RAP

I write this post conscious of the fact that Macklemore and Ryan Lewis' "Welcome to the Heist" album being my first exposure to rap is somewhat lame. I know it reeks of mainstream culture, white privilege and whatnot. I won't even dwell on the fact that I'm listening to this album about a year late, except to note that coming late into popular trends seems to be my own brand of reverse hipsterdom. Or maybe that's just an excuse. Anyway.

I've never been someone who listens to rap. Mostly, because I didn't know where to start. I take my musical consumption rather seriously, and I didn't want to turn myself off from the genre as a whole by listening to the wrong stuff. And I never stumbled into it of my own accord, until now.

I have to admit that I am a sucker for 1) men who are very conscious of their own failings 2) well-written lyrics (maybe I'm betraying my ignorance again by using this term, but I don't know what else to call them. You know what I mean.) 3) Honesty and authenticity in telling your own story.

I like Macklemore for the same reason that I like Taylor Swift. He writes from his own experience, drawing directly from what he knows, and not apologizing for it. I wouldn't expect the stories coming from the two of them to be the same, anymore than I would expect that from any two people in the world. This miniature exposure to the world of RAP (which I hope will grow and become more legitimate) reminds me of something I believe lies at the core of ART: tell your story, (whether it is yours or someone else's), with as much presence and direct honesty as you can. What is beautiful is authentic, and vice versa. By beautiful I don't necessarily mean elegant, or pleasing. Pain and anger and disappointment can be beautiful, so long as they are real. ART is what serves as the vehicle for these expressions.

Being the Right Person

I haven't entered the online dating sphere myself, but I know a few friends who have ventured into that world recently, so I took the approach that any sensible, over-intellectual person would in relation to something they feel inhibited about: I watched a Ted talk.

This talk, presented by digital strategist (I have no idea what that means, either) Amy Webb, turned out to be enlightening on a number of levels, most of them not related to online dating, or at least not directly.

The story, in a nutshell, is this: Amy Webb was feeling frustrated with the lackluster responses to her online dating profile. She decided to take matters into her own hands by creating a list of data points that summed up what she was searching for in a partner. She further subdivided these points into top tier traits (those that were absolutely necessary) and second tier traits ("important, but not necessarily dealbreakers.")

What struck me the most about Webb's approach was how confident she was of her own desires. Now, I'm guessing that some of this self-assurance emerges after years of dating experience. Generally, greater experience in any field leads to greater sense of discrimination in defining one's own preferences. I can relate this to how studying a broad liberal arts curriculum in college has basically just taught me what I don't like and, by process of elimination, helped me to determine what I do.

Now, I've only been active in the dating sphere for a little over a year now, and 90% of that time was spent in a single, monogamous relationship. My experiences before that basically amount to a string of overly impassioned unreciprocated attachments. So I haven't had a whole lot of time to develop an idea of what I like and dislike in a romantic partner.

Webb was repeatedly criticized by family members for being "too picky." I can relate, as someone who has often gotten the sense that I take relationships too seriously; if I could just lower my standards and stop expecting love that blows me out of the water, I'm sure there would be plenty of people into me.

But Webb discovered that it wasn't necessary that she lower her standards in order to be romantically successful; rather, it was necessary that she determine exactly what her own standards were so that they could be met. Once she came up with her list of desired traits, and tweaked her personal profile to represent herself more accurately, she immediately attracted someone who fit all of her requirements and beyond.

What struck me most about Webb's approach was that she viewed herself as an active, effective agent in her own love life, when the overwhelming cultural narrative portrayed in the media is that true love is irrational, immediate, and stems from helpless, hopeless attraction which one can't control or escape. Just think about how many love songs are written about about being stuck in an unhealthy relationship that the speaker simply can't do without.

Watching this talk gave me permission to begin to formulate my own sense of what I was looking for in a romantic partner. Since my choices previously had been guided by a set of cultural norms that views love as an irrational force in which we are inactive and ineffective, I had allowed myself to get caught up in the tides of love, making compromises and accepting subjectively undesirable traits in those I was attracted to, since I thought that the energetic force of love was enough to overcome such points of friction. What I really was doing was surrendering my own desires and preferences, giving up my agency in relation to others, and not allowing myself to be discerning in understanding why I found certain tendencies problematic. Although I do think that love is a universal force that can overcome any difference, I also decided that I wanted to stop sacrificing the integrity of my convictions in order to accommodate (at some other point, I'm sure, I will write more about how this is often a tendency that comes up for women, moreso than men, in romantic relationships).

So I began constructing an imaginary list in my head: -I want someone who will initiate communication with me -Someone who will send me their poetry or artwork or other forms of expression -Someone who I can talk to about my own artistic endeavors -Someone who will support me in leading a life according to my values -Someone who is intelligent and brilliant and intellectual but that I don't feel intimidated by -Someone who will be loving and supportive but not overbearing or demand excess amounts of attention -Someone who will give me space and time to be alone but will also constantly reaffirm their love for me -Someone I can dance with -Someone who I will have amazing, inspiring late night conversations with
etc.

A few weeks before, while surfing the facebook stratosphere, I came across the following quote by Gloria Steinem:

At the time, I reposted the quote, nodding my agreement without thinking on it too deeply. But as I was running through my list of desired traits in my head, I realized that they all had to do with activities or attentions I wish were more present in my life, and not necessarily in a romantic connection with another person. 

I had a sudden Aha! moment of revelation: I am the person I've been looking for. Almost all of the traits I described above are things that I do for other people, and that I simply wish were reciprocated more often. But they are also things that I can do for myself pretty easily; by inspiring and supporting my own artistic practice, seeking out poems and pictures that inspire me, appreciating my own writing and forms of expression, processing my own experience through writing about it (not relying solely on conversation) and dancing my heart out, with or without a partner. 

As I write this, I am pretty goofy-in love with another person. But that love has been allowed to grow and strengthen because I was not seeking it out to fulfill a need; it emerged out of a connection that strengthens and supports the love I am feeling for myself and many people around me at this moment in time. When I am being my own best friend, I am more able to appreciate another person for who they are, rather than desperately trying to fit them into a role in my life. And part of appreciating myself is becoming conscious of and confident in my own desires. This person is my heart partner in ways that transcend personality traits, but our hearts were able to find one another because they each shine so brightly on their own. 

Source: http://spiritualcat.typepad.com/inner-light/2013/03/what-makes-someone-the-complete-package.html

~More stories from the tribulations of life and love to follow. ~

My Fragile Happiness

I coax it, like an animal,
out of hiding and into my presence.
It wants only what I can give it, a
crumb in the hand--it is not after
the pleasure of my presence.
Alas, my hand is empty, and I
have fed it the last grain from my pockets.
"I have nothing for you,
today." I whisper, and off she scurries
to find someone waiting
with full hands.
But where are these hands that
are empty? I look around me and see
the grain drying in the fields, food
scraps scattered on the pavement, a
tree blooming. "Come back!" I call
after her, but she is
out of hearing.
So I go out searching
for the seeds I can feed her
tomorrow.

4~24~13

Questions

Do you know which way my 

window faces? 

Do all the stars point 

North? 

I am living on pavement with lines painted.

I am living with railings close. 

What does your footstep 

sound like? 

A stone tossed upon water 

breaks

the stillness of thought.

Our basic biological functions.

Coil of wire

twirled

around the live cable

I want to crawl in and

under.

I will tell you about the cat’s claw scraping

my windowsill

If you tell me about something, 

anything.

I wait for the other hand to reach out, 

always. 

These days, 

what is the color of your heart? 

Talismans

When my mother

left me home

with a babysitter, she used to

give me the cloth--

the piece of cotton

she kept by her bedside

to rub between her fingers

in hours of anxiety.

It smelled of her (roses

and patchouli, kissed by silver).

The T-shirt you left me

(soft cotton, burnt orange)

hasn’t been washed.

I leave it folded on my bedside

so every night I smell

the faint pine man sweat green skunk

hinting of your presence.

Nightmare nights, I used to waken

and reach for the comfort

of my mother’s room, where I could

hear the television

running, even when the bed was empty.

Those voices

a source of comfort.

Now, nighttimes,

I reach for you in darkness, stretching

my limbs from the silent womb

of solitude, groping like a starfish, missing

the silent curve of your body, slipped

so perfectly against me, inside of me

overwhelming me. Pulling myself

towards you, inside of you,

wrapping around you,

stacking us

within one another

till we no longer distinguish

our seamless skin, a

gleaming surface. Our

selves no longer

fragments. Take me in.

This missing is not a new sensation.

I’m used to holding

conversations with silence.

I write poems in half-light

(laptop glowing in my college dorm room)

and send them to you in

California.

I get up, take a shower, scrub my torso.

I am washing you, sanitizing

my remnants. I am renouncing.

Materialism

Our flirtation is a 

history of shared objects. 

The apple you brought me, plucked from the orchard 

where you stained childish fingers 

and bruised elbows, climbing. 

The sketches I left in your room, abstract

representations of my longing. Lines and diagrams, concentric circles. I was not an artist 

but chose anyway 

to torture you with my obscurity 

and litter your desk with my love notes. 

You sat on the floor 

of my tiny apartment,

folding paper cranes 

out of post-its. You left my table littered 

with intricate paper sculptures;

origami was a reflex, they were not 

signs of your affection.

I placed them on my dresser, re-

arranged them. As if 

our hands were touching.

I still carry the broken  

heart you folded from scraps of wire. 

It is a scrap, a trinket, 

that serves as a reminder. 

The only letter I wrote you 

remains unopened. 

I had to pinch your nose

to get you to swallow it. 

The last gift you gave me, 

on the day we parted, 

was a daisy. You

left it on my desk 

to absorb the sunlight

and my roommate placed it in a glass of water. 

I tucked it 

behind my ear and 

let it wilt in my hair.

Pittsfield to Santa Cruz, Via Chicago

Written on September 30th, 2013

After my thirteenth birthday party,

after she had

brushed my hair

and we had

told each other secrets and

eaten chocolate cake at midnight,

my best friend Amanda

said “goodbye” and “see you later” and

left me a card that said

“Friends forever.”

That was the last time

I saw her.

And you wonder why I am crying

driving you to the train station

In the heat of Indian Summer

And I wonder

who I am saying goodbye to

as the train picks up its

shiny fetters

and churns off

into the distance.

Spinning down tracks

in a single spool.

I have to wonder who

is waving back at me

from behind the darkened

train windows

as I stand,

feet planted, on the platform

but propelled backwards

by some inertia

that makes things

on solid ground

feel as though they’re spinning.

(We’re all

spinning, I remember,

as I turn and leave the station.

moving

apart and towards

one another

the liquid of our molecules

expanding and contracting.

The minute

I said goodbye to you,

I felt

the sorrow

lifted

from my shoulders, as though

THAT had been the burden,

the intangible contraction.

Days before, I inhabited

a brief, determined

blissfulness

that comes of

treasuring every moment

we had left

together.

But your release–

as the

source

of my happiness

sped away from me

on tracks pointed

into the distance

and upwards as they

do in a painting–

was freeing.

I felt as though

I were the one

travelling

(the strange freedom

of close quarters

and the rhythmic TUG

of train cars)

and you seated, me

cemented

to the platform and

stationary, you

moving away from me

became an

other way of moving

together.

So that I

could begin my journey.

So that you, loving,

and leaving,

could release me.

Since last October, I have been in a deeply involved romantic relationship with a man significantly older than me. While he is steadfast, loving, and respectful, I have struggled with the containment that seems to automatically result from a committed relationship, or at least the patterns that I find myself revealing in the context of inhabiting one. On the last day of the month of September of this year, he left for California. Although I felt sadness at his going, and anticipated much mourning after his departure, I was surprised by the sense of lightness and freedom that filled me and led to this poem, which I wrote almost immediately after dropping him off at the station. We have agreed to part ways for this short period (until his return six months from now), mostly with the intention that we can experience our own adventures and so that I, in my final year of college, can get a taste of the independence that is impossible, or at least extremely difficult, to cultivate in the context of any committed relationship with a loved one, be they family or significant others. That sense of release is at once frightening and exhilarating, but not nearly as frightening as the thought of suffocation. I write this knowing that he will read it, knowing that the best prescription for love is utter honesty, and wishing him all the same freedom in his own journey. 

When I opened the package for my new macbook air (after waiting for 24 hours--what seemed like an eternity--for my data transfer), I found an owner's manual wrapped up in a neat little package. "Hello." It declares, "Congratulations, you and your macbook air were made for another." I had a hard time believing it. I was excited, sure, because I had gotten a fancy new computer for my birthday. But electronics have an essentially impenetrable impersonal nature, in my experience, and I hardly expected a new device to alter that. I wasn't even as excited at the prospect of getting a mac as I should have been, considering how much it cost. I wasn't crazy about my old Dell for sure, but it functions fine, other than the broken hinge, and I could live with it for another few months if I had to. Before now, I've never experienced a computer as something other than a time drain or, at best, a tool I begrudgingly admit to be useful, as I lug it around with me for the purpose of completing school assignments. I've never looked at a computer as a companion, or a life partner. That idea seemed ludicrous. Before now.

I used to be very bemused by all the macbook owners. They seemed delirious with computer love, doting upon their overpriced electronics. I didn't get it. It didn't click the first time I used a mac, and it didn't click when I walked into the Apple store of a nearby mall, where seeming hundreds of supplicants were being counseled by mac experts in dark blue t-shirts, each one sporting on iPad. I felt like I was a stranger entering the temple of some crazed cult.

Part of what always threw me off is that the devices themselves have such an alienating, sinister look. They seem like models for some futuristic film, not something that a decidedly non-technologically advanced individual like myself should be interacting with on a daily basis. I was full of misgivings. But I gave in. I have now been the owner of a mac (in my parents' name) for a little over 36 hours, about 4 of which have been spent with my new computer cradled in my lap. From the moment I opened the package, I sensed something different. There is something in the design of the computer--it's unobtrusive size, for one thing, but the internal characteristics above all--which makes it seem like an extension of my psyche. It starts up and functions so comfortably, it's ridiculous. There's none of the stress and hassle I usually associate with setting up new devices. I simply opened it up, and everything was ready to go. I actually feel much calmer now that I have everything streamlined--all of my contacts, calendar, and other miscellany can be found in one container. I now understand why so many of my friends are so attached to their computers. Up until this point, I have always relied on paper Planners and address books, a different notebook for each class I'm taking, a personal journal and any number of random miscellaneous bits and pieces--post-its, scrap paper, etc. All of this, while extremely inefficient, also seems like an indicator of my internal mental disorder. I can't tell you how many papers I encounter daily--the posters hung on my walls, the mounds of books that I'm supposed to be reading, the piles of notes that need sorting through--and it's past the point of being quaint. I suppose I'm tired of being a paper hoarder but ashamed to admit it, because I am very rooted in the reality of material experience, and, as a writer, deeply committed to the pen-on-paper ethos. What I need is a machine that feels just as personal--not a mere vehicle for checking my e-mail and drafting essays for school. Among the names I have considered for my computer (yes, I am one of those sentimental sops who gives names to their electronics in order to grant them some human dimension which they really don't require) one is Eustace, jogged into my memory by Brideshead Revisited, one of the (many) books I am currently reading, but naturally associated with the character from the Chronicles of Narnia who, in a climactic scene which has always stuck in my memory, has the rough and unwieldy hide of his dragon's skin painfully clawed back by Aslan to reveal the boy beneath. That scene always struck a chord with me for its ultimate sense of catharsis; don't we all need our skin removed down to its very roots, in order to reveal the self beneath? I am a true believer in simplicity, and am constantly reminded of my own inability to live up to my expectations. I am surrounded by objects which I do not even notice on a daily basis; nothing about them secures my attention, but I insist on clinging on to them nonetheless. What I wouldn't give to live more cleanly, more simply more earnestly. But I've long since learned that a change in environment or the objects surrounding us means nothing if not accompanied by a change of attitude.
As Henry David Thoreau says, somewhere in Walden, "beware of enterprises that require new clothes and not rather a new wearer of clothes."

It's possible that it's not the computer itself that's significant; we may rather have found one another in precisely the right time of our loves. Either way, it's love at first sight. The apps fit like an old outfit--comfortable and reassuring. Any initial disorientation caused by the misplacement of icons was allayed by the owner's manual--a few pages or so of mostly common sense. The entire operating system is designed to work like a breath--clean and efficient, relaxed to the point of being unconscious. Every action I make is anticipated, or reacted to with a courteous question. I don't know much about the way that computers are supposed to work, but I like the fact that this doesn't feel like a computer. I can virtually 'flip' the pages of my calendar, and it only takes a bit more practice than the actual thing. Everything's so easy and natural, it's ridiculous. I feel like the machine has evolved to be in sync with my actions--not in the creepy manner of a robot stalking my every move, but in the model of a truly successful business--being instinctually receptive to customer's needs and addressing them immediately. The way Google organized the internet and made its information accessible in a way most of us could never imagine it not being. I have to relearn some things, but it makes me wonder why I did them any other way in the first place--it makes so much more sense to have things set up this way that I don't know how I dealt with it before.

I've worked in the customer service industry for the past three years (waiting on tables), and been served by it for all my life, so I know how it works. I also know that most customer service these nowadays is deplorable--probably because people are so lacking in common courtesy in general, they don't even know how to fake it. But the elderly gentleman who sold me my computer was very friendly and communicative, helpful without being overbearing, and very sensitive to our needs. When I called the Apple store to check on the status of my data transfer, after being on hold for 15 minutes (during which an electronic female voice periodically interrupted the music to assure me that I was the "third call to be answered" or whatever the case was), it was gratifying to speak to someone who was clear, polite, and solicitous. I probably put too much stock in the way I'm treated, but these interactions helped put a human face on the Apple icon, and made me feel less like a sojourner in an alien realm.

In any case, that's my plug. I think there's enough advertising out there already that my humble opinion won't really sway things significantly. And anyway, all I can really say is that my computer was made for me. I can't speak for you and yours. Mostly, I just wanted to say to all those mac owners out there: I get it now. I'm sorry I was doubtful. And I'm part of your cult now.

Graffitti of the Heart

THE END

It has now been exactly a week, to the day, since I went to see the last Harry Potter movie in theaters. The weird part is, I don't feel any different.

When I went to the midnight release of the last book, I was a mess of nervous hysteria. I shrieked and stuttered when I first laid my hand on the cover, and stayed up to read the first chapter, forcing myself, in the days following to read only one chapter a day. I was both exhilarated and terrified--not ready for the end to come, but anxious to reach it; depriving myself of the bittersweet satisfaction of devouring the book over night, just so I could spin out the tiny thread that connected me to what I saw as the metaphorical end of my childhood.

Whether or not my childhood's over, I can't really say for sure. I have a feeling that the change is more gradual than we imagine, and the transition one we will only recognize once we have long passed through it. So even though I set up the final end of Harry Potter as a marker for my paradigm shift, I have found very little changed in actuality.

Although I hate to concede to being affected by it, it may have something to do with the cynicism I felt surrounding the release of the last movie. In former times, Harry Potter was the major topic of conversation among me and my friends, and we would eagerly discuss each upcoming book and movie with an overwhelming excess of excitement and investment in the outcome. As I've grown older and my friend group has shifted, I find myself mentioning Harry Potter only briefly, and referring to it as a relic of my former glory. On July 15th, I posted a status update on my facebook profile: "It All Ends." People knew what I was referring to, but only one of my friends commiserated with me, commenting: "I don't know if I can handle this!" Other responses poked fun at over-the-top Harry Potter fans and "squeegirls," of which I am apparently known to be one. All in all, feelings towards the movie were mildly interested or apathetic. Some people even expressed a dislike towards the whole Harry Potter phenomenon (*gasp!*) And while I hate to admit to being affected by peer pressure, the lukewarm response did put something of a damper on my excitement and trepidation. Also, the fact that my plans to see the movie kept getting delayed week by week wore on my initial sense of elation and doom.

When I finally did make it to the movie theater, I sat next to my friend and held her hand as she cried during almost the entire second half of the film, wondering what was wrong with me. I was enjoying myself; I was filled with a sense of awe and contentment, punctuated by a few anxious giggles and squeals. I felt curiousity, and perhaps resignation, but no overwhelming emotion. And how could it be that the cinematic interpretation of "The Forest Again," a chapter which always and unfailingly brings me to tears, which was quite well done, left me completely dry-eyed? It's true that I cry very rarely in movies, and didn't even cry during the scene of my favorite character's death, but I was somehow expecting a bit more, and I was oddly dissappointed. The movie itself went beyond my expectations in nearly every way; it was merely myself I was dissappointed in. Instead of losing myself to the plot, as I usually did, I remained anchored in my own body, retaining the detachment and larger perspective which seems to be both the blessing and the curse of adulthood. Maybe this was the end of something, after all.

Or maybe the reason I was so composed was because I knew it wasn't really the end--already, a new generation is picking up the books, and the experience begins all over again. I have no doubt that I will re-read them at some point in the future, and I will probably watch the 7th movie at least one more time this year before laying it aside for a while. If Harry Potter is the truly great story that I know it to be, and that its detractors miss out on, it will stand the test of time. The books will be around for generations to come, whether or not their popularity survives.

Nevertheless, it still feels as if some of the magic has gone out of it. What I really loved about the experience of reading Harry Potter is that it was an experience: my friends and I would spend our time endlessly debating theories about the next book, and trying our best to emulate the things we read about. We would play "Quidditch" in my back yard (and apparently, we weren't the only ones, based on the new and successful intercollegiate Quidditch organizations), try to make butterbeer, draw our own chocolate frog cards, and even organized our own Hogwarts-style classes. Most of the people I did those activities with have now moved out of my life, but the memory is no less sweet, just as the end of the series does not lessen its value. I will always be grateful to J.K. Rowling and the magical world she has woven for countless fans like me. But I also accept that it is time to move on.

Grizzly Man

The first time I heard about this movie was in my political ecology course, where my teacher made a reference to Timothy Treadwell. I'd never heard the name before, but I've found that when talking about him, the first thing that people usually mention is that he was killed by a grizzly bear. This is true. What is also true is that he lived among the grizzly bears for 13 preceding summers before he was killed. And he knew the risk he was taking. Films recorded by him show grizzly bears up close and personal--at times, he even reaches out to touch them, seemingly without fear. The reason is that, in the moment, he knows better than to show any sign of weakness. On camera, he explains repeatedly that in order to survive among bears, you must act as if you're as strong as them. Any sign of weakness can be fatal.

What of the event that led to his death? Did he drop his guard, as he was always careful not to? Did he, as many have suggested, simply get what was coming to him? I think not. I think that to suggest that his death was an obvious outcome is an insult to the life he led before it. He knew of the risk of death, but he also managed to deter it for thirteen years--which is a considerable amount of time. I think it more likely that his death was a freak accident on all sides--a particularly aggressive bear, any number of unknown factors. But speculating over it denies some of its dignity. Treadwell died, yes, but he died well, in the service of the animals that he loved.

This documentary, while gripping, is an incomplete portrait at best. Its portrayal of Treadwell is perceivably affected by the beliefs of Werner Herzog, who serves as both director and narrator. Herzog is fascinated by Treadwell as a character, but he does not agree with Treadwell's perception of nature, which he considers simplistic and naive. Treadwell routinely speaks of the bears and other wildlife as his friends, and regards them as his salvation and reason to live. Herzog admires Treadwell for his courage and unconventional lifestyle, but he joins the rest of the world in regarding him as foolhardy. Furthermore, this documentary does little to advance Treadwell's conservationist agenda, since it shows footage of him cursing out the park service, and other clips that bring into doubt his mental stability. Although I admire Herzog for giving Treadwell's hard-earned footage a lease on life, I object to his biased portrayal. He has his own agenda in telling Treadwell's story and his occasional appearance on camera seems to detract from what should be the main focus--the Grizzly Man himself, in his life and legacy.

~

Timothy Treadwell's story is one that raises difficult questions about humanity and our relationship to nature. He was not a trained scientist, and, as far as I can tell, all of his knowledge about the habits of animals and their ecosystem came from experience, rather than research. I do not think that a more conventional scientific knowledge would have saved his life, but it might have gained him more respect among the scientific and political community ultimately responsible for the bears' survival. Instead, Treadwell was viewed during his lifetime as little more than a raging hippie, and something of a nuisance, rather than the serious conservationist he tried to be. In death, he is remembered as a reckless man who succumbed to the very forces he was trying to protect. I prefer to view Treadwell as a man who did his personal best to transcend the gap between man and nature, knew the risks he was taking, and didn't give a damn about how the rest of the world viewed him. He had no wish to become a part of the established scientific community, and in fact, no wish to become a part of any human society. He rejected society altogether, and would have chosen to remain among the bears for the rest of his life, had it been possible.

Repeatedly in the clips he himself filmed, we see Treadwell anthropomorphizing the bears, speaking to them as he would to humans, calling them by name, and approaching them with a smile on his face and love on his lips. Perhaps he believed that, in doing so, he was creating something more human in them, and minimizing their brutal animal aspects. He views humans as the enemy, as if having a common enemy joins him to the animals. He is right in regarding humans as predators, the oddball at the top of the food chain. But what he disregards is the fact that the bears do regard them as such, and his own humanity is a strike against him.

Treadwell engaged in something that many of us are guilty of, myself included: romanticizing nature and overestimating our ability to live with it in harmony. Humans are part of nature, and we would be wrong to deny it. But we tend to pick and choose the aspects of nature we would choose to be a part of. We grow flowers but yank out weeds. We let trees grow in parks but don't allow them in our backyards. And we bring animals into our homes, but only after they have been declawed and every hunting instinct taken out of them. In order to truly become a part of nature, man must live as animal himself, and accept every consequence. Treadwell could not live as an animal, so he attempted to force the animals to live like him. It was the failure of this scheme that worked his sad end, although we must not devalue the fact that it succeeded for a long, long time--far longer than anyone would have expected. May he rest in peace.

Reawakening

She takes a deep breath and steps off the back porch, into the downpour. So many years spent trying to acquire wisdom, and in the end it all gets washed away. Can it be that blindness is the only comfort left to us, that silent roar? Daily life, with all its discontent and disappointment, seems like all that’s real enough to hold her. Yet she’s always known that wasn’t enough.

She looks up into the sky, tastes the sulfur on the air, and hears the crackle of lightning, the very potency of its sound stinging her bare shoulders. She smiles and, very slowly, feeling her bare feet pressing into the pavement, begins to strip away her clothes. For the moment, this is all that matters: she can’t atone for everyone’s sins, has only begun to comprehend her own. But now they fall away with stunning clarity, vanishing the moment that they brush the ground. She tastes the salt on the tip of her tongue before she knows she is crying. And the knowledge of that makes her laugh, a harsh, dry chuckle that is lost in the sound surrounding her. 

One by one, she peels back her soaked white t-shirt, sports bra, shorts, throwing them to the ground and running till they are out of sight. She spins, spins, feeling the awe and delight of new sensation, and then stands still, illuminated by the glow of the storm and the rain on her upturned face. It washes her clean, pools up around her ankles, blots out what has been. 


Dedicated to Laura G. H., who dances in the rain.

Pirates 4

I'll admit that I wasn't overly eager to see this fourth installment of the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise. The appeal of the films seems to have petered out due to convoluted plots and cliched dialogue, and, in my opinion, the third film was kept afloat solely by Johnny Depp's exploits as Jack Sparrow, which weren't emphasized nearly enough. It seemed like high time to end it and move on to something else.

However, I did have some hope for the fourth film when I heard that it wouldn't contain the Orlando Bloom/Keira Knightley subplot, which I was never overly fond of. Both actors did a fine job in their assigned roles, but their supposedly passionate love affair seem to drag the  films down instead of enriching them. Finally, I thought, maybe Jack Sparrow will have the screen fully to himself; really, that's all I've been waiting for.

After I saw the trailer for Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides, however, I lost hope. It appeared that Penelope Cruz had been brought in mainly as Sparrow's love interest, which was, in my opinion, unacceptable. Sparrow must remain a detached vagabond; there's simply no other interpretation of the character. I also objected to the introduction of Captain Blackbeard--really, do we need yet another bad guy for Jack to waltz in circles around?

So my excitement going into the film was minimal. Prepared to be disappointed, I was, instead, pleasantly surprised. While I wouldn't call this a "good" movie, it did continue the tradition of the first film in offering a satisfying pirate flick, with impressively original characters.

What sets the characters in this series apart is their relative complexity and moral ambiguity. In most of the other pirate films I've seen (which admittedly isn't many) the pirates are all either good or bad. But Jack Sparrow dances between sides with a lithe grace, out only for his own survival. He's clever, but never malicious--he runs from danger, but he rarely intentionally causes harm. He may sway back and forth on the voyage, but when it comes down to the climax, he often does the right thing--to the surprise of everyone, including himself.

This however, leaves the filmmakers in a quandary--they must have some sort of villain, in order to spice up the plot, and Jack, in his odd position, serves as neither villain nor hero. So they've offered us a series of truly "bad" pirates, much more serious and much less fun than Jack, so we can enjoy watching him make a fool of them. They've also supplied us with a few bland, pretty-faced boy heroes, who Jack prods for their naivete, but secretly sympathizes with.

I think On Stranger Tides offers the most compelling incarnations of these two categories: bad pirate and bland hero. Blackbeard is truly evil and immoral: "It's simple," he declares, "I'm a bad man." Unlike the other "bad" pirates--Davy Jones, Barbossa, he doesn't engage in a power struggle with Jack. He just stares him down, and Jack promptly scurries out of the way. In the end, he's fooled by trickery, not confrontation. Creativity is what it takes to bring him down, and Jack has plenty of skill at "improvisation."

In the bland hero department, this film presents us with the subplot of a young missionary, bent on saving the pirates' souls, who falls for a pretty mermaid. Sam Claflin is dashing and low-key; he doesn't attempt to steal Jack's thunder and does perfectly well as a pleasant aside. I can also see him shining in larger roles in the future, maybe not in this franchise, but certainly beyond it.

The plot, as usual, is secondary; something to do with the fountain of youth, with a bit of historical political drama thrown in. It's even more convoluted than usual, offering plenty of opportunities for CGI scenes and Jack's daring escapes. Although the ride may seem dizzying at times, it all works out in an odd way, and Jack, of course, gets off scott-free. Silly of me to worry about him attaching himself to that girl. He's never allowed himself to be tied down before; never has, and never will.

Joy in the Dance

Ballet is a wonderful art form but a very narrow-minded world. There is only one role: the perfect prima ballerina, and everyone is striving towards it, with varying degrees of success. I devoted myself to this ultimate goal for so long that by the time I finally realized it was futile, I could barely see beyond the walls of the passage I had dug for myself.

When I realized that I was never going to be a prima ballerina, I stopped thinking of myself as a dancer. In my mind, there was only one way to dance, only one path, and I had failed. So I continued to take technique class with a waning interest: I found my mind wandering, my time taken up by other pursuits. For a long time I berated myself: why had I given up? Dance was something that I had always wanted to do, since the first time I can remember. Yet I no longer wanted to dance in the only way I knew of. My tights and leotard had lost their romance, and the studio with its barres and mirrors had lost its appeal. I did not look the way I had always thought a dancer should--I did not eat, act, or think like a professional ballerina. So my conclusion was that I must just not be cut out for it. I should take some time off, find a hobby, pursue some other interest. Dance was no longer what I was meant to do.

~

It was a good few years before I realized that, in a moment of doubt and confusion, I had mistaken discipline for passion and single-mindedness for dedication. It is true that a career in dance requires all of the above. But in looking for the source of my dying interest in dance, I took a far too narrow-minded approach. It was not dance itself, but the way I was experiencing it that was wrong. That negative experience was rooted in my own insecurities, and by no means attributable to any one teacher or approach. It took a change of scenery, and a change of self, to remind me that what I really love is movement--the inspired, uninhibited, release of our tension into a beautiful form created by the physical body. For the longest time, ballet was the only manifestation of movement I gave any credibility to, and hence, when my relationship with ballet took a blow, I took it as a mortal wound to my love of dance.

~

It is true that my love of ballet began as a love of movement, and remained that way for many years. I still cherish the many moments of discovery associated with my first time dancing on pointe, my first time executing 16 foeutte turns, my many times performing on stage, but as the years went by, these moments began fewer and farther between. Increasingly, dance became a source of more worry and frustration than joie de vivre.

When I was young, the worries came in the form of seemingly innocuous queries. "How much do you weigh?" isn't a big deal before puberty hits. But it gradually came to have more meaning and as my body grew and changed without my consent, I felt an increasing sense of betrayal. Other girls were naturally endowed with amazing flexibility and perfect turnout, while my already poor turnout became practically negligible. I felt a sneaking sense of bitterness and jealousy towards those who took their physical capabilities for granted, while I, who had worked so hard, had little to show as the result of my enthusiasm. I often thought that I would trade anything for a body suited to my passion; it seemed some sort of cruel trick that I had been given so much faulty machinery when my mind was ready and eager to start moving.

Of course, every so often, I have to take a deep breath, step back, and remind myself of what I have. I'm not overweight, my body is whole and healthy, and I'm much better off than some people when it comes to physical capacity. But of course, this was always easier to say to myself than to believe. The mirror at the other end of the studio always stood there, mocking me. I've always been my own toughest critic, but it got to the point where I was not condemning my performance of the steps, but my inability to perform, my body's constant refusal to live up to the ideal image I had cultivated for it.

~

Making peace with ballet therefore involved making peace with my body, something that it's difficult for someone at any stage of life to achieve. But I gradually came to realize that the steady stream of negative self-commentary wasn't getting me anywhere. Unable to see past the mirror--the ultimate source of my torment, or so it seemed, I convinced myself that dance and I weren't meant to be. It was just a hobby, I told myself. I would find another passion. Eventually.

~

When I came to college, I wasn't necessarily planning to continue dance. I thought I might go into the studio on my own every now and then, but it might be good for me to take some time off, consider my options. During my first semester, I was enrolled in a non-movement arts course with the modern dance teacher. On a whim, one day I pulled her aside to ask if we could meet some time and discuss how I could get more involved in dance on campus. Even though I had acknowledged the negative pull ballet had on my life, I also still found myself incapable of conceiving a life without it; I knew I would continue dance in the long run, but I had long ago resigned myself to the fact that it would be as a hobby, not as a career.

My professor was very open to my query, and proved to be more than helpful; she was inspiring. She directed me to some key members of the dance community on campus, and suggested that I look into taking classes at a nearby dance studio. Gratefully, I accepted her suggestions and, after some prodding from a fellow ballet dancer, signed up for a weekly ballet class. I was relieved; maybe dance wasn't going to drop out of my life after all. I admitted to myself that I had never wanted to give it up in the first place; I had just felt that that might be the best decision to spare myself more future disappointments.

That conversation proved a turning point for me. The classes I enrolled in were beneficial and challenging, but not anything special; I still felt out of place in comparison to the rest of the students, who all stood in a neat row with perfectly turned out fifth positions. But there were a few moments that gave me hope. The teacher complimented my penche, even though my leg barely made it past 90 degrees, and told everyone in the class to watch my grand allegro. I was surprised, and bemused by the attention--it gave me hope, but I also reminded myself that prowess at one or two steps was nothing to write home about; it wouldn't make up for my overall inability to keep up.

I made some very important personal connections that first semester, however, that helped to strengthen my course and to awaken some spark of understanding. One friend, who had just begun dancing, showed so much dedication and growing prowess that I was drawn back into that time when all I wanted was to be the best dancer I could be, and when the act of movement itself was a source of joy. I ended up choreographing a duet with her for the dance concert at the end of the semester, and the experience of working with someone else was truly magical. I felt a love of movement slowly emerging, even as ballet continued to fade into the background.

~

My second semester, I enrolled in a course called "Imagination in Motion," in which we explored movement both with and without form. It was a completely different approach from anything I had experienced before; the goal was to discover our natural style of movement and also to explore and expand our own boundaries. There was no judgement, only support. I was one of only two experienced dancers in the class, yet I was on a level plain with all of my classmates. Together, we all experienced the awakening of awareness about ourselves and the people around us. We discussed movement not only as a stylized art form, as I had always seen it, but as a part of daily life. As I became more conscious of the way I move, as well as the way others move around me, I became better able to control my movement, and to use improvisation not only as a formless manner of experimentation and stress-relief, but as an active, productive approach to discovery. 


What I found was that I still love dance as much as I ever did--in fact, if anything, my love has been strengthened. I won't pretend that I've released my inhibitions or suspended self judgement. But I am much more open to the possibilities. I think that I can have a better relationship with dance in the future because I now come upon it open to all that it has to offer. The other trained dancer in my class, who also happened to be the only dance major at my school, proved a source of much inspiration. At first, I had pinned her as just another one of the impeccable ballerinas, setting up a ridiculous standard that I could only envy from afar. But I got the chance to dance and choreograph alongside her, and we both had much to learn from one another. I was surprised to learn that she had only begun dancing again, after a long break, a few years ago, when she first came to college. And she, too, underwent a process of discovery of the sort I have only just begun. 


What has shifted is my understanding. I now realize that dance was always my passion, and I had just limited myself by zeroing in on only one future possibility. Dance, which is an essentially truthful art form, has offered me an escape from the grind of daily life and academics, and an outlet for emotional quandaries. It has come to be much more than a series of steps, repeated and drilled into the memory. 


~


Recently, I have even taken to telling people that I am a dance major. I'm not yet sure if it's true or not. Dance may not be something I want to pursue in an academic light--it may not even be something that I want as a career. But I know for certain that there are few things from which I draw more fulfillment or satisfaction, there are few pursuits which make me as eager to keep going. Choreography has been the means of many personal discoveries for me, but I also know that I want to help others unlock the dancer inside themselves, and recognize that movement and dance are one in the same. 


My most important discovery:
 There is more than one way to be a dancer. We are all movers and shakers, in our own way. 

Dislike and Hatred are Two Different Things

I don't listen to Justin Bieber. My familiarity with his music is limited to hearing "Baby" played a few times at school dances. I don't particularly like the song, but it has an unfortunate tendency to get stuck in my head.

Anyhow, I'm not the only one. Out of my friends and relations, I can think of only a few who actually listen to and enjoy Bieber's music.

I can't imagine it's much of a loss to him, given the widespread "Bieber Fever" that has quite enough pre-teen girls fawning over him.

I can't really keep a note of disdain out of my voice--I've never been one for pop music fandoms. But still, I don't actively hate or even dislike Justin Bieber; I just don't think about him unless he comes up in conversation.

The trouble is, he comes up a lot. Whenever his name is mentioned by anyone I know, it's usually with some derisive comment. Which is fine. Whatever. But I have also noticed a growing tendency towards Bieber-hating, especially among my younger brothers and their group of friends.

'Justin Beaver' is the most common insult, often accompanied by "He sounds like a girl!" and even occasional jabs questioning his sexual orientation. Bieber-hating is as viral as Bieber-fever

Middle-school humor. I get it. I know it extends far beyond this, and probably gets much worse. My brothers, who are generally very polite, sincere, and articulate, can't escape getting caught up in some pop culture habits--I know that I certainly didn't. But it still bothers me.

It's been said before, but hate really is a strong word, and I don't like hearing it, especially coming out of the mouths of children. My brothers are being taught by their peers to hate what they don't really know; and uninformed negativity becomes a substitute for rational criticism at a very young age.

One of the most disturbing things that I've heard, secondhand, is a remark something along the lines of "Justin Bieber's gay. I don't get why girls still like him." I don't know whether he's gay or straight, and anyhow, that wouldn't be any sort of determining factor in how I feel about him. Homophobia is nothing new, but that doesn't make it any more acceptable. Likewise, mockingly comparing Bieber's voice to a female's is not only an uncreative insult, but it ranks of prejudice and sexism.

I know it may seem inconsequential, but this is a symptom of something larger. Hatred, especially unfounded, is a very serious emotion to have, especially when it's directed towards another person. So, when my brothers tell me that they "hate" Justin Bieber, I ask them to slow down for a moment and think about what they mean. They don't listen to his music, so it's hardly a judgement of quality. Rather, it arises from a "go with the crowds" mentality.  I know they're better than that.