I never remember the things I write. The things I do. I don't know why. I thought it had to do with PTSD. But how can that be if I forget the good things too?
This blog just went live this weekend. I've never shared all these things publicly before. Only my closest friends have ever even had access before.
So I've been re-reading through. Trying to find particularly interesting posts. But over and over and over, the same problems. The same self-defeat. Shouldn't I know these things by now? It's almost formulaic. It's pathetic. I get stressed out. I get sick. I get depressed. I get inspired. I write. I feel better. It starts over. How I can expect anyone to care if all I do is ride this stupid carousel?
Has anything really changed? Perhaps. I am proud of this blog. I have found a sense of self-esteem. For the first time in my life, I'm really proud of myself. But what use it that to anybody else?
YOU TELL ME.
“It is our choices, Harry, that show us what we truly are, far more than our abilities.”
I get that. I live by that. But what are my choices now? What paths haven't I ventured down yet?
I've been sick - and with my grades and therefore my scholarships and therefore my degree and therefore my life on the line - it's been freaking me out. I can't shake the feeling like I've done it all somehow. Like I have no more life to live. A lifetime of bullshit has been compacted into 21 years - my body's already reacting like I'm a hundred years old. I say things that even stun myself - I wonder if any of this is real.
Where do I go from here? Does this mean I could live for the fun of it - from now until the end? Could I get discovered, published, and live out my life the way I always dreamed from here on in? Is that really a possible ending?
Most likely, no. I think a tragedy is much more plausible. It's all felt like a fairy tale so far, why should it stop now?
I need to back away from this. I need to find something else to do.
Maybe I'm cranky because it's 4:30am - scratch that - 6:37am now - ugh fuck me - 8:16 am - and I - still - can't sleep. Maybe I'm angry because I have things due and I just have no will, no inspiration, my head aches, I'm nauseous. The thoughts just keep coming. The guilt for working on this instead of the piles of homework I have to make up for class. I don't care about my grade, as long as I pass. As long as I keep my scholarships. I just don't want to let my Professors down - not after they've been so nice. I need to stop this. I need to stop acting like school is my family.
Maybe it's all just what xxx calls "existential dread".
xxx has been reading too. Their response, as it often is, was to send me a song. I think it sums up the situation well. Does anybody out there have an explanation? A solution? If you do, I'd love to know. Please tell me. I'm serious. As you can see, I haven't been able to figure it out.
Here's the song: Yo La Tengo: Tears Are In Your Eyes
Here are the lyrics:
You tell me summer's here
And the time is wrong
You tell me winter's here
And your days are getting long
Tears are in your eyes tonight
You tell me that you haven't
Slept in days
You tell me sleeping only makes you tired
Anyway
Tears are in your eyes tonight
Tears are in your eyes every night
Although you don't believe me, you are strong
Darkness always turns into the dawn
And you won't even remember this for long
When it ends all right
Please tell me how you know tomorrow
Staring at your shoes
Tears are in your eyes every night
Tears are in your eyes every night
Tears are in your eyes tonight
Showing posts with label questioning. Show all posts
Showing posts with label questioning. Show all posts
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Monday, October 3, 2011
Lucky 21: a mini memoir
“It’s like I’m a piece of cheese and they’re two mice, fighting over me, playing tug-of-war, pulling me apart.”
I had to be about 6 or 7. The psychiatrist, I forget his name now, was impressed. I don’t remember how my Mom and Gram responded, but it’s the first time I ever remember feeling proud of myself. In a year or so, I’d have my very own counselor to listen to my worldview – Glenda (loads of Oz jokes there) would take me out of class and we’d play games in the school cafeteria - but this was a family therapy session.
Today, language is a big part of not only how I see the world, but how I fit into it. 90% of the time, even my close friends simply cannot relate to me - and in many ways, nor I to them. It’s only through writing that I’ve been able to sort through my life, and it’s writing which has given me any hope of a brighter future.
I’ve thought a lot about how I want to execute this short essay. I could – and have – done long, lovely, "heartbreaking" accounts of my experiences, but this time I’ve decided to tell just the facts:
1) I am lucky beyond all reason.
2) I was born in December of 1989.
3) My parents are L. A. G. and A. M. E. Both have a long history of mental illness, including paranoid schizophrenia and manic depressive disorder. They never really had a relationship and never married. I knew the real meaning of “bastard” from a very early age.
4) I lived with my mother for the first year of my life, at which point she had a psychotic episode and Social Services placed me with my Gram in Adams, Mass.
5) In Adams, I lived with my Gram and older sister. She was 12 or 13 when I was born. The identity of her father is unknown.
6) We were poor, but Gram was pretty good at not letting us feel it. Only in retrospect do the constant TV dinners seem at all unusual. The language of the house was a better indicator, Gram was rough. Often angry. She swore so profusely that she’d often make up her own curses. I must have been attracted to her boldness though because I still remember her growling “What do you think I am, a goddamn story teller?!” after what must have been my 100th plea for her attention. It didn’t stop me from asking a 100 and 1 or 100 and 2nd time.
7) My sister moved out of the house at 16, and had a nervous breakdown at 18. She then married a man who she felt she was helping out. She is currently 35 and often wiggles her way into my life only to use me. “We’re sisters, we’re supposed to hate each other”, she often said. She has helped me too, when she could. It's a double edged sword, and she has her own traumas to attend to.
8) I lived with my Gram until I was 9, when she died. Unfortunately, I was present at her death. I have been prescribed Effexor XR by medical professionals at Ithaca College to treat PTSD, anxiety, and depression.
9) After Gram died, I lived in foster care for a year or so. I hated it. As you can tell by now, I'm trying to spare you deeply emotional details.
10) Summer before 5th grade, my Dad was granted custody. I was a daddy’s girl and loved living with him, mainly because I did whatever I wanted. Later it would look a lot more like neglect than privilege. Only two months together, however, I was accepted to the Milton Hershey School (MHS) in Hershey, PA.
11) MHS is a completely free, K-12, boarding school for underprivileged children, funded by the chocolate and candy sales of the Hershey Company. Yes, every time you’ve bought a Hershey product, you’ve paid for my education, or the education of someone in even worse circumstances – of which there are many. The environment is a cross between an orphanage and military school. Students live in studenthomes of about 12 or 13 people of the same gender. Kids come from all across the United States and represent an almost unnatural (but amazing! I would even say ideal) microcosm of races, religions, and obstacles, though our poverty and horror stories connect us as a school family. We’re supervised at all times by a set of married, Christian, rule-abiding houseparents. Students do chores, attend Chapel (seeing a theme here? I was never one for religion), and we live according to a merit system. In exchange, the school provides food, clothing, housing, braces, glasses, doctors, education – including a laptop and upwards of $75,000 for college – at no charge whatsoever. It was both a miracle and a living nightmare for me. It was a necessity.
12) From 5th through 7th grade, I lived with strict Christian houseparents who I feel I can genuinely say mentally abused us all and set us against each other. They terrified me. I only ever wanted their love (which I thought meant their approval) and it was my own downfall. However, all my other houseparents were perfectly well meaning people who didn't make me shake with fear, though sometimes squirm with embarrassment.
13) Academically, I found a home in the classroom at MHS that I didn’t have at C.T. Plunkett Elementary in Adams. I wasn't a "smart kid" until I started going to MHS. It was also my escape from the student home. In 6th grade, I was introduced to reading through the Harry Potter books. They were banned in Eastmore for being full of such blatant Satanism as children being out of bed, and so I had to sneak the books in and read them as quick as I could. I’d just finished Prisoner of Azkaban when my roommate told on me, and I had to stand in front of everyone and promise never to do witchcraft. At least then the books were allowed. Later, when I studied for the SATs in high school, I re-read the whole series and believe my score was directly correlated to that. Not that the SATs, or really any external value system, holds much weight with me these days.
14) Anyway, besides mathematics, the learning environment there really nurtured me. My teachers liked me, and due to the size of the school, I gained a reputation which got me out of trouble on more than one occasion – to the resentment, it seemed, of my peers. I didn't feel like I had a lot of friends though I wished they would like me. I kept close to only a few people at a time and believed it was better that way, though I regret not reaching out more now. In 8th grade, I started sleeping a lot and feeling disconnected but I dealt with it by keeping a journal. I now have digitized journal entries from every year since I was 12 years old. I did it just to feel like my life had some cohesion.
15) In high school I lost my appetite for books and saw myself stop reading outside of assignments, and then I didn’t even read those. However, no matter what I did, I still got As and Bs (again, outside of math). I was known by the other kids for being four things:
1. intelligent (in the know-it-all, I make people feel insecure kind of way)
2. bold (had my moments)
3. artistic
4. white as they come (which I got the message meant being out of touch, especially awkward and aggressively emo)
16) My proudest memory of MHS was earning a “Spartan H” for Varsity Swimming because I knew it was unexpected, even though the sport itself would send me into panic attacks.
17) I often wonder if the school legitmately prepared me for the world I would find myself living in.
18) I chose my college for its a) distance from home (far as allowed) and b) writing program. I dreamt that college was where I’d always belonged and I saw it as a utopia filled with “normal, public school people” that actually gave a shit about learning and were as intellectually curious as I was without all the dysfunctional drama. Without the psychosis that gets passed on, sometimes inevitably. I have been utterly disillusioned, but I’ve also learned a lot of important things. I've learned most people - no matter their background - just don't give themselves enough credit. I've learned that we live in a culture designed to make us hate ourselves. I've learned that problems are relative, but even so, they don't define us - our reactions, our choices, are what should define who we are. If we lived by our choices, with our thoughts out in the open, we might realize we have more in common than we ever believed possible.
19) Spring 2011 I spent the semester abroad where I earned my CELTA which allows me to teach English as a foreign language. This is what I wrote in my final reflection for the course:
“This course has been a challenge for me, and therefore it has also been an absolute pleasure. Throughout my academic career I have seldom felt challenged, though I always manage to obtain a high grade. I’ve become accustomed to skipping homework and generally procrastinating because my intellectual abilities have outweighed my behavior. I’ve sensed for a long time that I wasn’t really learning much in the classroom – that I was missing a deeper understanding – but for some reason whatever I did was declared ‘good enough’ by my teachers and so I have carried on this way until now.
In this course, I couldn’t rely on my writing abilities. I couldn’t rely on my memory to sponge up the material and then wring it out during a final exam. I have my own theories about intelligence. One part of it is that everyone has their own sense of intelligence. There are no stupid people, only uninformed or misinformed people. Further, those who excel in the classroom are able to learn in more various ways than the average person. They have visual, auditory, and tactile awareness of the material no matter how it’s presented. These learning styles do not necessarily translate into teaching styles, however. This course has taught me the difference between practice and theory.”
20) On September 29th of this semester, I had a conference with ZZ Packer as part of the Distinguished Visiting Writers program. The story she read is about a 12 year old Mexican boy named Julian Ellis and his journey through foster care. ZZ really liked it. It was the happiest day of my life – I don’t think she realized it, but her validation of my writing ability was a validation of my life. My only disappointment is my need for that validation. Nevertheless, the connections between my life experiences and the elements of that story are undeniable. The idea that I had gone through shit – all this shit you’ve now read - and now it was worth something – that I have value – it was, it is, like breaking through ice.
21) 21 – my current age – my current stage in life. I’m an oddball case, and I know it. I’ve been both a bookworm and a stoner. I’ve been both a basket case and a leader. A suck up. A rebel. A visionary. A common piece of "white trash". I want to belong, but at the same time, I want to get the hell out. Now, on what might possibly be the brink of a new life – a writer’s life – I’m once again that cheese, tugged between two worlds, part of neither. So what’s a girl to do but go back to the beginning.
Fact number one: I am lucky beyond all reason.
When I was a baby, my mother could have killed me. When I was a child, my Gram’s death and foster care and MHS could have sucked out my soul. When I was a teen, the kids in school and the overwhelming authority of countless rules and policies could have gotten to me. And without MHS I may have never gone to college - at least not a private one that's for sure. When I got to college – that fact alone lucky in itself – I could have given up, and I wanted to many, many times. In Europe I could’ve let my past control my happiness. This semester, I could’ve gone home, done with it all – done with fighting an invisible monster. Be drowned by depression and stress. But I can’t. I can’t because I’m lucky. I have no reasonable, simple, explanation for being here, but I am. So I have to keep going – I owe it to everyone who deserved just as much to be in my place. I owe it to my Gram who gave up her golden years to raise her daughter’s daughters. I owe it to talented friends who just didn’t have enough to finish their degrees. I owe it to myself, because we all need hope, love, and meaning – no matter where we find it. And if I ever do “make it”, then I’ll shed light on this dark world that 90% of even my close friends can hardly imagine, one that has sucked so many worthy minds and hearts into oblivion.
That’s my discourse, that’s where I’m coming from. That’s my story.
Any questions? Feel less alone? E-mail me:wonderverse42@gmail.com DEFUNCT
I had to be about 6 or 7. The psychiatrist, I forget his name now, was impressed. I don’t remember how my Mom and Gram responded, but it’s the first time I ever remember feeling proud of myself. In a year or so, I’d have my very own counselor to listen to my worldview – Glenda (loads of Oz jokes there) would take me out of class and we’d play games in the school cafeteria - but this was a family therapy session.
Today, language is a big part of not only how I see the world, but how I fit into it. 90% of the time, even my close friends simply cannot relate to me - and in many ways, nor I to them. It’s only through writing that I’ve been able to sort through my life, and it’s writing which has given me any hope of a brighter future.
I’ve thought a lot about how I want to execute this short essay. I could – and have – done long, lovely, "heartbreaking" accounts of my experiences, but this time I’ve decided to tell just the facts:
1) I am lucky beyond all reason.
2) I was born in December of 1989.
3) My parents are L. A. G. and A. M. E. Both have a long history of mental illness, including paranoid schizophrenia and manic depressive disorder. They never really had a relationship and never married. I knew the real meaning of “bastard” from a very early age.
4) I lived with my mother for the first year of my life, at which point she had a psychotic episode and Social Services placed me with my Gram in Adams, Mass.
5) In Adams, I lived with my Gram and older sister. She was 12 or 13 when I was born. The identity of her father is unknown.
6) We were poor, but Gram was pretty good at not letting us feel it. Only in retrospect do the constant TV dinners seem at all unusual. The language of the house was a better indicator, Gram was rough. Often angry. She swore so profusely that she’d often make up her own curses. I must have been attracted to her boldness though because I still remember her growling “What do you think I am, a goddamn story teller?!” after what must have been my 100th plea for her attention. It didn’t stop me from asking a 100 and 1 or 100 and 2nd time.
7) My sister moved out of the house at 16, and had a nervous breakdown at 18. She then married a man who she felt she was helping out. She is currently 35 and often wiggles her way into my life only to use me. “We’re sisters, we’re supposed to hate each other”, she often said. She has helped me too, when she could. It's a double edged sword, and she has her own traumas to attend to.
8) I lived with my Gram until I was 9, when she died. Unfortunately, I was present at her death. I have been prescribed Effexor XR by medical professionals at Ithaca College to treat PTSD, anxiety, and depression.
9) After Gram died, I lived in foster care for a year or so. I hated it. As you can tell by now, I'm trying to spare you deeply emotional details.
10) Summer before 5th grade, my Dad was granted custody. I was a daddy’s girl and loved living with him, mainly because I did whatever I wanted. Later it would look a lot more like neglect than privilege. Only two months together, however, I was accepted to the Milton Hershey School (MHS) in Hershey, PA.
11) MHS is a completely free, K-12, boarding school for underprivileged children, funded by the chocolate and candy sales of the Hershey Company. Yes, every time you’ve bought a Hershey product, you’ve paid for my education, or the education of someone in even worse circumstances – of which there are many. The environment is a cross between an orphanage and military school. Students live in studenthomes of about 12 or 13 people of the same gender. Kids come from all across the United States and represent an almost unnatural (but amazing! I would even say ideal) microcosm of races, religions, and obstacles, though our poverty and horror stories connect us as a school family. We’re supervised at all times by a set of married, Christian, rule-abiding houseparents. Students do chores, attend Chapel (seeing a theme here? I was never one for religion), and we live according to a merit system. In exchange, the school provides food, clothing, housing, braces, glasses, doctors, education – including a laptop and upwards of $75,000 for college – at no charge whatsoever. It was both a miracle and a living nightmare for me. It was a necessity.
12) From 5th through 7th grade, I lived with strict Christian houseparents who I feel I can genuinely say mentally abused us all and set us against each other. They terrified me. I only ever wanted their love (which I thought meant their approval) and it was my own downfall. However, all my other houseparents were perfectly well meaning people who didn't make me shake with fear, though sometimes squirm with embarrassment.
13) Academically, I found a home in the classroom at MHS that I didn’t have at C.T. Plunkett Elementary in Adams. I wasn't a "smart kid" until I started going to MHS. It was also my escape from the student home. In 6th grade, I was introduced to reading through the Harry Potter books. They were banned in Eastmore for being full of such blatant Satanism as children being out of bed, and so I had to sneak the books in and read them as quick as I could. I’d just finished Prisoner of Azkaban when my roommate told on me, and I had to stand in front of everyone and promise never to do witchcraft. At least then the books were allowed. Later, when I studied for the SATs in high school, I re-read the whole series and believe my score was directly correlated to that. Not that the SATs, or really any external value system, holds much weight with me these days.
14) Anyway, besides mathematics, the learning environment there really nurtured me. My teachers liked me, and due to the size of the school, I gained a reputation which got me out of trouble on more than one occasion – to the resentment, it seemed, of my peers. I didn't feel like I had a lot of friends though I wished they would like me. I kept close to only a few people at a time and believed it was better that way, though I regret not reaching out more now. In 8th grade, I started sleeping a lot and feeling disconnected but I dealt with it by keeping a journal. I now have digitized journal entries from every year since I was 12 years old. I did it just to feel like my life had some cohesion.
15) In high school I lost my appetite for books and saw myself stop reading outside of assignments, and then I didn’t even read those. However, no matter what I did, I still got As and Bs (again, outside of math). I was known by the other kids for being four things:
1. intelligent (in the know-it-all, I make people feel insecure kind of way)
2. bold (had my moments)
3. artistic
4. white as they come (which I got the message meant being out of touch, especially awkward and aggressively emo)
16) My proudest memory of MHS was earning a “Spartan H” for Varsity Swimming because I knew it was unexpected, even though the sport itself would send me into panic attacks.
17) I often wonder if the school legitmately prepared me for the world I would find myself living in.
18) I chose my college for its a) distance from home (far as allowed) and b) writing program. I dreamt that college was where I’d always belonged and I saw it as a utopia filled with “normal, public school people” that actually gave a shit about learning and were as intellectually curious as I was without all the dysfunctional drama. Without the psychosis that gets passed on, sometimes inevitably. I have been utterly disillusioned, but I’ve also learned a lot of important things. I've learned most people - no matter their background - just don't give themselves enough credit. I've learned that we live in a culture designed to make us hate ourselves. I've learned that problems are relative, but even so, they don't define us - our reactions, our choices, are what should define who we are. If we lived by our choices, with our thoughts out in the open, we might realize we have more in common than we ever believed possible.
19) Spring 2011 I spent the semester abroad where I earned my CELTA which allows me to teach English as a foreign language. This is what I wrote in my final reflection for the course:
“This course has been a challenge for me, and therefore it has also been an absolute pleasure. Throughout my academic career I have seldom felt challenged, though I always manage to obtain a high grade. I’ve become accustomed to skipping homework and generally procrastinating because my intellectual abilities have outweighed my behavior. I’ve sensed for a long time that I wasn’t really learning much in the classroom – that I was missing a deeper understanding – but for some reason whatever I did was declared ‘good enough’ by my teachers and so I have carried on this way until now.
In this course, I couldn’t rely on my writing abilities. I couldn’t rely on my memory to sponge up the material and then wring it out during a final exam. I have my own theories about intelligence. One part of it is that everyone has their own sense of intelligence. There are no stupid people, only uninformed or misinformed people. Further, those who excel in the classroom are able to learn in more various ways than the average person. They have visual, auditory, and tactile awareness of the material no matter how it’s presented. These learning styles do not necessarily translate into teaching styles, however. This course has taught me the difference between practice and theory.”
20) On September 29th of this semester, I had a conference with ZZ Packer as part of the Distinguished Visiting Writers program. The story she read is about a 12 year old Mexican boy named Julian Ellis and his journey through foster care. ZZ really liked it. It was the happiest day of my life – I don’t think she realized it, but her validation of my writing ability was a validation of my life. My only disappointment is my need for that validation. Nevertheless, the connections between my life experiences and the elements of that story are undeniable. The idea that I had gone through shit – all this shit you’ve now read - and now it was worth something – that I have value – it was, it is, like breaking through ice.
21) 21 – my current age – my current stage in life. I’m an oddball case, and I know it. I’ve been both a bookworm and a stoner. I’ve been both a basket case and a leader. A suck up. A rebel. A visionary. A common piece of "white trash". I want to belong, but at the same time, I want to get the hell out. Now, on what might possibly be the brink of a new life – a writer’s life – I’m once again that cheese, tugged between two worlds, part of neither. So what’s a girl to do but go back to the beginning.
Fact number one: I am lucky beyond all reason.
When I was a baby, my mother could have killed me. When I was a child, my Gram’s death and foster care and MHS could have sucked out my soul. When I was a teen, the kids in school and the overwhelming authority of countless rules and policies could have gotten to me. And without MHS I may have never gone to college - at least not a private one that's for sure. When I got to college – that fact alone lucky in itself – I could have given up, and I wanted to many, many times. In Europe I could’ve let my past control my happiness. This semester, I could’ve gone home, done with it all – done with fighting an invisible monster. Be drowned by depression and stress. But I can’t. I can’t because I’m lucky. I have no reasonable, simple, explanation for being here, but I am. So I have to keep going – I owe it to everyone who deserved just as much to be in my place. I owe it to my Gram who gave up her golden years to raise her daughter’s daughters. I owe it to talented friends who just didn’t have enough to finish their degrees. I owe it to myself, because we all need hope, love, and meaning – no matter where we find it. And if I ever do “make it”, then I’ll shed light on this dark world that 90% of even my close friends can hardly imagine, one that has sucked so many worthy minds and hearts into oblivion.
That’s my discourse, that’s where I’m coming from. That’s my story.
Any questions? Feel less alone? E-mail me:
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Reborn
Do you think it’s okay to want to be dead sometimes?
To feel ugly, and wrong, and monstrous sometimes?
And if you happen to, as I do, does it matter if it’s okay with you?
Just when I think I’m getting a grip, I falter and doubt and it all starts to slip under and away.
I want to be high and covered in colors. I want my hair twisted with bees wax and held back in a bandanna. I want my face to be sweeter, my nose to be smaller, and dotted out with a small sexy ring.
I want my arms not to jiggle and my stomach to lay flat. I want to look like I feel – what’s so fucking wrong about realizing that? Because you’re not suppose to tell them what’s on your mind.
Stop giving the game away, you pathetic little thing.
Why can’t I be earnest and not scare you all senseless?
I want to be my age and not a day older. Fuck old souls, they don’t let you live longer. I want to fit in with the things I think are wonderful – the dreds and the tats and the rings in odd places. The colors and the power and the snarls and bright eyes. I want to live in the forest under the sunshine and summer rain and play a guitar where no one can hear me who doesn’t love me. To paint my front door and paint it white and paint it again. I want to get high with flowers around me, with friend’s arms around me, with salty oceans around me, pulling me into the sea.
I’m sick of having nothing to say, and believing it’s only because of me I’m unhappy.
How is it that I can open my mouth and suddenly everyone turns away – I was cute until then, they’ve told me. If I just kept my mouth shut, kept it all in, I might have a chance at being wanted.
Of getting your attention.
But they don’t see what I see when I look at the people passing by and through and over each other. The endless stream of life – if you just reach out your fingers and touch it, then you’ve changed the whole damn thing. The bands curving and intercepting and reacting because they have no other choice. Laws of motion apply to what we cannot see…
Expression is existence, silence is nothing. With one life to live, why keep any secrets? What's the point of taking anything to the grave – the only use for it is among the living.
Why worry, they’ll forget it all eventually anyway. Why worry, they won’t really care anyway. It only matters to the people who let it matter and for the time they let it matter. Letting you know what’s on my mind is how I know I’m really here…
Right now this is what I want. Ask me tomorrow and I won’t remember. I’ll just keep slipping between dreams and frustrations, between identities – I may never settle. Today is the forest, tomorrow the library, tomorrow’s tomorrow it may just be with you. All I need is your understanding; all I need is for you to know that this is what I do. What I think is right.
It’s okay to want to be dead sometimes.
Dying means you get the chance to be reborn.
To feel ugly, and wrong, and monstrous sometimes?
And if you happen to, as I do, does it matter if it’s okay with you?
Just when I think I’m getting a grip, I falter and doubt and it all starts to slip under and away.
I want to be high and covered in colors. I want my hair twisted with bees wax and held back in a bandanna. I want my face to be sweeter, my nose to be smaller, and dotted out with a small sexy ring.
I want my arms not to jiggle and my stomach to lay flat. I want to look like I feel – what’s so fucking wrong about realizing that? Because you’re not suppose to tell them what’s on your mind.
Stop giving the game away, you pathetic little thing.
Why can’t I be earnest and not scare you all senseless?
I want to be my age and not a day older. Fuck old souls, they don’t let you live longer. I want to fit in with the things I think are wonderful – the dreds and the tats and the rings in odd places. The colors and the power and the snarls and bright eyes. I want to live in the forest under the sunshine and summer rain and play a guitar where no one can hear me who doesn’t love me. To paint my front door and paint it white and paint it again. I want to get high with flowers around me, with friend’s arms around me, with salty oceans around me, pulling me into the sea.
I’m sick of having nothing to say, and believing it’s only because of me I’m unhappy.
How is it that I can open my mouth and suddenly everyone turns away – I was cute until then, they’ve told me. If I just kept my mouth shut, kept it all in, I might have a chance at being wanted.
Of getting your attention.
But they don’t see what I see when I look at the people passing by and through and over each other. The endless stream of life – if you just reach out your fingers and touch it, then you’ve changed the whole damn thing. The bands curving and intercepting and reacting because they have no other choice. Laws of motion apply to what we cannot see…
Expression is existence, silence is nothing. With one life to live, why keep any secrets? What's the point of taking anything to the grave – the only use for it is among the living.
Why worry, they’ll forget it all eventually anyway. Why worry, they won’t really care anyway. It only matters to the people who let it matter and for the time they let it matter. Letting you know what’s on my mind is how I know I’m really here…
Right now this is what I want. Ask me tomorrow and I won’t remember. I’ll just keep slipping between dreams and frustrations, between identities – I may never settle. Today is the forest, tomorrow the library, tomorrow’s tomorrow it may just be with you. All I need is your understanding; all I need is for you to know that this is what I do. What I think is right.
It’s okay to want to be dead sometimes.
Dying means you get the chance to be reborn.
*2021 note: I do not want to die, and especially do not want to lose my life at the hands of anyone or anything else - thanks - hope you appreciate the poetry in this as it was meant to be
Friday, March 27, 2009
Love like Music [truth]
I trust the music.
It never fails to take me away from where ever I may be. Give me a note, a chord, a word and I am transported. I am transformed. A static silence ago, I was a bored and empty and staring blindly out some car window. Switch the station and I am alive. The music embraces me in beats and strings and voices. Now my spirit is full. My molecules resonate within my body, joining, growing, dancing and I have purpose. Music turns my pulse to love; melts my limbs, clears my eyes and reddens my lips. I hope you can feel it too, otherwise I’m sorry; I have no choice but to leave you far, far behind. Love becomes power, and I am unafraid, on my way to some uncertain destiny. A seatbelt cannot restrain the radiating possibility – the wild of my awakened heart. I have found my soul.
Most people do not make me feel this way. If someone ever did, I would be sure to know I loved them. It is a rare thing for another person to make you feel free. Friends have made me feel accepted, made me belong. They’ve let me laugh and fed me ideas to wonder before I go to sleep. Girls have taught me to compare, and the boys have made me blush and look away. Sisters have played hide and seek with me, only to leave me in graveyards. Fathers wander away in crowded parks. Mothers tuck me in on someone else’s doorstep – but the music comes for me. Music seeks me as I seek it; we have no choice but to collide. Even in the aftermath, music lets me go, only to come back again and again in the rain of memory. The aftermath of our crash is a magic, toxic spill of reality and what can be. Music does not hide the truth from me. Confirming what my heart believed it knew, but did not have the courage to say aloud - music speaks for me. No matter my mood, there is always some human out there, human like me, to respond with their drums and violins. Music changes us, and we become something so much more than what we wanted to believe we could be, because the failure of it would be too devastating. With music we are not alone. With music we are safe.
No one has ever made me know freedom like music.
In music is the freedom of change. I transcend this mortal shell of flesh; the soul is an opal mist, I am connected to all things. I am all people; all histories, all futures. The story of life is told in music, you cannot hold it down with rules or social norms. Music is whatever it wants to be, whatever you let it be.
A softer harmony comes through the radio, more simple, more perfect. This everlasting breath tames the once wild, raging heart of possibility. Focus shifts to the easy and slow, rise and fall, of what surrounds me. This is when I want to hold your hand, wrapping a finger or two around yours, as a child would do. I want to come back for you. I want to smile. Music does not pressure me, expect things of me, or complacently accept me. Music does not underestimate me. It knows I am just as versatile, complex, full of thought and meaning and history beyond the chorus. I want to love you. I want to share my music with you. Please do not turn that volume down. Do not pull away, or speak below a whisper. Do not hide from me. Your song is your own; let me hear you, find you. Trust me. Turn it up, up, up.
It never fails to take me away from where ever I may be. Give me a note, a chord, a word and I am transported. I am transformed. A static silence ago, I was a bored and empty and staring blindly out some car window. Switch the station and I am alive. The music embraces me in beats and strings and voices. Now my spirit is full. My molecules resonate within my body, joining, growing, dancing and I have purpose. Music turns my pulse to love; melts my limbs, clears my eyes and reddens my lips. I hope you can feel it too, otherwise I’m sorry; I have no choice but to leave you far, far behind. Love becomes power, and I am unafraid, on my way to some uncertain destiny. A seatbelt cannot restrain the radiating possibility – the wild of my awakened heart. I have found my soul.
Most people do not make me feel this way. If someone ever did, I would be sure to know I loved them. It is a rare thing for another person to make you feel free. Friends have made me feel accepted, made me belong. They’ve let me laugh and fed me ideas to wonder before I go to sleep. Girls have taught me to compare, and the boys have made me blush and look away. Sisters have played hide and seek with me, only to leave me in graveyards. Fathers wander away in crowded parks. Mothers tuck me in on someone else’s doorstep – but the music comes for me. Music seeks me as I seek it; we have no choice but to collide. Even in the aftermath, music lets me go, only to come back again and again in the rain of memory. The aftermath of our crash is a magic, toxic spill of reality and what can be. Music does not hide the truth from me. Confirming what my heart believed it knew, but did not have the courage to say aloud - music speaks for me. No matter my mood, there is always some human out there, human like me, to respond with their drums and violins. Music changes us, and we become something so much more than what we wanted to believe we could be, because the failure of it would be too devastating. With music we are not alone. With music we are safe.
No one has ever made me know freedom like music.
In music is the freedom of change. I transcend this mortal shell of flesh; the soul is an opal mist, I am connected to all things. I am all people; all histories, all futures. The story of life is told in music, you cannot hold it down with rules or social norms. Music is whatever it wants to be, whatever you let it be.
A softer harmony comes through the radio, more simple, more perfect. This everlasting breath tames the once wild, raging heart of possibility. Focus shifts to the easy and slow, rise and fall, of what surrounds me. This is when I want to hold your hand, wrapping a finger or two around yours, as a child would do. I want to come back for you. I want to smile. Music does not pressure me, expect things of me, or complacently accept me. Music does not underestimate me. It knows I am just as versatile, complex, full of thought and meaning and history beyond the chorus. I want to love you. I want to share my music with you. Please do not turn that volume down. Do not pull away, or speak below a whisper. Do not hide from me. Your song is your own; let me hear you, find you. Trust me. Turn it up, up, up.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
The Secret to Immortality
The whole thing scares the shit out of me.
The pure chaos of living.
The impermanence of all life. Of everything.
We want to believe there are ways to live on. Ironically, some cannot even function enough to live without thinking more living is possible. Without the comfort of immortality. Life after death. Worldly legacy - a hook we throw out for the world to hang onto and remember us. But there are not always happy endings.
Take, for instance, the life of the man trampled to death by holiday shoppers. See his world played out on the big screen.....his birth, his parents faces, his siblings laughter and fighting - family - their pets. Where he lived. How much money they had. Fights about new sneakers. Who he made friends with. Who were his enemies. Who he crushed on, thinking about them together instead of algebraic functions. What opportunities were open to him? Which ones did he seize? What regrets did he have? Passions? In the end, who did he really love?
We know his name, his age, where he worked.
We know how he died.
And that's all we have, all that identifies him.
There's not always going to be this inspirational book-movie-adaptation. The romantically bitter sweet ending set to epic music - so powerful it seems that your soul will echo through it until the end of never - does not happen.
For most, life - from start to finish - is mundane.
It's a day to day struggle of everything on every level. Our biological impulses against our psychological values, who we are vs. who we want to be vs. who we can be.
And for all of that, we still die without even scratching the surface.
Where is the memorial for humanity?
We are a world. We are cultures, ideas, wants, needs. We are clusters of individuals who never asked anyone's permission or favor to exist. At least, no one remembers asking for this.
And if you can't remember, does it really matter?
And hence the desperate importance, and futility, of remembering - of trying to reach immortality.
Maybe all we have is comfort. All we can hope for is some type of happiness, contentment, acceptance - of our fate. Just a moment's peace. Especially the poor, the talentless, the ugly, the sick. We who are not in fashion at the moment. All we have is each other. Our unrecorded dialogue, laughter, love, drama, envy - our own little world made to be forgotten in the shadow of the better lives lived on TV.
Maybe there are just too many damn people in the world. We can't all be important. We can't all be remembered. And everything eventually fades or corrupts. Nothing and no one, by life or legacy, is permanent. "On a long enough time line........"
Do what you want for today. Don't just try to be happy. Be fulfilled. Be realized. Do everything you can't do when you're dead. Exist to the most extreme degree. Change something. Even if you light the fire just to watch it burn.
The Secret to Immortality: It Doesn't Exist.
The pure chaos of living.
The impermanence of all life. Of everything.
We want to believe there are ways to live on. Ironically, some cannot even function enough to live without thinking more living is possible. Without the comfort of immortality. Life after death. Worldly legacy - a hook we throw out for the world to hang onto and remember us. But there are not always happy endings.
Take, for instance, the life of the man trampled to death by holiday shoppers. See his world played out on the big screen.....his birth, his parents faces, his siblings laughter and fighting - family - their pets. Where he lived. How much money they had. Fights about new sneakers. Who he made friends with. Who were his enemies. Who he crushed on, thinking about them together instead of algebraic functions. What opportunities were open to him? Which ones did he seize? What regrets did he have? Passions? In the end, who did he really love?
We know his name, his age, where he worked.
We know how he died.
And that's all we have, all that identifies him.
There's not always going to be this inspirational book-movie-adaptation. The romantically bitter sweet ending set to epic music - so powerful it seems that your soul will echo through it until the end of never - does not happen.
For most, life - from start to finish - is mundane.
It's a day to day struggle of everything on every level. Our biological impulses against our psychological values, who we are vs. who we want to be vs. who we can be.
And for all of that, we still die without even scratching the surface.
Where is the memorial for humanity?
We are a world. We are cultures, ideas, wants, needs. We are clusters of individuals who never asked anyone's permission or favor to exist. At least, no one remembers asking for this.
And if you can't remember, does it really matter?
And hence the desperate importance, and futility, of remembering - of trying to reach immortality.
Maybe all we have is comfort. All we can hope for is some type of happiness, contentment, acceptance - of our fate. Just a moment's peace. Especially the poor, the talentless, the ugly, the sick. We who are not in fashion at the moment. All we have is each other. Our unrecorded dialogue, laughter, love, drama, envy - our own little world made to be forgotten in the shadow of the better lives lived on TV.
Maybe there are just too many damn people in the world. We can't all be important. We can't all be remembered. And everything eventually fades or corrupts. Nothing and no one, by life or legacy, is permanent. "On a long enough time line........"
Do what you want for today. Don't just try to be happy. Be fulfilled. Be realized. Do everything you can't do when you're dead. Exist to the most extreme degree. Change something. Even if you light the fire just to watch it burn.
The Secret to Immortality: It Doesn't Exist.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Old Things
I used to love, really love, old things.
But now I just don't see them in the same way anymore.
They're destructible.
I guess the fact that they've stood for all this time is one accomplishment. They're strong, or lucky.
So maybe there's still charm left there after all.
But now I just don't see them in the same way anymore.
They're destructible.
I guess the fact that they've stood for all this time is one accomplishment. They're strong, or lucky.
So maybe there's still charm left there after all.
No Witnesses
How many people die each day.
Everyday.
People I don't know. People I might not even have liked.
People no great amount of people will ever remember.
Maybe two, three tops until they die too, of course.
But it all goes on. It's nothing personal. Nothing to get too offended about. It's just how it is. If everyone were famous - no one would be famous. All we can do to stop death is to manufacture more life. Seek permanence in books, art, industry, children. Maybe money isn't the root of all evil - maybe life is.
Everything must belong somewhere.
Step outside and take a look.
Somewhere out in America, it's starting to rain. Can you tell me one thing you will remember about me?
* I reference songs a lot, if you hadn't noticed *
I'm one of those thousands of people out there. I belong here in the world. Another face, a tourist's passover shot with a hand held camera. I'm an american. The people on this bus. The expanding world outside and beyond. Blips. Beautiful, colorful, momentary blips.
The world requires no audience. No witnesses. No witnesses.
I am just so much.
What if I were to be suddenly diagnosed? What if this bus crashes, or aliens invade the earth? Will I be able to live with my own death? As long as I keep writing, keep believing, I think I can. I can survive my own death. And so, I am everyone I write about. Everyone I write for. Heroes and strangers and friends - together we will all live forever through letters.
Everyday.
People I don't know. People I might not even have liked.
People no great amount of people will ever remember.
Maybe two, three tops until they die too, of course.
But it all goes on. It's nothing personal. Nothing to get too offended about. It's just how it is. If everyone were famous - no one would be famous. All we can do to stop death is to manufacture more life. Seek permanence in books, art, industry, children. Maybe money isn't the root of all evil - maybe life is.
Everything must belong somewhere.
Step outside and take a look.
Somewhere out in America, it's starting to rain. Can you tell me one thing you will remember about me?
* I reference songs a lot, if you hadn't noticed *
I'm one of those thousands of people out there. I belong here in the world. Another face, a tourist's passover shot with a hand held camera. I'm an american. The people on this bus. The expanding world outside and beyond. Blips. Beautiful, colorful, momentary blips.
The world requires no audience. No witnesses. No witnesses.
I am just so much.
What if I were to be suddenly diagnosed? What if this bus crashes, or aliens invade the earth? Will I be able to live with my own death? As long as I keep writing, keep believing, I think I can. I can survive my own death. And so, I am everyone I write about. Everyone I write for. Heroes and strangers and friends - together we will all live forever through letters.
America
By the look of the number of people on the bus I get on, I can't help but think I'm going to nowhere anyone wants to be.
I started to think that I really lost sight of what was really the whole purpose of going to college. The whole process of growing up and becoming an adult - I took for granted all my moments of strength and maturity, forgetting that there's more to life than rules and pretty phrases. I've been a brat. Good adults know that everyone has pain. That these boundaries aren't as solid as we think, on either side. I need to remember my dignity. My powers and my weaknesses equally, and to just sit back and enjoy.
"I was walkin'.... all by myself"
Pride in Independence.
I think that's why Boston calls to me. I can be more independant there. More focused and free. More alive.
A fog of grime is coating the world outside the bus windows.
If I could do anything, I think I'd like to be a traveling writer. Document today's America. Maybe I could assemble a documentary crew, and we'll spend years going from town to town. My role would be to write all the narration. We'd take turns driving.
Visit towns, interview people. Always be nonthreatening, a blank slate for them to write on. For us to document on camera. Subcultures. Landscapes. Expose poverty and pollution. Show the faces behind the polls.
What is America? Modern America
And what we found there....
I started to think that I really lost sight of what was really the whole purpose of going to college. The whole process of growing up and becoming an adult - I took for granted all my moments of strength and maturity, forgetting that there's more to life than rules and pretty phrases. I've been a brat. Good adults know that everyone has pain. That these boundaries aren't as solid as we think, on either side. I need to remember my dignity. My powers and my weaknesses equally, and to just sit back and enjoy.
"I was walkin'.... all by myself"
Pride in Independence.
I think that's why Boston calls to me. I can be more independant there. More focused and free. More alive.
A fog of grime is coating the world outside the bus windows.
If I could do anything, I think I'd like to be a traveling writer. Document today's America. Maybe I could assemble a documentary crew, and we'll spend years going from town to town. My role would be to write all the narration. We'd take turns driving.
Visit towns, interview people. Always be nonthreatening, a blank slate for them to write on. For us to document on camera. Subcultures. Landscapes. Expose poverty and pollution. Show the faces behind the polls.
What is America? Modern America
And what we found there....
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
What If [We are a generation of thieves]
We are a generation of thieves.
We steal each other's time,
Beauty. Freedom. Choice.
Our ability to live any kind of adventure is greatly diminished. Only the strongest ones can catch the train now. Only the lucky ones.
The love inside of me is there, I know it, deeply suffocating. It's fighting.
Oh god, how I long for a time that is older. Whether myself being older or just going into the past, the wrinkles I remember in my Grandmother's face remind me that I do not truly belong here. I overcompensate my youth, substitute it with quirky humor and broad smiles. But I am not so young. Unless romance is only for the young...then I suppose I'm wrong...what if I'm wrong about everything?
What if there is a God?
What if there is an afterlife? Oh how much easier living this life would be.
To know that you will see them again. Talk to them. Kiss them. Touch them. Feel Them.
What if nothing were ever over? What if it never ends?
*6/13/25 note: no god worthy of worship would have let this shit happen to anyone anywhere in the world
You're a sparkling ball of electricity, bouncing through the black cosmos until you collide with - anything - and life explodes on impact.
Oh how fortunate we would be. This modern life has been clouded. We no longer value the important things, the real things, on a day to day basis. Gap is the God of Love. Oil is the God of War. Money is a deadly sin, a necessary evil we all indulge. Adventure has been written off, adventure is for those who can afford it. We've thrown it to the movie stars and Hollywood to interpret for us in 120 minute blocks of light & sound & sex. That's our escape. When we blink back into our reality as the lights come up, we forget. Everyone forgets. Promises are broken, honor is lost. Follow the masses! Fall into the pit. We're all so lost, so unhappy, so screwed, and all so alone among the sea of everybody else.
But what if I fight back? What if I don't listen to the magazines and the logical minds that tell me "love like that doesn't exist." "lower your standards" "be realistic".
What if I keep my dreams, never let them go, pursue them with every cell in my body?
What if I write? Draw, create, organize, lead, revolt, win? What if I choose love? What if I choose happiness? What if I could get everyone else to do the same?
Perhaps then, fear would not be so scary. Love would be more daily than expensive jeans. Humanity would rule over technology, instead of being ruled by it.
Monday, October 6, 2008
New Ways to Watch TV
*heavy edit 6/27/19
The major events of our lives will be seen and experienced differently in the lives of those who will exist in the future.
Examples:
Titanic (as in the ship) ---> sank. many people died. very sad. really happened. Year: 1912
Titanic (movie) -> Hugely successful. Wildly Romantic. Won loads of awards. Inspired us to care. Year: 1999
-What would those lost on the actual Titanic think about the movie?-
George W. Bush ----> President from 2000 to 2008
Movies ---> W. (2008) and movies about 911
That's now. What will the future see? With what lens will the future use to look at us today?
I want someone in the future to think of me and say "You know, Laura would have loved this" and maybe in that way I will be there. Part of me, somehow, will be there experiencing it with them. And I will never miss a thing.
The major events of our lives will be seen and experienced differently in the lives of those who will exist in the future.
Examples:
Titanic (as in the ship) ---> sank. many people died. very sad. really happened. Year: 1912
Titanic (movie) -> Hugely successful. Wildly Romantic. Won loads of awards. Inspired us to care. Year: 1999
-What would those lost on the actual Titanic think about the movie?-
George W. Bush ----> President from 2000 to 2008
Movies ---> W. (2008) and movies about 911
That's now. What will the future see? With what lens will the future use to look at us today?
I want someone in the future to think of me and say "You know, Laura would have loved this" and maybe in that way I will be there. Part of me, somehow, will be there experiencing it with them. And I will never miss a thing.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
The Fish
Next to the curb, snow was falling on the oversized orange and green fish shoved unceremoniously between the community garbage cans. Full of last month’s Thanksgiving paraphernalia, people forget to recycle at Christmas time, as though the only synonym for “useful” was “new”. As wide as the cans were tall, the fish was one of those prizes you win at a carnival game; the kind where you spend hours sending a little hoop clanking over old-fashioned green glass soda bottles just for the victory of it. Even I was guilty of begging my father to win me something like it once.
This particular fish’s stringy fins must have held sequins not long ago, and surely it didn’t come with that ketchup stain on its belly – or was it a heart? Gray, fluffy stuffing was escaping from the side of its fat lips, which where perpetually puckered in style of an Aunt’s big, wet kiss. The most pitiful part of its appearance, however, was the enormous brown eyes. Bigger than even the lips, the eyes protruded as giant globes. Like crystal balls which tell only the past. At one point they had said, “Love me! Fight for me! Win me! Take me home!” But now they stare at me, shocked and betrayed; making me feel guilty – as though the whole creation of itself was my entire fault.
Stitched and stuffed for profit, without children, who would want such a thing? What motivation would any adult have for owning something so easily abandoned? Say they were pressured by friends to win it, just to prove they could. For a lover perhaps… no, true love would not need such a display of wealth and trivial eye-coordination skills. Of course, no one would take a person very seriously who entertained an oversized, hideously colored, stuffed animal in their office. A giant fish isn’t really a trophy to anyone but a child – the one thing that can relate to it the most.
There are children very much like carnival fish. Obtained as a means to hold together a relationship, for pride, by force, or by accident – they are more like discarded trophies than beating hearts. Each has their own set of torn threads and stained patches, each a personal set of eyes, averted in shame for their exposure. What makes an unwanted child any different than a carnival prize?
Of course, please excuse me; this example is far too specific. Most prizes are very much wanted and hard earned. The vast majority, in fact, are placed on little shelves in little glass boxes and admired for years. How few carnival prizes are actually ever won? How many could possibly be discarded in dumps and landfills, hardly distinguishable from all the real trash out there. Didn’t watching Rudolph at Christmas teach you anything? Didn’t your mother explain the significance of The Island of Misfit Toys – that’s where all the unwanted things go! No one ever expects them to come back.
Perhaps that is what happened to this fish. It isn’t being thrown away at all; it’s merely escaping from the island. So then, credit must be given where credit is due! This fish is not a victim of industry or human pride. This fish is a fighter. Those rips and stains are evidence of life, not ugliness or death. I should bring it some hot chocolate, like my father used to bring me, and it can tell me stories of all the places it has been and all the things it has done.
The snow is beginning to pile up, creating a little happy birthday-hat on the fish’s dirty head, and filling the creases of my father’s winter coat. I decide not to get the hot chocolate. Sometimes, the independent ones don’t want to be recognized.Besides, being a misfit is not something to be too proud of anyway. Once so clean and sparkling, swimming high in the air above prospective parents, owners, victors - among others so similar to itself - there was a time when it was a wanted thing.
Now, dragging through this frigid filth, the contrasting failure is the most hopeless and heinous of eyesores. It’s all too awkward and too difficult to understand – better to just leave it alone collecting snow.
Oh, but that’s no way to live, as though the comfort of others is the only goal! Rats gnawing at fins and eyes do so just to do something with them. They’ll eat and tear until everything disappears, and then move on to the next unforgivably existing thing, without a single thought paid to memory. I want to scream at the fish, “Get up! Show them what you can do! Recognize your past! Realize how far you’ve come!” But the carnival fish would not be able to understand me; it probably doesn’t even speak English.
And besides, it’s a fish.
Toys like these have a sense of timelessness. They don’t really belong to any particular place, and it’s easy to forget that they are just fabric and thread. Carnivals themselves are romanticized scenes of mystery, wonder and fantasy. This silly fish is just an extension of that. Illusions and embellishments – lies – there is no real story here, so I might as well go inside. On the other hand, from this distance the fish is my personal side-show. Snow is pressing and piling on the head and fins. Whether the inevitable trash pick-up day, or the molding, wet stuffing - it is a doomed thing. Maybe by watching it, I can learn something about disappearing. This must be an act picked up during its carnival days. A simple trick to make the crowed curious and then leave them waiting just on the edge of discovery.
I wonder if my blue eyes can be seen, spying from underneath my father’s hood, underneath the all-consuming snow. All I can see through the whiteness are bulging brown eyes. Those orbs are no longer pleading. They evoke neither pity nor idolization. In the time it took to win the creature, it is out of sight, lost to the snow. I stand up and heavy powder falls from my father’s coat. I had forgotten I was sitting down. Turning to go back inside, I see the door, closed and bare, to my father’s house. Suddenly, a force of dormant panic awakens and surges inside me, like the thousands of pins and needles electrifying my legs. I rush to the cluster of trash, pushing away the burning snow with bare hands. Can it be saved, the wretched creature? Breath escapes my purpled lips as fog obscures my vision, already impaired in the deep blue winter twilight. Try as I might to fight through the gray matter of snow and paper pilgrims, trying to reach an end to this mess of frozen waste; trying with every drop of heated blood pushing through my veins – the carnival fish is gone. Snow drifts and whispers across the black asphalt on its belly, curving and shifting with the night. Steadily, I retreat down the empty street; looking from window to window at lights and decorations, and shaking a little every so often, so the snow doesn’t have a chance to pile up.
This particular fish’s stringy fins must have held sequins not long ago, and surely it didn’t come with that ketchup stain on its belly – or was it a heart? Gray, fluffy stuffing was escaping from the side of its fat lips, which where perpetually puckered in style of an Aunt’s big, wet kiss. The most pitiful part of its appearance, however, was the enormous brown eyes. Bigger than even the lips, the eyes protruded as giant globes. Like crystal balls which tell only the past. At one point they had said, “Love me! Fight for me! Win me! Take me home!” But now they stare at me, shocked and betrayed; making me feel guilty – as though the whole creation of itself was my entire fault.
Stitched and stuffed for profit, without children, who would want such a thing? What motivation would any adult have for owning something so easily abandoned? Say they were pressured by friends to win it, just to prove they could. For a lover perhaps… no, true love would not need such a display of wealth and trivial eye-coordination skills. Of course, no one would take a person very seriously who entertained an oversized, hideously colored, stuffed animal in their office. A giant fish isn’t really a trophy to anyone but a child – the one thing that can relate to it the most.
There are children very much like carnival fish. Obtained as a means to hold together a relationship, for pride, by force, or by accident – they are more like discarded trophies than beating hearts. Each has their own set of torn threads and stained patches, each a personal set of eyes, averted in shame for their exposure. What makes an unwanted child any different than a carnival prize?
Of course, please excuse me; this example is far too specific. Most prizes are very much wanted and hard earned. The vast majority, in fact, are placed on little shelves in little glass boxes and admired for years. How few carnival prizes are actually ever won? How many could possibly be discarded in dumps and landfills, hardly distinguishable from all the real trash out there. Didn’t watching Rudolph at Christmas teach you anything? Didn’t your mother explain the significance of The Island of Misfit Toys – that’s where all the unwanted things go! No one ever expects them to come back.
Perhaps that is what happened to this fish. It isn’t being thrown away at all; it’s merely escaping from the island. So then, credit must be given where credit is due! This fish is not a victim of industry or human pride. This fish is a fighter. Those rips and stains are evidence of life, not ugliness or death. I should bring it some hot chocolate, like my father used to bring me, and it can tell me stories of all the places it has been and all the things it has done.
The snow is beginning to pile up, creating a little happy birthday-hat on the fish’s dirty head, and filling the creases of my father’s winter coat. I decide not to get the hot chocolate. Sometimes, the independent ones don’t want to be recognized.Besides, being a misfit is not something to be too proud of anyway. Once so clean and sparkling, swimming high in the air above prospective parents, owners, victors - among others so similar to itself - there was a time when it was a wanted thing.
Now, dragging through this frigid filth, the contrasting failure is the most hopeless and heinous of eyesores. It’s all too awkward and too difficult to understand – better to just leave it alone collecting snow.
Oh, but that’s no way to live, as though the comfort of others is the only goal! Rats gnawing at fins and eyes do so just to do something with them. They’ll eat and tear until everything disappears, and then move on to the next unforgivably existing thing, without a single thought paid to memory. I want to scream at the fish, “Get up! Show them what you can do! Recognize your past! Realize how far you’ve come!” But the carnival fish would not be able to understand me; it probably doesn’t even speak English.
And besides, it’s a fish.
Toys like these have a sense of timelessness. They don’t really belong to any particular place, and it’s easy to forget that they are just fabric and thread. Carnivals themselves are romanticized scenes of mystery, wonder and fantasy. This silly fish is just an extension of that. Illusions and embellishments – lies – there is no real story here, so I might as well go inside. On the other hand, from this distance the fish is my personal side-show. Snow is pressing and piling on the head and fins. Whether the inevitable trash pick-up day, or the molding, wet stuffing - it is a doomed thing. Maybe by watching it, I can learn something about disappearing. This must be an act picked up during its carnival days. A simple trick to make the crowed curious and then leave them waiting just on the edge of discovery.
I wonder if my blue eyes can be seen, spying from underneath my father’s hood, underneath the all-consuming snow. All I can see through the whiteness are bulging brown eyes. Those orbs are no longer pleading. They evoke neither pity nor idolization. In the time it took to win the creature, it is out of sight, lost to the snow. I stand up and heavy powder falls from my father’s coat. I had forgotten I was sitting down. Turning to go back inside, I see the door, closed and bare, to my father’s house. Suddenly, a force of dormant panic awakens and surges inside me, like the thousands of pins and needles electrifying my legs. I rush to the cluster of trash, pushing away the burning snow with bare hands. Can it be saved, the wretched creature? Breath escapes my purpled lips as fog obscures my vision, already impaired in the deep blue winter twilight. Try as I might to fight through the gray matter of snow and paper pilgrims, trying to reach an end to this mess of frozen waste; trying with every drop of heated blood pushing through my veins – the carnival fish is gone. Snow drifts and whispers across the black asphalt on its belly, curving and shifting with the night. Steadily, I retreat down the empty street; looking from window to window at lights and decorations, and shaking a little every so often, so the snow doesn’t have a chance to pile up.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
A LETTER
Dear Pastor W, Mr. V, Mr. W and readers of "The Age",
It is out of the sincerest respect and deepest appreciation of Milton Hershey School,
having provided me with both academic and social education which I
could not have received at home, that I am discontinuing my "The Age"
e-mails.
Earlier today I received the following message from Pastor W in response to one of my "The Age" e-mails:
"Laura - You will stop this inappropriate use of your e-mail privilege right now. You
are free to believe whatever you want about God, prayer, and all
spiritual things, and, when your not on the MHS campus, you can practice
your belief system any way you would like. But on our campus, belief in the reality of God will be taught and faith in God will be encouraged. If
you choose to continue to abuse your e-mail privilege by promoting what
is diametrically opposed to the beliefs of the school, your e-mail will
be taken away from you. If you want to talk privately about your beliefs, let me know!"
The
purpose of these e-mails – as the recipients were well aware - was to
explore Bible verses and other religious themed materials. With
the disbandment of the high school philosophy club "Truth Seekers", I
wanted to create an opportunity for my friends to explore both their
personal views and alternative ideas with each other. The students
involved come from various faiths and each has a different religious
history.
I used e-mail because it was the easiest and most direct form of communication for busy students.
Even
the most faithful Christian teenager (as responses to my "The Age"
e-mails have proven) will have questions and concerns about their own
faith. These could lead their thoughts toward another system of beliefs
or even Atheism (the belief that god does not exist). Should these
questioning students be shunned? Isolated? Out rightly ignored? Should
these students be denied the opportunity for unbiased discussion/debate
on the subject with their peers?
Many
times, I have found that my comments – should another person find them
faulty – have done nothing but strengthen their resolve in their own
faith. I highly doubt that the goal of MHS is to
lead students to faith through uneducated blindness and fear. The views
of the school and my own may be polar opposites, but I am confident that
the intentions of both are of the purest quality. Despite the
undeniable reality that MHS solely supports Christian beliefs, I still
hope to create a peaceful awareness of alternative views – even those
that I do not share. Simply, we are each passionate about what we feel
is right, and we take the responsibility of communicating that truth
personally.
The
greatest asset a school can bestow upon its students is the opportunity
to develop a true sense of self. All the memorized math equations in
the world cannot compare with the confidence and success that comes with
knowing who you are, what you stand for, and why. The
consequences of silencing these students will be far more devastating
than exposing them to what is a "diametrically opposed" belief.
With Respect, Integrity, and a Positive Spirit,
Laura L. Gamari
Studenthome: Clearview
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Know Where You Stand
Religion at Milton Hershey School
An Editorial by Laura L. Gamari
“Last year, I told some girls in my student home what I believed in. They forced me into the living room and were trying to explain to me why I should believe what they believe (Christianity). They literally called my religion “stupid” and turned my serious beliefs into a joke.”
– S, Wiccan
“The school doesn’t really seem to care about other people’s faith. The school will not provide transportation to Jewish students for Temple so that they can expand their religious faith. The school only serves to the Christian community. I feel that, for our student body, diversity of faith is important.” –J, Christian
“My old Houseparents made me place a Bible on my headboard, so I placed a copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. I received 10 days of detention. They made me take down song lyrics I had on my tack-board (Don McLean’s “American Pie”, where the lyrics went: “No angel born in Hell/could break that Satan’s spell”). So I put up a lyric from Slayer's "Jesus Saves" (" For all respect you cannot lust/in an invisible man you place your trust"). I received 20 days of detention. I received 3 hours of chores for objecting to Pastor Mike’s explanation of Euthanasia as “killing someone you don’t think should live anymore.” Most recently, I confronted the school about starting a Gay/Straight Alliance – which is common in schools across America – but was denied even consideration based on the Judeo-Christian values of the school. So, do I feel there is religious intolerance at MHS? Yeah, you could say that.”
- Anonymous, Atheist
–
Is Milton Hershey School intolerant, and even oppressive, when it comes to matters of religion? Whenever the topic of faith is allowed to be broached, the situation can easily transform from a discussion into a riot. The purpose of this editorial is to explore, from the perspective of various members of the MHS community, the issue of religion for Senior Hall students.
While Christianity is, by far, the most common standing on religion at Milton Hershey School, it is not the only one. Muslims, Jews, Buddhists, Jainists, Wiccans, and Atheists walk the halls and vacuum the service porch along with everybody else. Yet at MHS, any inquiry about recognizing beliefs, other than Christianity, is usually answered by Houseparents and Administration alike with: “Milton and Catherine Hershey were Christians, and so our school is established on their faith.”
While students may cringe about this: the adults are right. (Kind of.)
The Hershey Archives (www.hersheyarchives.org) explains, “Both the Hershey and Snavely families were originally Mennonite.” However, “though Milton's mother was a staunch member of the Reformed Mennonite Church…formal religion was never a part of Milton Hershey's life. When he was asked once what his religion was, he is said to have replied, "The Golden Rule." The Golden Rule, of course, is “Do unto others, as you would have them do unto you.” So important was this rule to Milton Hershey, that is hangs in every student home on campus. Religious Tolerance.org (www.religioustolerance.org) lists 21 world religions that have a version of The Golden Rule in their faith.
With that in mind, did Milton Hershey want his school to teach one religion, or the tolerance of other’s choices? An answer may be found, written in Hershey’s own words, in the very document that established MHS - the Deed of Trust. Article 17 of the Deed of Trust, which is on the MHS Intranet (http://intranet.apps.mhs-pa.org), states:
“The School shall be non-sectarian, but the moral and religious training of the scholars shall be properly looked after and cared for by the Managers. No favoritism shall be shown; by the Managers to any particular sect or creed. Each scholar shall be taught to speak the truth at all times, and each and every scholar shall be thoroughly trained to habits of economy, and industry.”
But, what is non-sectarian? A literal definition from Merriam Webster Dictionary defines non-sectarian as: “Not affiliated with or restricted to a particular religious group.” So, shouldn’t that mean that students are free to practice or believe anything they are inclined to? According to the “Statement of Religion,” policy 5.04, (this can be found by searching the word “Religion” on the MHS Intranet) the answer is “No”. The Policy states that:
“It is our interpretation that "nonsectarian", within the context of 1909 and the writing of the Trust and, in keeping with our heritage, we will not permit exclusion of students of other denominations, sects, or creeds. It is a right in the United States to hold to a particular belief system, according to the U.S. Constitution. The same is true at Deed of Trust, means to be "non-denominational" within the Judeo-Christian heritage.”
The school has, indeed, made attempts to accommodate more worldly views in our community. Students are not screened for their religious affiliation upon enrollment and there have not been any reported cases of a student being terminated based on their religious affiliation. Judeo-Christian does not mean “Christianity”, but actually having historical roots in both Judaism and Christianity. In fact, Policy 5.04 continues to declare:
“We also believe that it is essential to demonstrate respect for others' beliefs and traditions as stated in the Deed Milton Hershey School, as long as that belief system does not cause physical or emotional harm to the student or others. Therefore, to the extent that we are reasonably able, we will continue to be supportive of the religious needs of all students.”
The issue is not truly that Milton Hershey School is intolerant of non-Christian beliefs, but that there is little follow-through or support for more open-minded and tolerant action. Under the L- Administration, the school attempted to be more ecumenical. Chaplin S would quote from the Torah and Koran along with the Bible in Chapel, as well as touch on Hindu prayers and Buddhist rituals (In 2003, Chaplin S left and was replaced by Pastor W). The effort to have the Torah and the Koran next to the Bible in student homes has been made, though seldom enforced by Houseparents.
A World Religions class is available for the 10th and 12th grades. Yet, students have reviewed this class as “highly biased” and “a class where you’ll learn the name of a religion, why it’s wrong, and how to convert its followers to Christianity.” C expressed, “Even though my religion, Jehovah’s Witness, is under the Christian umbrella – my beliefs were still discriminated against and joked about in the class.” S said, “I have not yet attended World Religions class, but I’ve been informed that it is a stereotypical representation of each religion and is extremely demeaning to other religions except Christianity.”
As the opening statements to this editorial suggest, discrete, scarring and tragically unnecessary forms of intolerance and “intervention” occur behind closed doors. An anonymous student recalled, “I’ve been in student homes where the Houseparents encouraged the others to talk to me about God. I kind of believed in God at the time, but Christianity just seemed twisted to me. Well, they would start reading Bible passages out loud whenever I was in the room, or tell me they would pray for me, or that I was going to hell. I felt pressured to conform and the Houseparents demanded that I bow my head and close my eyes whenever we prayed. I tried very hard to appease them and at least be respectful, but I never received that respect back from them. It’s a mind game, really, but no one really understands or cares until it happens to them. The worst of it is - this was only 5th grade. Why is that okay?”
Whether the school is right or wrong about their stance on religion, it’s not up to us to decide. All we, as students, can do is stick to our own personal beliefs and practice tolerance with everybody else. “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you” – The Golden Rule – it is at the heart of tolerance.
Luke 6:37 Judge not, and ye shall not be judged: condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned: forgive, and ye shall be forgiven
An Editorial by Laura L. Gamari
“Last year, I told some girls in my student home what I believed in. They forced me into the living room and were trying to explain to me why I should believe what they believe (Christianity). They literally called my religion “stupid” and turned my serious beliefs into a joke.”
– S, Wiccan
“The school doesn’t really seem to care about other people’s faith. The school will not provide transportation to Jewish students for Temple so that they can expand their religious faith. The school only serves to the Christian community. I feel that, for our student body, diversity of faith is important.” –J, Christian
“My old Houseparents made me place a Bible on my headboard, so I placed a copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. I received 10 days of detention. They made me take down song lyrics I had on my tack-board (Don McLean’s “American Pie”, where the lyrics went: “No angel born in Hell/could break that Satan’s spell”). So I put up a lyric from Slayer's "Jesus Saves" (" For all respect you cannot lust/in an invisible man you place your trust"). I received 20 days of detention. I received 3 hours of chores for objecting to Pastor Mike’s explanation of Euthanasia as “killing someone you don’t think should live anymore.” Most recently, I confronted the school about starting a Gay/Straight Alliance – which is common in schools across America – but was denied even consideration based on the Judeo-Christian values of the school. So, do I feel there is religious intolerance at MHS? Yeah, you could say that.”
- Anonymous, Atheist
–
Is Milton Hershey School intolerant, and even oppressive, when it comes to matters of religion? Whenever the topic of faith is allowed to be broached, the situation can easily transform from a discussion into a riot. The purpose of this editorial is to explore, from the perspective of various members of the MHS community, the issue of religion for Senior Hall students.
While Christianity is, by far, the most common standing on religion at Milton Hershey School, it is not the only one. Muslims, Jews, Buddhists, Jainists, Wiccans, and Atheists walk the halls and vacuum the service porch along with everybody else. Yet at MHS, any inquiry about recognizing beliefs, other than Christianity, is usually answered by Houseparents and Administration alike with: “Milton and Catherine Hershey were Christians, and so our school is established on their faith.”
While students may cringe about this: the adults are right. (Kind of.)
The Hershey Archives (www.hersheyarchives.org) explains, “Both the Hershey and Snavely families were originally Mennonite.” However, “though Milton's mother was a staunch member of the Reformed Mennonite Church…formal religion was never a part of Milton Hershey's life. When he was asked once what his religion was, he is said to have replied, "The Golden Rule." The Golden Rule, of course, is “Do unto others, as you would have them do unto you.” So important was this rule to Milton Hershey, that is hangs in every student home on campus. Religious Tolerance.org (www.religioustolerance.org) lists 21 world religions that have a version of The Golden Rule in their faith.
With that in mind, did Milton Hershey want his school to teach one religion, or the tolerance of other’s choices? An answer may be found, written in Hershey’s own words, in the very document that established MHS - the Deed of Trust. Article 17 of the Deed of Trust, which is on the MHS Intranet (http://intranet.apps.mhs-pa.org), states:
“The School shall be non-sectarian, but the moral and religious training of the scholars shall be properly looked after and cared for by the Managers. No favoritism shall be shown; by the Managers to any particular sect or creed. Each scholar shall be taught to speak the truth at all times, and each and every scholar shall be thoroughly trained to habits of economy, and industry.”
But, what is non-sectarian? A literal definition from Merriam Webster Dictionary defines non-sectarian as: “Not affiliated with or restricted to a particular religious group.” So, shouldn’t that mean that students are free to practice or believe anything they are inclined to? According to the “Statement of Religion,” policy 5.04, (this can be found by searching the word “Religion” on the MHS Intranet) the answer is “No”. The Policy states that:
“It is our interpretation that "nonsectarian", within the context of 1909 and the writing of the Trust and, in keeping with our heritage, we will not permit exclusion of students of other denominations, sects, or creeds. It is a right in the United States to hold to a particular belief system, according to the U.S. Constitution. The same is true at Deed of Trust, means to be "non-denominational" within the Judeo-Christian heritage.”
The school has, indeed, made attempts to accommodate more worldly views in our community. Students are not screened for their religious affiliation upon enrollment and there have not been any reported cases of a student being terminated based on their religious affiliation. Judeo-Christian does not mean “Christianity”, but actually having historical roots in both Judaism and Christianity. In fact, Policy 5.04 continues to declare:
“We also believe that it is essential to demonstrate respect for others' beliefs and traditions as stated in the Deed Milton Hershey School, as long as that belief system does not cause physical or emotional harm to the student or others. Therefore, to the extent that we are reasonably able, we will continue to be supportive of the religious needs of all students.”
The issue is not truly that Milton Hershey School is intolerant of non-Christian beliefs, but that there is little follow-through or support for more open-minded and tolerant action. Under the L- Administration, the school attempted to be more ecumenical. Chaplin S would quote from the Torah and Koran along with the Bible in Chapel, as well as touch on Hindu prayers and Buddhist rituals (In 2003, Chaplin S left and was replaced by Pastor W). The effort to have the Torah and the Koran next to the Bible in student homes has been made, though seldom enforced by Houseparents.
A World Religions class is available for the 10th and 12th grades. Yet, students have reviewed this class as “highly biased” and “a class where you’ll learn the name of a religion, why it’s wrong, and how to convert its followers to Christianity.” C expressed, “Even though my religion, Jehovah’s Witness, is under the Christian umbrella – my beliefs were still discriminated against and joked about in the class.” S said, “I have not yet attended World Religions class, but I’ve been informed that it is a stereotypical representation of each religion and is extremely demeaning to other religions except Christianity.”
As the opening statements to this editorial suggest, discrete, scarring and tragically unnecessary forms of intolerance and “intervention” occur behind closed doors. An anonymous student recalled, “I’ve been in student homes where the Houseparents encouraged the others to talk to me about God. I kind of believed in God at the time, but Christianity just seemed twisted to me. Well, they would start reading Bible passages out loud whenever I was in the room, or tell me they would pray for me, or that I was going to hell. I felt pressured to conform and the Houseparents demanded that I bow my head and close my eyes whenever we prayed. I tried very hard to appease them and at least be respectful, but I never received that respect back from them. It’s a mind game, really, but no one really understands or cares until it happens to them. The worst of it is - this was only 5th grade. Why is that okay?”
Whether the school is right or wrong about their stance on religion, it’s not up to us to decide. All we, as students, can do is stick to our own personal beliefs and practice tolerance with everybody else. “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you” – The Golden Rule – it is at the heart of tolerance.
Luke 6:37 Judge not, and ye shall not be judged: condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned: forgive, and ye shall be forgiven
2023 : See :
https://www.mhskids.org/about/history/
DEED OF TRUST
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Being Wrong
Have you ever been told that "you always have to be right"?
Or
Have you ever told someone else they always have to be right?
Try this:
It's right to be wrong, and wrong to be right.
What is "being right"?
For students like us, it means knowing the truth - memorizing facts.
Facts are provable – Knowledge is provable.
And knowledge comes from a source: a textbook (written by people), a teacher (a person), The History/Discovery channel (more people) – and experience (you).
The first problem with knowledge is that it is documented by humans.
Humans make mistakes, forget, lie, embellish, and destroy.
In 2007 - we just do the best we can to figure it all out.
The second problem with facts, and the point of this e-mail, is that facts are knowledge from the past. The past could be 2,000 years ago, or 2 seconds. The people who remember could number in the millions, or one person. The world that is changed could be a small town – or the whole of the earth.
Knowledge is – extremely – important…..when it comes to:
-Remembering what came before us, so we don’t make the same mistakes
-Giving honor to people who changed the world – and how they changed it
-To give us a sense of perspective
-Realizing “what came before”
-To give life a purpose. Who cares what you do, if no one will remember it? If nothing will be changed by it?
However: Knowledge is the opposite of originality. Experience is the opposite of creativity.
Originality and Creativity – not [only] in the context of arts, but in everything - they are what fuel great change. Everyone knows that – but they know because a book said so – not because they lived it.
And when we rely on knowledge alone: we are stuck.
No innovation – good or bad – can come ONLY from knowledge.
School is about soaking up facts – and spitting them out.
Good student, average, or bad – it depends on A) how much you soak up and B) how much you care. That’s the secret – that’s it.
So what’s wrong with being right?
Being right means you are stuck.
Being right means you go on what you know – what you’ve been told, what you’ve read, and what you’ve done before.
This works in school.
This fails miserably in life.
What to do? BE WRONG.
Naturally, no one wants to be wrong. No one wants to be the person who has stupid ideas. No one wants to go through the trouble of being Original and Creative when other people will stop and stare, roll their eyes, ignore you, or laugh. Being wrong is a risk.
You can look at this risk in two ways:
- Risks are a measure of people. Those who don’t take risks, or mock other people’s risks, are relying on knowledge. They are trying to preserve what they are – they do not want change. Or maybe they are just afraid of it.
- Not all risks are good ones – but being WRONG has more POSSIBILITIES than being RIGHT. Being right is living in the past, being wrong is neither the past nor the future – it’s just a possibility. A really great wrong thing becomes right.
In the end, if you really believe in something, stand by it.
Taking the risk is not enough. After they mock you or ignore you – that is when you need to stand your ground. LET THEM KNOW YOU ARE SERIOUS. This is not a joke; you are not just being a smart-ass. If you want it done – do it yourself.
BE WRONG.
Or
Have you ever told someone else they always have to be right?
Try this:
It's right to be wrong, and wrong to be right.
What is "being right"?
For students like us, it means knowing the truth - memorizing facts.
Facts are provable – Knowledge is provable.
And knowledge comes from a source: a textbook (written by people), a teacher (a person), The History/Discovery channel (more people) – and experience (you).
The first problem with knowledge is that it is documented by humans.
Humans make mistakes, forget, lie, embellish, and destroy.
In 2007 - we just do the best we can to figure it all out.
The second problem with facts, and the point of this e-mail, is that facts are knowledge from the past. The past could be 2,000 years ago, or 2 seconds. The people who remember could number in the millions, or one person. The world that is changed could be a small town – or the whole of the earth.
Knowledge is – extremely – important…..when it comes to:
-Remembering what came before us, so we don’t make the same mistakes
-Giving honor to people who changed the world – and how they changed it
-To give us a sense of perspective
-Realizing “what came before”
-To give life a purpose. Who cares what you do, if no one will remember it? If nothing will be changed by it?
However: Knowledge is the opposite of originality. Experience is the opposite of creativity.
Originality and Creativity – not [only] in the context of arts, but in everything - they are what fuel great change. Everyone knows that – but they know because a book said so – not because they lived it.
And when we rely on knowledge alone: we are stuck.
No innovation – good or bad – can come ONLY from knowledge.
School is about soaking up facts – and spitting them out.
Good student, average, or bad – it depends on A) how much you soak up and B) how much you care. That’s the secret – that’s it.
So what’s wrong with being right?
Being right means you are stuck.
Being right means you go on what you know – what you’ve been told, what you’ve read, and what you’ve done before.
This works in school.
This fails miserably in life.
What to do? BE WRONG.
Naturally, no one wants to be wrong. No one wants to be the person who has stupid ideas. No one wants to go through the trouble of being Original and Creative when other people will stop and stare, roll their eyes, ignore you, or laugh. Being wrong is a risk.
You can look at this risk in two ways:
- Risks are a measure of people. Those who don’t take risks, or mock other people’s risks, are relying on knowledge. They are trying to preserve what they are – they do not want change. Or maybe they are just afraid of it.
- Not all risks are good ones – but being WRONG has more POSSIBILITIES than being RIGHT. Being right is living in the past, being wrong is neither the past nor the future – it’s just a possibility. A really great wrong thing becomes right.
In the end, if you really believe in something, stand by it.
Taking the risk is not enough. After they mock you or ignore you – that is when you need to stand your ground. LET THEM KNOW YOU ARE SERIOUS. This is not a joke; you are not just being a smart-ass. If you want it done – do it yourself.
BE WRONG.
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