time, consequences are still brewing on the horizon. If we measured time in feelings, I would turn in that paper when I felt ready, not on Thursday. Thursday is not the day that i feel ready, but i am prepared to force myself into believing that it is. Probably it would be better if I turned it in when I felt ready. But when would that be? Who knows! Why does it matter? Because we have to know if I have learned anything. Because I only have a few years to learn what I am supposed to before people stop trying to teach me. However, try as they might, understanding is something that cannot simply be rushed along with the due dates of papers. People take years to learn things, and may never value their college experience, let's say, until they're 60.
Time is a human construct, a cognitive schema that we automatically place experiences into for them to have a meaningful area in our brains. Does anyone actually measure time without time? With experience or growth? If I decided to shape my own reality around such, could I function at all in our modern world?
Speculation aside, I have only 24 hours in each day. I have made a pie chart about what I should be doing with my time in order to better understand what I do with my time. I wonder if two hours (about 8% of the day) spent battling the idea of time will be too much. A waste.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Devestation
He missed the sidewalk, but proceeded anyway, maybe thinking he could best the curb. He couldn't. His front tire bit into the yellow paint and slowly pushed him forward.
The entire crash was in slow motion. I had the time to stop walking and stare; wondering if he was going to recover before the moment of judgment.
His hands remained, gripped, on the handlebars. The only indication of resistance to Gravity was the expression on his face, as if he could battle the powers of the universe by furrowing the brow and gritting his teeth. Fight it he could not. He tipped 90 degrees forward. Would he fall on his face, the victim of a Gravity curb stomp?
No, a sudden determination to save his face. One leg struck out to the left, pulling his motion and momentum in a new direction. Gravity, tiring of its cyclist plaything, chose this moment to crush the remaining willpower of the victim. Suddenly hands and shins were smashed, gripping on curb and bark. It was over.
A young man ran across the street, smiling but concerned. I also removed myself from my position of observation and inquired as to his injuries. But what I really wanted was to ask him how long this had been going on. For how long had he battled the force of Gravity? How did this bloody feud begin? Of course his shin was now dented, just another amongst a score of battle wounds. A long begrudging history must lie beneath the surface of Gravity's smug, invisible mask.
The sojourner picked himself up, ignoring the pellets of worry and amusement fired at him, bitter about this fresh defeat, served by his life-long foe. I walk on towards my duties with the conflict remaining frozen in my mind. Later, as I continued on my way, the valiant warrior zipped across my path, a fresh conquest at his pedals.
The entire crash was in slow motion. I had the time to stop walking and stare; wondering if he was going to recover before the moment of judgment.
His hands remained, gripped, on the handlebars. The only indication of resistance to Gravity was the expression on his face, as if he could battle the powers of the universe by furrowing the brow and gritting his teeth. Fight it he could not. He tipped 90 degrees forward. Would he fall on his face, the victim of a Gravity curb stomp?
No, a sudden determination to save his face. One leg struck out to the left, pulling his motion and momentum in a new direction. Gravity, tiring of its cyclist plaything, chose this moment to crush the remaining willpower of the victim. Suddenly hands and shins were smashed, gripping on curb and bark. It was over.
A young man ran across the street, smiling but concerned. I also removed myself from my position of observation and inquired as to his injuries. But what I really wanted was to ask him how long this had been going on. For how long had he battled the force of Gravity? How did this bloody feud begin? Of course his shin was now dented, just another amongst a score of battle wounds. A long begrudging history must lie beneath the surface of Gravity's smug, invisible mask.
The sojourner picked himself up, ignoring the pellets of worry and amusement fired at him, bitter about this fresh defeat, served by his life-long foe. I walk on towards my duties with the conflict remaining frozen in my mind. Later, as I continued on my way, the valiant warrior zipped across my path, a fresh conquest at his pedals.
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