Cliché of the Day: Twenty-somethings and Technology

Technology: the ever present, ever whined about convenience and nuisance that I use now to communicate with a wee audience. But, it is sooo annoying, says the Original English Major.

Even Upworthy has become tiresome. It is time sucked away that could be used otherwise, that is lost forever. We don’t get this moment back. Ever. 

Upworthy, so long as we’re on the topic, is indeed worthy. One can learn about happenings of which s/he is otherwise ignorant: stop and frisk, on-line sexual slavery, etc. These things are outraging. The movements in response are the fruit of well-managed anger.

But do we do anything? Enough to keep Upworthy running. Is it a feel-good thing? The disconnect between humans that has come with technology has harmed our ability to feel, to relate, to communicate, to engage in legitimate understanding. Are media outlets such as Upworthy and Change.org successful for some generated feeling of connection, of participation? They are the news’ sources. Instead of reading the NY Times or SF Chronicle, we watch Upworthy or vote on Change and feel informed and involved; we feel something.

The generation tired of apathy, tired of the postmodern blahs, finds in these media a pseudo-connection. It is, though, the same generation that is heading the initiatives. Is it not? At least it is an effort to make connection, to interact.

I, too, subscribe to Upworthy, receive e-mails from Change and Avaaz and sometimes even 350.org and CREDO Action. How I wound up on all these mailing lists, I don’t know; why I haven’t unsubscribed, well, as it is I feel guilty for skipping over petitions or ignoring videos. Especially if I skip petitions solely for my lack of knowledge regarding the cause, the event, the likely relevant issue at hand. Instead of researching, I guilt trip myself while, oops, deleting the e-mail.

Yet it is too easy to simply click yes, this I support, to click “add my name to the proposal,” to “sign the petition.” We become lazy. Instead of researching for ourselves, we rely on others; we don’t dirty our hands.

“I’ll write a check. I support art; I just don’t have to see it,” says Ouiser.

That is how I’ve begun to feel about Change.org, Upworthy, et. al. Even World Vision. Even the Mentoring Project, to which I’ve sent many a hard-earned dollar meant for tuition.

I write a check. I click “yes.” I support change. I just don’t have to do it. I’ll give you my two to ten minutes of passion—for however long your filmed or written vignette may be— leave the rest to you. Good luck. 

Cliché of the Day: A cliché topic, the "-ists"

You’ve probably heard it: “My best friend is black.” “My best friend is gay.” Ad nauseam. If you haven’t, well, you’re blessed. (Yep, I could’ve helped that cliché.)

Now, I haven’t heard “My best friend is Mexican” or latino or Asian or Middle Eastern or African;  I don’t doubt that people say such things. But, it probably stays there, rather than using more specific language: Guatemalan, Peruvian, Uruguayan, Honduran, Columbian; Cambodian, Vietnamese, Japanese, Korean, Chinese, Hmong; Indian, Pakistani, Israeli, Iraqi, Palestinian; Malagasy, Nigerian, Sudanese, Rwandan, Ghanan, Ethiopian, Mauritanian, etc. You probably mean your best friend is American, or s/he isn’t “one of your best friends,” as the person’s actual ethnicity is beyond memory.

My closer and older friends are white. White, straight, females. I have a close friend who is first generation American; her father is Dutch. I have a wonderful friend who is Peruvian, who studied and is currently working in the U.S. There are people dear to me who are Spaniards. And family that is Mexican. One friend who is gay. (And, guess what? He is a white American.) End of story. Nope. Not too diversified, my life. To boot, most of them are Christians.

 

There’s one not heard: “My best friend is a Christian.” (Add to that “and not an asshole,” and then it might be a reasonable thing to say. Probably not.) 

I’ll say it again: my closer and older friends are white, straight, Christian women. Does that make me racist? No. Am I racist? Probably.

The majority of people are racist and/or prejudice in some way against some people group. White people need to stop defending themselves. We are not a post-racial or post sexist, or post homophobic society, and having, or claiming to have, a (best) friend from these fields does not change that.

So stop it. It sounds racist. It is defensive. And what are we defending? The fear of being labeled with an ist, no doubt. Perhaps that fear has grounds, perhaps it doesn’t. White Americans are obsessed with race, and it is disturbing. The obsession tends towards abstract conversations of color, of race, of ethnicity, and of self-protection, instead of conversations about people and the roots of their plight. It is no different when speaking of LGBT+ rights or women’s rights or immigration. Let us listen to people. Then let us speak of and with people, not concepts. Not money. Not numbers. Just people. With love.

Cliché of the Day: Death

Or not. Perhaps the language used regarding death is what gives off that stench of cliché. Passed on. Empty. Gap. Will be missed. The person who . . . fillintheblankwithsomething-positive. In a better place. So unexpected. So unfortunate. So heart-breaking.

And yes, Professor Vande Kopple’s death was unexpected. While pancreatic cancer tends to be a death sentence, a week isn’t enough time on death row. Then Bob died in surgery—unfortunate. His health considered, not surprising. Unfortunate. Gordon’s murder? Yes, heart-breaking.

Cold-blooded: a favored cliché to describe the actions of murderers and perhaps transferable to cancer. Except cancer doesn’t have blood. The cliché is that cancer sucks. Well. No shit. Murderers? Are people. People who murder? Aren’t cold-blooded, uncaring. Someone cared quite a bit about Gordon. Sure as heck wish s/he wouldnt’ve. But even a sociopath has some splintered sliver of light inside.

Three deaths and three staph infections: the great and the insignificant. Shall that describe 2013? Two births and two saving graces: Ashlyn and Eva, Debra and Irene. Shall these describe 2013? 

Or rather, indebted to the Book of Common Prayer: “. . . to have and to holde from this day forwarde, for better, for woorse, for richer, for poorer, in sickenes and in health, to love and to cherishe, til death us departe . . .”

Beat Poetry: a post-post modern's literary platform

There’s a new Upworthy clip; a father wrote and performed a poem for his son. His son has down-syndrome. The word he mentions, against which he speaks is retarded. The poem’s literary quality is wanting, but his eyes tell the of the desire; that’s what kept me listening.

I’m a little critical of such videos. Just say what you mean. The verse is convoluted. It gets in the way of the message, an important message, and is not well written or performed.

I love poetry. The beat poetry movement is really something; for me, it’s mostly a reminder of the verbal side of poetry, of the part after writing, the part I like to ignore, the performance. The beat movement takes a submerged topic and blends it with a head snapping style that is culturally appealing. It is exciting. It is passionate.

Do I enjoy the beat poetry? It’s okay.

But it seems forced. Angry sometimes. Too fast. The tones often disagree with the subject matter. But perhaps the escalating emotion is what has kept it living and growing through the 20teens. The mellow is drowned out by the dramatic. The generation tiring of the jaded postmodernism latches to open emotion, latches to those who say “fuck it” as a rallying cry rather than a sigh of cynicism. It’s hip. Hipsters are gradually handing it over to pop culture. (Says I.)

My generation’s pull for openness is frazzling for one who paired well with the skeptical, jaded mode of being. Of course, there is a balance to be found; the beat poets make me think of the pendulum metaphor, with Annie-on-Autopilot on the other side: why the hell would anyone want to “embrace their emotions” and unfurl them for the world??

My counselor, Reagan once said, “I’m going to go religious on you. Jesus got ticked in the temple. If the Son of God can get pissed, I think it’s probably okay for you to feel anger.” Okay, okay. Perhaps beat poetry is something people find to be an expression of righteous anger. (However, I think the poets could take some lessons from Eminem on breathing while keeping the desired emotion palpable.)

As for the subject matter—keep at it. Father of the wonderful son who happens to have down-syndrome, don’t stop.

The Grinch that Stole Passion

Passion. It’s a funny concept. Passion, calling, gift, vocation . . . over-used, lackluster terms nearing a drought of meaning. Calling and gift smack of evangelical necessities.

Vocation may follow in suit.

Passion? Passion is intense.

Left with passion and vocation, I judge one intense and the other stoic.

‘Tis my vocation . . . Serious business.

What is your passion? Extroverted interrogation to find the inner key to a happy, successful, meaningful life. Passion. My passion? Passion. Compassion. I get that.

Passion. Phooey. Vocation. Phbt. Life?

Life without either, oh probably slow and unfulfilling. Bugging about disinterested and tired. 

With? Don’t ask me; I don’t know.

Do you like green eggs and ham?

Yep, that’s what I hear when asked for a passion presumably packaged in my pocket.

No. I do not like green eggs and ham. 

I do not like them, Sam I am. 

Cliché but True

            It has been a while since I last wrote—at least for the blog. But between last post and now, I’ve graduated (or “commenced”) from Calvin College: four years of strenuous studying, of passionate and inspiring professors, of learning, of being loved, of struggling, of being cheered on through it all. Four years, and I have graduated with a bachelor’s degree in English and a minor in Spanish. Four years and I’ve left bits of my heart scattered at Calvin, throughout Grand Rapids, in Michigan. Four years, four CAM/walking boots, one semester in Spain and one semester on academic leave, three communication classes, two psychology classes, countless books (the beginning of a mini-library), three semesters with a solid, wonderful counselor, one Festival of Faith and Writing (and a hankering for more), four years. It has been, as goes the cliché, good, and it has been hard.

            So now what? The always present question, the unoriginal question, for “educated young adults”: now what? Oh, I don’t know. Nor do I mind not knowing. I’m not God. (Who would’ve thought?) Part-time work. Lounging around Felton and Santa Cruz, fat and happy. Writing. Living as a "wordsmith,” however that may be made manifest in the employment I see this year. A little fun wouldn’t hurt either. :)

Quiet Company

Quiet mornings . . . I’m a sucker for them. And I try to draw them out as long as possible. It’s almost ten, and I’m still calling it “my quiet morning.” Meaning, I have put very little effort into starting into a project, homework, getting out of my PJs. Meaning, I have put my efforts into coffee, food, and chill music. So maybe Miranda Lambert’s “Kerosene” doesn’t qualify as chill.

I need my quiet. We all do. Need. Just as we all need people, dammit. It stinks—quiet, solitude, what you will, is torture for some people. People, noise, talk (that nasty impossibility called “small talk”), interaction—that is torture for others.

But that quiet is also the most conducive for reading, writing, being a student. The quiet without the music, that is. The quiet whose music is a snowflake, a blue sky, a breeze, a shuffling of papers, a scratching pen, a clicking keyboard.

Quiet is dangerous. No. Aloneness is dangerous. Prolonged aloneness. Days. Hours for some. It depends on the person and her situation. But she always has her breath; truly, she is not alone. Her breath is always there. The internet is lonely. It is a dead complexity. The breath is company. It is a live simplicity.

Jesus, you say, Jesus is company. So send Him to my pal over there. He doesn’t disbelieve you; he’s just waiting for the tap on the shoulder. And is Jesus, or God, pleasant company? What if he wants Him to go away? That young man would say He already has, if He was around in the first place. God kneeling and wiping the tears from his face is an image of beauty and compassion. And it is a cruel joke. Where is He? “Do not be afraid. I am with you.” Oh really?

This is when solitude can be torture. When company is emptiness. When alone in a crowd. As if crowds weren’t bad enough, not a soul is familiar. Already panicked, the promised company to see you through is nowhere to be found. So this is what I get for trusting.

Returning to the breath is much more comforting. It is always there. It is not disruptive in solitude nor does it desert one in need of company. Here I am, it whispers. Here I am.

Pinpricks of Light

Today, my words are lacking. This last week and most of last weekend my words have been lacking, so I offer bits from previous writings, and a poet whose words I have shared before.

It is often nothing more than the gentle acts of caring that see us through the day. I wrote in my snipit style memoir of this gentleness: 

“[There] continues to be something in the word during the showers of spite; something in that smile saying, I am listening and I hear you, while the fog of muted emotion fills the air and the mind; something in those patient eyes and open hands . . .” These “somethings” can be painful; I want to do it myself, fix it myself. But that won’t do. It doesn’t work. We need someone to talk to, albeit frightening. We carry eachother through life. “[We] owe [our]  existence to others, to those who offer the simple words, the smile, the kind eyes, the gentle hands, to a broke soul. They reassure [us] that [our hearts are] beating, and that maybe, one more day or minute or moment is worth the while.”

Small but Urgent Request to the Unknowable

Whatever small nugget of kindness we carry,

that shy opal I picture buried in gray folds

of a cortex evolved to flinch at fire

and whittle sharp sticks when beasts

stalk too close; whatever prompts

bereaved widows to offer you coffee then

the guestbook, and parched sailors adrift

to share the day’s thimble of water,

and mothers to lift the most bent and broken

children with joy and glad for the work of it;

whatever iota of caring has survived

the millennia’s hardships, ice age and terror

and the simple tedium of walking upright—

maybe it’s no bigger now than a seed

in a fig—tonight I call for it, call

with my dry mouth from this cold room

clouded by my being alive

on a planet whose true gravity

eludes me; let that pinprick of light

multiply in the sky’s nightly leather

and in the pupil of each eye. Let me seek it

in the large, crazed creatures whose shadows

I fear most, in myself, for instance.

Kneeling, I poke at this ash-heaped hearth in hope

of some faint imagining, grateful for that.

Mary Karr

Sin in Eyes

            There is a weight to eyes—ringed purple and grey, rimmed red, or plain—there are days they are top heavy with sleep, days they are bottomed out with a faithful sorrow. The eyes retain truth invisible, invisible but palpable, undeniable.

            There is a sin, a type of sin that I despise more than any other in myself: that which causes pain, but not to myself. The sin committed intentionally against myself without contrition, until it sears the surrounding people. The consequence is terrible, and rightly so, but the harm done to others is irrevocable.

            The eyes suffer for the sin and tempt for an escape. Darkness. Hiding. The weight is heavy, but deserved. The eyes empty of color, fill with fog, and feign indifference. The eyes send acid guilt into their body. The eyes find distraction: flitting, firing, falling. Falling away from the eyes of others.

            This sin designed for ourselves, but producing suffering where not intended, spirals. One sin becomes two, two becomes three, three, ten. In an attempt to punish ourselves, we continue to punish others. This sin cannot be escaped alone. The very people we pain are the ones with whom we will make it out, onward, from the floor to our knees. Our eyes tell us this. They speak inward with their want of words, with their silence.

Sentence vs Cents

Artists make it. (Funny term, no? “Make it.”) Some folks, I can’t help but wonder how, but someone enjoys their music or art or medium of expression, their manner of interpretation, of caprice, of notions, the known and the unknown. Perhaps my favorite country singer and songwriter, Miranda Lambert, is an example of this “making it,” and continuing to do so. With the time she has been performing and writing, the quality of her music has not diminished; sure, her music isn’t the same as it was ten years ago, but the songs do not feel forced.

Perhaps that is what makes an artist an artist: patience. Words, music, paint strokes, carvings, welding, all of these can be forced. The products can be okay, sometimes pretty darn good, but the art lacks patience, which I would argue is a form of love. The best art is not forced.

This is why I don’t believe I ever could or will be a writer. No. I cannot and will not rely on writing for income; the writing will become desperate. Chasing the cent rather than the sentence—that is desperate writing. Not because life is about money, but because it takes money to survive in this world. And I fear that if my motive is money, my writing will not come from a healthy source.

This writing may seem desperate. Maybe it is. Maybe my writing on this blog is a desperate attempt to keep practicing so that someday I can maybe create something more worthwhile and send it to a publisher and then another and then another, until I can find it a home. But then again, when I am searching for a topic, writing and erasing, typing and deleting, not saving, crumpling, saying to hell with it all, I put my work aside. Not today, not this, give it a rest. I’ve practiced. I’ve tried. But this is not for the blog. Whoever my audience is, shrinking, growing, fluctuating, present upon fancy, non-existent, I will give them better; I can do better. I may make a penny for a published article, for which I will be grateful, if that day comes, but I do not want that to be my drive.

*Naturally, there is a place for monetary driven writing, and I respect those who can and do write to support their life, the life of their families, etc. Writing to support of one’s family, for lack of resources, so far as I’m concerned, is no longer desperate writing, but writing out of love. (For writing, yes, but moreover for people.)

Blessings From Whom?

Grand Rapids, sometimes, can seem to be a different country, but for reasons that seem to be anything but antithetical to what is “American.” Freedom of speech, right? That’s somewhat American, no? I don’t know. It’s a little difficult to decide whether or not it is still important when saying “Merry Christmas” is considered to be politically incorrect. But I’d rather not go too far up that stream right now . . . or anytime in the near future.

In any case, it’s a little different here in G.R. I bought some eggs at Horrocks, a market that I had never been to, or heard of for that matter, until this weekend. The eggs are from a dairy farm here in West Michigan (Grassfield); the chickens are free-range clucks that go munching on organic grass. The cartons are recycled, as in the first step of the tri-re-cycle: reuse. (It is marked “please return cartons.”)Good and green and hippy. I love it. Here’s the other-country bit, the box also reads “You [LORD Jesus] care for the land and water; You enrich it abundantly.” Psalm 65:9. !!

I have yet to see that in Santa Cruz. That’s brave. Having spent the last three and a half years attending Calvin and learning Reformed theology, I understand the reason for this verse: creation, fall, redemption. The land is good; it was made that way. That is the creation part. The redemption bit is the choice to care for the earth and its critters as, well, “God intended.” (Or follow the mandate—to have “dominion” is to take responsibility for, not exploit.) It’s a mission statement of sorts. Again, I could go into further depth, but I’m not going to.

            The next stop on my shopping excursion was G.B. Russo & Son, a bit of a snooty palooty store (high quality imports . . .), but not, as it is a family-owned, itty-bitty, the-one-and-only type store. I was there to take a gander at their olive oil selection (and wouldn’t be opposed to going back). When entering the purchase in my register, I noted some text at the top of the receipt: “Jesus is Lord!”

            Hm. Admittedly, that was a little too much for me. (Okay, so a lot of things are “a little too much” for me.) But, again, what boldness! Had it said, “Allah reigns,” I wouldn’t have been offended. This wasn’t offensive—just unexpected. I kind of prefer Grassfield’s approach to making a statement of belief. It’s more on par with saying, “God bless you” or “May Allah’s bless you” or whatever. I wouldn’t do either. But that’s me. These sayings are sending a person off with goodwill, a goodwill specific to a particular belief. And that is more genuine, I think, than an Muslim saying, “good luck.” Allah is more powerful than luck; therefore, the person is expressing the deepest blessing she can muster—it is the giving of the best comprehensible, rather than withholding the blessing of Allah from he who subscribes to a different set of beliefs. It’s something worth pondering. And I’ll step out with some words from Ms. Karr:

EASTER AT AL QAEDA BODEGA

At the gold speckled counter, my pal in the white apron—

index finger tapping his Arabic paper,

where the body count dwarfs

the one in my Times—announces

You’re killing my people.

But in Hell’s Kitchen, even the Antichrist

ought to have coffee—one cream

and two sugars. Blessings

upon you, he says, and means it.

Kneading and Editing

Hands. Hands, hands, hands. People are meant to use their hands; why else would we have them? To pound on a keyboard? I suppose that is a valid use. However, that is not how this subject came to mind; it all started with bread making.

             Baking is one of my best buddies. Bread making is a little more involved, but oh so worth the while. Pugliese bread does not require kneading, which is the first bread I taught myself to make. I didn’t choose the recipe because of the “no-knead” factor; I chose it because I like the stuff. But when I was in Spain, my Spanish mamá taught me how to make bread in a different, more efficient way, which brought kneading back into the game. Now, having made pizza with my family for years, kneading is not a foreign concept, and I happen to enjoy it, so I’ve rolled with this new (now quite familiar) manner of bread making. I could go on and on about bread, but I’ll spare you.

            Kneading is one of those “ya-do-it-with-your-hands” type things. Duh, right? Well, apparently, bread machines take that out of the equation—I didn’t know that until today. (And that’s more than okay; for people with arthritic hands, it’s a joy.) I couldn’t stand that. But there are many ways in which we can (and do) use our hands; and I hope we continue to.

            There are many professions that require it: massage therapy, physical therapy, chiropractic, painting, construction, etc. But also, writing. Shoot, Annie, you say, you’re feeling particularly intelligent today, aren’t you? Nah. Thanks, though.

            By writing, I don’t simply mean picking up a pen and scribbling across the paper, or chicken scratching a pencil to a nub, or doing a tap routine on the keyboard. Nope. The process—that is what I’m talking about.

There are folks who have this immensely spacious plot of land upstairs, on which they plant corn, run tractors, graze cattle, build barns . . . These people develop an essay in their minds, tweak the argument and art, and send it, when ready out the end of their ballpoint pen. Damn. (That’s not me.)

Then there are the Write-Rewriters. Meaning? Twenty tries later, we’re starting to take out the editing pen, and kicking ourselves for still having things so out of control. Expand. Remove or compress. Clarify. And then, we’re busy hating our past self for those marks, wishing the additions would simply pop into our minds. Meaning, what we want to write doesn’t order nicely or at all in our heads, write first, think second. And there are the super crazy Write-Rewriters that wring their hands raw over one sentence. (That’s me.)

That is tactile writing. I just can’t let it go. It’s environmentally unfriendly. I print out a tree with all of the drafting and restarting. But it’s working the writing over and over and over again the way one works dough over and over and over again. Then, you let it rise. But once you put it in the oven, dang, you had better hope you’ve done it right, ‘cause that’s that. Send it off to the editor . . . again, you’d better hope it’s perfecto (and that the editor isn’t gluten-intolerant). 

Say Goodbye to Why

Nearly everyday I come up with new why questions; if not, I repeat old why questions. Mixing paints, it’s like mixing paints, too many paints—instead of a new color or an answer, there’s just a mucky culmination of nothing useful. They’re mostly pointless.

A why question is an expression of emotion, often discontent, put forth as a question. Instead of I don’t want to go we say why are we going? or why do I have to go? They are typically questions without answers, especially as we get older. They can be questions of curiosity: why is the sky blue? But more often, with age, they aren’t. Why can’t I figure this out? Why do I feel this way? Why do they ask when they don’t care to listen? Why, why, why.

There are at least five other question words that can be applied to these questions: who, what, when, where, why, how. Whom can I ask for help? What can I do to feel better/differently? How can I address these emotions? What is a healthy response to this behavior I find to be hurtful? When is it appropriate to say something about it?

That is my challenge for the week, by day: to pause and reconstruct why questions.

Layover in Minneapolis

31 December 2012

Excellent. The sky is blue here in Minneapolis. Different than what I’ve been seeing over the last two weeks at home. Snowy. It’s probably chilly too. By time I get to G.R.—fo sho. Then two full days to entertain myself and . . . interim starts. Not crazy over the empty days, simply because my movement is so stinking limited.

When the ground is covered in snow and the temperatures drop severely, it is still captivating, the neighborhoods, the naked trees; it takes lifting one’s eyes from the ground, focusing on something other than the often grey skies to note.

Is it that easy? No, of course not. The cold curls chins into chests, shoulders into shields; it broadens backs and the gaze gravitates groundward.