Levi, Neda
English 312
December 13, 2008
Final Paper
Professor Wexler
Reality & Media
Dystopia Through The Airwaves
“A future dystopia is intriguingly shaped by the society’s obsession with reality t.v with fatal results for many characters.” – Elise Broach
Imagine for a second what each of our lives were like when we were at the mere age of five, beginning kindergarten without a care in the world. No element or factor closely related to that of a dystopic world ever surfaces at that point in someone’s life. As children we are put into a society, within a certain ideological state apparatus without ever knowing so. As we grow up, the media plays upon ideological state apparatuses, and societal norms shape us into what we come to believe is the right way to behave. Ideology exists all around us, and it is mostly through the media in which we, as human beings brought into this world unaware of any corruption that lies forth, are told what the right things for us to engage in truly are; whether they be a career choice to adopt, a fashion trend to follow, a diet to devour, or a genre of music to listen to.
Due to certain representations brought to us by the media, people are blindly sucked in and assimilated to obsessing and idealizing the hype about something, whether or not what they are internalizing is nothing more than a mere concept of interest that depicts negative repercussions, by the Repressive State Apparatuses, being implemented on members of society for millions of people to enjoy upon the stupid, big, plasma screened rectangular box with dials that has kept people entertained for years. By reveling in its glory, including myself up until a few years ago, we as a society are unfortunately dumbing ourselves down.
One of the most unforgettable television shows is Cops, which premiered on March 11, 1989. Why is it that you can ask almost anybody literate and coherent in American society and even those in some foreign countries, about Cops and they will know exactly what you’re talking about? This is the pioneering idea founded upon the reality television show and there’s something to be said about the fact that it remains true and timeless through and through.
What is it about watching a drunken minority break into someone’s car on a Tuesday morning at 2:30, which excites us more so than reading an article by Althusser to broaden our intellectual mind capacities? “The Repressive State Apparatus functions by violence, whereas the Ideological State Apparatuses function by ideology” (Althusser, 1490). The RSA’s, which include those authoritative associations that work for the state; most importantly, the punitive side of government established by the Federal prisons, courts, militaries, and judges along with the C.I. A, and the F.B.I are undoubtedly the premise for most reality television shows, and why our society feed into this is beyond comprehension. The media, especially in terms of reality television, is there to tap into everything other than our positive abilities to function within a society that harbors both positive and negative elements that work in tandem to hinder us and on the flip side help us succeed in life. Reality T.V shows have no purpose in allowing people, mostly the generations born after the 50’s where the media, materialism, consumerism and capitalism had a harder time breaking people down and compelling them to ditch the desire rooted in non-conformity and spend all their hard earned dollars in order to “fit in”, the ability to prosper by reaching the utmost of their individual potential, unscathed by the ominous need to expend and be acknowledged by some order in popular society.
Why aren’t there more reality shows geared towards a positive ideology? Is it because our society is undeniably lacking in its intellect as a whole to the point where The Real Housewives of Atlanta, exemplifying the lives of rich football and basketball players wives spending their husbands’ dough is more important than a special based on the ideology of peace that John Lennon wanted to see this world achieve or a documentary showing the horrible events that six million Jews went through during the reign of Adolf Hitler and his twisted need to kill them all?
Think of the image that Hollywood is represented as, through the media. It serves its purpose as an ideology in it of itself, but does reality television make that ideology or break it? “Ideology is a representation of the imaginary relationship of individuals to their real conditions of existence” (Althusser, 1498). We can never truly know ourselves, away from ideologies and especially the norms that are implicated into our daily lives by the norms which society constructs. It is safe to say that every single body who composes their personalities, their endeavors, their existence through a social status and through material possessions which society deems as necessary i.e. a fashion trend, a sports car, etc. follows a certain ideology that from the moment of their conception was meant for them to buy into. Hollywood is a lifestyle, nothing more or less. It is a picture perfect world away from repressive ideological state apparatuses and more in tune with an ideological state apparatus that only exists to serve the beautiful ones (with the help of massive amounts of make up).
Reality television along with other elements of the media, is only there to exploit us, to dig deep into our rational mindsets and turn our attentions to something that we can do without quite positively. Without the media, there would be no need for advertising, material production (in the realm of extra sports car elements which range from unnecessary to absurd and utterly expensive), and a dumbing down of society; therefore the sad truth displays how the concept of ideology has steered clear away from anything positively idealized like getting an education, and more so geared towards the corruption of a society that relies heavily upon the media to rape our intellect and steal our notions of self and most definitely our hard earned money through consumerism, materialism and stupid shows about stupid people whom have no business being broad casted on television without a solid purpose or lesson to resonate amongst their viewers.
The media and glorious Hollywood are both institutions defined as
Ideological Apparatus, but they are obviously not ostensibly there to protect us as other Ideological State Apparatuses, i.e. religious sectors and schools, are. “Each of them (apparatuses) contributes towards this single result in the way proper to it. The communications apparatus by cramming every citizen with daily doses of nationalism, chauvinism, liberalism, moralism, etc., by means of the press, the radio or television” (Althusser, 1494). Even though the media does bring about knowledge in terms of political rallies, election coverage and news stories, one may still argue that it displays a lifestyle through reality television that portrays a false sense of reality for the younger generations, that will only deter them as they grow and learn to comprehend certain ways of the world and what is right and wrong through the ideological apparatuses that they reside in, thus being their families at home, and become educated in, thus being amongst their peers and teachers at school. “One apparatus certainly has the dominant role, although hardly anyone lends an ear to its music: It is so silent! This is the school” (Althusser, 1494). There is no ideology more affluent in society than that which houses the concept of education and importance that knowledge carries over all mediums in which media is filtered through. School functions as the institution that will further comprehension, intellect and success in future generations more so than any reality television spin-off will ever cease to do so.
Reality t.v is the epitome of trash, whether or not it is done tastefully. Sure, reality television provides entertainment and shock value that us, as Americans, find to fuel our daily subsistence by, but that should not grant it the power to surpass the ideology of knowledge itself.
Works Cited
Althusser, Louis. "From Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses
Notes towards an Investigation). "The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism. By Vincent B. Leitch. Boston: W. W. Norton & Company, Incorporated, 2001. 1483-509.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Jameson's Politics
The notion that politics can never be eradicated from this world rings true within our understanding of the universe in its entirety. Politics and Ideology work hand in hand, and everything that a society is established upon, or everything that a society is in dire necessity for, is all a manifestation of the definitive idea pertaining to politics. God created man, and man continues to advance with the production of technology and machines; without politics and the I.S.A's that we, as mere mortals are interpellated into from the minute of our conceptions with the signifier, our names, that our parents give us as unborn fetuses, the world would fall away from any gesture of its innate ability to cohesively exist. Political agendas construct the way humans interact in society, the way technology advances, and the way machines are built. Politics may stand alone; us on the other hand, including the machines representative of human labor, cannot.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Middle Eastern elements of Dystopia in Media
We live in such a corrupt and utterly disturbing society. As one of Middle Eastern decent, September 11, 2001 has completely changed the way “We” as a people are looked upon, and I am outraged by the fact that some Americans, in this nation founded upon equality, can possibly be as ignorant or more ignorant than those that they fear are constantly plotting to destroy their motherland.
In this clip from the Tyra Banks show, a segment is dedicated to what Americans
perceived from the get go of the name belonging to a little Muslim girl, and the cold-hearted thoughts that they stated about her name and her people as a whole, proves how fanatical some people i.e. “the privileged people” of America can undeniably be.
In this clip from the Tyra Banks show, a segment is dedicated to what Americans
perceived from the get go of the name belonging to a little Muslim girl, and the cold-hearted thoughts that they stated about her name and her people as a whole, proves how fanatical some people i.e. “the privileged people” of America can undeniably be.
Fear
I enjoyed our class discussion relating to Obama's Presidential win and the certain
propositions that were mentioned, especially prop 8.
Like Nadia stated in class, Why not ban divorce?
Those who voted yes want to ban Gay marriages to keep the constitution intact and
protect traditional marriage and though I understand, I do not agree. So being a child with two mothers or two fathers may screw you up in the long run, but having divorced parents wont?
Well, as a product of two dysfunctional parents, I can assure those who voted yes on 8, that divorce does more than enough harm.
I may not know much about politics, but I know enough to where I find myself extremely passionate about an aspect of it or relating to it.
Obama winning the election was no doubt History in the making, but what gets me is how all you hear about is "An African American has become president!", left and right. I am by no means hating on the notion of a minority being the president, I voted for him and I feel that he can help me in my dire need for medical insurance, and poor, independent student present state of being, but it just frustrates me because his father, who left him when he was 2, is the only lifeline that connected him to the amount of black blood running through his veins.
He was raised by his white grandparents, and people who are aware of it still only
emphasize excitement over the African American part of him not the white, and I wonder why?
I do not mean to offend anyone. I am not an ignorant being, I just dont understand why people who have the citizenship and the rights to call America their country, fear an African American in power when he is just as American as they are?
Why is this country so hell bent over allowing somebody of a different race to rule?
This country is made up of immigrants period, which fall into the category of "Minority" most often. You would think those who claim this country to be their own would understand the meaning of "Minority" after all. I mean, weren't they the ones who stole this country from the Native Americans?
propositions that were mentioned, especially prop 8.
Like Nadia stated in class, Why not ban divorce?
Those who voted yes want to ban Gay marriages to keep the constitution intact and
protect traditional marriage and though I understand, I do not agree. So being a child with two mothers or two fathers may screw you up in the long run, but having divorced parents wont?
Well, as a product of two dysfunctional parents, I can assure those who voted yes on 8, that divorce does more than enough harm.
I may not know much about politics, but I know enough to where I find myself extremely passionate about an aspect of it or relating to it.
Obama winning the election was no doubt History in the making, but what gets me is how all you hear about is "An African American has become president!", left and right. I am by no means hating on the notion of a minority being the president, I voted for him and I feel that he can help me in my dire need for medical insurance, and poor, independent student present state of being, but it just frustrates me because his father, who left him when he was 2, is the only lifeline that connected him to the amount of black blood running through his veins.
He was raised by his white grandparents, and people who are aware of it still only
emphasize excitement over the African American part of him not the white, and I wonder why?
I do not mean to offend anyone. I am not an ignorant being, I just dont understand why people who have the citizenship and the rights to call America their country, fear an African American in power when he is just as American as they are?
Why is this country so hell bent over allowing somebody of a different race to rule?
This country is made up of immigrants period, which fall into the category of "Minority" most often. You would think those who claim this country to be their own would understand the meaning of "Minority" after all. I mean, weren't they the ones who stole this country from the Native Americans?
Risk & Interpellation
So, a couple nights ago I spoke to my hard-core Republican aunt and our conversation
left me stunned, not only because I lent my voice on behalf of those who feel that Obama can help poor college students and those without any medical insurance way more than Mr. McCain can, but mostly because she made me feel like a complete idiot!
Going to CSUN with more than 40,000 dollars debt combined out of financial aid and
school loans (I went to school in Nevada where out of state tuition needs to be eradicated beyond belief!), I am struggling to hold down a job, get this piece of documentation called a Degree which is supposed to get me a job that my own intelligence without school cannot (We have all been conditioned to believe so) and
become something, only to stress much more, struggle to pay my debts off, and live in
some way, shape or form better than I could have without an education...
Correct me if I am wrong, but what sense does this make?
Ever since we were children we've been told that a mind is a terrible thing to waste, and that an education can get you all the riches your heart has ever desired.
Now I ask you, is this really true? How many people, whose parents do not pay for their tuition nor give them money to feed their material, emotional or physical hunger, truly get to relish in their ambitions really becoming part of their daily escapades? Taking risks, coming from a broken home with no monetary support from either parent is quite difficult, and pushing myself to be the best that I can be, is even more so difficult.
I am doing more than some kids without financial debt can attest to and I know that my education is something that in the long run CAN, though it is NOT GUARANTEED, get me somewhere good where the stress of life can go as easily as it can come, and yet I feel so tired, like I've lived a life of hard knocks and it shows.
left me stunned, not only because I lent my voice on behalf of those who feel that Obama can help poor college students and those without any medical insurance way more than Mr. McCain can, but mostly because she made me feel like a complete idiot!
Going to CSUN with more than 40,000 dollars debt combined out of financial aid and
school loans (I went to school in Nevada where out of state tuition needs to be eradicated beyond belief!), I am struggling to hold down a job, get this piece of documentation called a Degree which is supposed to get me a job that my own intelligence without school cannot (We have all been conditioned to believe so) and
become something, only to stress much more, struggle to pay my debts off, and live in
some way, shape or form better than I could have without an education...
Correct me if I am wrong, but what sense does this make?
Ever since we were children we've been told that a mind is a terrible thing to waste, and that an education can get you all the riches your heart has ever desired.
Now I ask you, is this really true? How many people, whose parents do not pay for their tuition nor give them money to feed their material, emotional or physical hunger, truly get to relish in their ambitions really becoming part of their daily escapades? Taking risks, coming from a broken home with no monetary support from either parent is quite difficult, and pushing myself to be the best that I can be, is even more so difficult.
I am doing more than some kids without financial debt can attest to and I know that my education is something that in the long run CAN, though it is NOT GUARANTEED, get me somewhere good where the stress of life can go as easily as it can come, and yet I feel so tired, like I've lived a life of hard knocks and it shows.
Musicality
On Tuesdays discussion about Music, I had my hand up a few times but I was never called on, nevertheless here's my chance to tell you, Angelo, that I agree. When it comes to Hip Hop, it's a genre that I have loved to dance to since I was six-years old and my mother signed me up for dance classes. I see Hip Hop and Rap in many ways. I think of the mainstream videos with all the sex, Cristal, bling and fancy cars, and I can't stand it, but then I think of Run DMC and LL Cool J, please bear with me if I don't know all the popular artists nowadays since I grew up on Fleetwood Mac, Bob Dylan, Queen and Bruce Springsteen, and I see Hip Hop for what it meant to convey from the get go, a celebration of art and the influence of the Black community and how much their people, both emotionally and mentally, had to give, individually and collectively.I think of Kanye West, and not that I know so much about him, but he could use whatever hook, belonging to whoever he wants, and I, as an individual, would still be enamored by his lyrics, his mindset and the deep truthes that he speaks of.Every genre borrows something from someone else yet people in our society tend to pick on hip hop most often. Mr. Vanilla Ice made it big off of Queen and David Bowie's hook yet refused to admit it, and people forgot about it. Even though I love my Queen, I admit Vanilla's was catchy and it made him HUGE! Music will progress, and one person will always catch a flaw, like you said, and help spark some controversy. People need to pay attention to the lyrics, whether or not they speak to the masses rather than attacking the artist because of the obvious hook that was borrowed. Every genre uses repetition in this business, but that doesn't mean than an artist cannot strike original genius within their capability to make music. I remember when I was 13 and P. Diddy, or whatever his name is today, borrowed The Police's hook from "Every Breath You Take" and I ask anyone reading this...Did anyone in the business, or in his fan base say anything or object to the fact that he had used repetition? Obviously not, he still had a hit and made bank.
Movies & The Concept of Art
I agree completely with many of my classmates that propose art as being a form of beautiful expression through writing, music, and acting, and whose to say what is art itself, and what is not art? though, when it comes to the topic of movies being art, my opinion differs with many. Movies began as a manifestation of ones artistic expression within the Silent Era, and I agree that as technology advanced and many modes of filming, videotaping and photography came to be, movies, television and model magazine covers, became replicas of something that left its audiences floored decades beforehand, but in my opinion, there are movies that will always radiate as beautiful renditions of art, and reside away from the sterotype of "Movies being of entertainment value and nothing remotely close to an artistic endeavor", in relation to the realm that the act of creating art was once known as.I think of movies like Philadelphia, Mask (Cher/Eric Stoltz not Jim Carrey), Steel Magnolias, Shawshank Redemption, Schindler's List and Stand By me, and no matter how cheesy some of them may seem to my classmates or anyone else for that matter, these movies have instilled something within me that has led me to strive in my artistic capabilties, and to pursue my creative endeavors. Movies that strike something within someone, something that is worthy enough, minutely or enormously profound, to bring about a coping mechanism for life are undeniably art. These characters and their essential subsistence as mere mortals have mastered a beautful work of art that has brought moments of piece into my enduring battles in life, and for me that is what the notion of Art, as I stated above is founded upon, and I can argue so for the rest of my life.
Eugenics
What thought has not crossed my mind on the topic of Eugenics and the picture perfect
qualities of Jude Law's character in Gattaca? Nothing.
Regardless of all his great attributes, he still came in second. No one ever wants to be
second best and to realize that even in a perfect society, where all diseases could come
to a hault way before the night of your conception, the thought of becoming second best
can still make you or break you. Personally, there are many times and many things that
have hindered me on my path to success, and if one day in the future, something exists
to eradicate the possibilities of my mother's breast cancer, my father's heart disease, my
aunt's bi-polar disorder, or my own chronic depression from deeply robbing my child's
shot at an extraordinary life from him or her, I would not hesitate to advocate on its
behalf.
qualities of Jude Law's character in Gattaca? Nothing.
Regardless of all his great attributes, he still came in second. No one ever wants to be
second best and to realize that even in a perfect society, where all diseases could come
to a hault way before the night of your conception, the thought of becoming second best
can still make you or break you. Personally, there are many times and many things that
have hindered me on my path to success, and if one day in the future, something exists
to eradicate the possibilities of my mother's breast cancer, my father's heart disease, my
aunt's bi-polar disorder, or my own chronic depression from deeply robbing my child's
shot at an extraordinary life from him or her, I would not hesitate to advocate on its
behalf.
1984
"My novel 1984 is not intended as an attack on socialism, or on the British Labor Party, but as a show-up of the perversions to which a centralized economy is liable. . . I do not believe that the kind of society I describe necessarily will arrive, but I believe that something resembling it could arrive." George Orwell covered the idea of totalitarianism, along with addressing the thought that perhaps in the future the ability to corrupt ones psychological mindset with certain regulations may be quite affluent, yet on the flip side he had clearly illustrated the concept that perchance this future system may be more harmful rather than helpful. I have read in the past that Orwell was profoundly concerned by the general cruelties and oppressions that he saw well heeled in many communist countries. Orwell was concerned by the role of technology in enabling oppressive governments to monitor and control their citizens. “A reactionary society can force people to do many things which are against their social and physical interests and which may cause them acute discomfort and pain; but I doubt that it can break down the fundamental physiological distinction between pleasure and pain." By reading Howe’s piece and his quote, I am reminded by how I see the terms of Psychological usage in Orwell’s piece mirroring the ways of our American society nowadays. It is a thought that may not be paid much attention to, but to think of how much security has been enforced and changed throughout the years, due to the events of September 11, 2001 and just the new found desire to be safe in general since then, is fairly astonishing. You cannot walk into any grocery store, department store, and liquor store, without being watched. Are these just precautions to serve protection for those rich business owners, or to protect us all, the affluently rich Americans and the severely poor minorities from harms way? Hard curveballs are thrown into people’s daily lives, but I do not agree with Howe in that he doubts that a reactionary society can break down the fundamental, physiological distinction between pleasure and pain. No matter how brainwashed or forced to conform one becomes, one can never lose the ability to distinguish pleasure from pain. I simply refuse to believe so. In addition to Orwell having pondered upon what difficulties the future had in store for any society, I also believe that the media controls every source of information that we, the people of a nation, are being given. The news coverage is all we have to go about, and to decipher the truth about something massive, as did the party in 1984. They controlled every piece of information, and rewrote history to their own liking. We believe what we are conditioned to believe in our world today, but whose to say what is true and what is false, and whether or not the stories we are being led to believe are completely accurate or not. The media controls our society and our thoughts if we continuously let them in to do so, and in turn they will continue to control our pasts, as did the party in Orwell’s 1984.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
A Saturday Telephone Conversation: Spring 2006
Nye Hall: University of Nevada, Reno
I look out the window facing Argenta hall...
The sun shining on my face along with the notion of the world being wide-awake is all I feel.I spoke to him today.
He feels my pain, and I miss times like this so dearly.
I see the confusion in his eyes so clearly.
He begs me not to cry..."I'll get mad", he says.
He rules with an iron fist, and that is all I remember. I preach and pour my angst out to him.
"I'm a good kid. Do you trust that?”
He says, "Of course, I always have."
Oh how I miss his 41 year old soul...I see it less and less frequently, and it's the times where I am honored with his rare presence that I feel composed.
I'm not going to make it here...I don’t feel any serenity. Nobody interesting, nothing fulfilling.... just fakeness.
He says to me..."Maybe it's you who needs to change."
I know, and I've been dealt with the same predicament since he left when I was almost of legal age.
I know I need to be different, but I just don’t know how and where to start.
I'm so fucked up, and it's all the fault of the man who has the audacity to tell me to change.
I close my eyes, I see through the blinds of the shattered window of my broken home.
I see him walk into my room, that sweet summer day...a few days before I began the last year of torment in that hell hole that kept me captive for 4 fucking years of my misfortunate existence.
He sat on my bed...and as the tears fell down my face listening to "Drive" by my Ric Ocasek and the Cars, he said that he was done and that he couldn’t do it anymore... he left 2 days later.
"Let go your heart, let go your head"...He has forever left me repeatedly, and when shit gets hard I still run to him, but I cant anymore...but nothing, not even my intense hatred will make me stop doing so.
"Please forgive me, cause I know not what I do...Like a stone I fall in your eyes, deep into that mystery. I get half a mile to scream out loud, I get half a mile to die."
That cold, harsh fall has been every tomorrow that's turned into the past.
Aba, ani metta alechah...
The past is away from my sight, but forever in the cold, dead spirit that I have become.
Thank you for nothing....
It’s everything that's made me into the pale little girl with the I.V in her arm that you left out to rot.
and I still love you.
I look out the window facing Argenta hall...
The sun shining on my face along with the notion of the world being wide-awake is all I feel.I spoke to him today.
He feels my pain, and I miss times like this so dearly.
I see the confusion in his eyes so clearly.
He begs me not to cry..."I'll get mad", he says.
He rules with an iron fist, and that is all I remember. I preach and pour my angst out to him.
"I'm a good kid. Do you trust that?”
He says, "Of course, I always have."
Oh how I miss his 41 year old soul...I see it less and less frequently, and it's the times where I am honored with his rare presence that I feel composed.
I'm not going to make it here...I don’t feel any serenity. Nobody interesting, nothing fulfilling.... just fakeness.
He says to me..."Maybe it's you who needs to change."
I know, and I've been dealt with the same predicament since he left when I was almost of legal age.
I know I need to be different, but I just don’t know how and where to start.
I'm so fucked up, and it's all the fault of the man who has the audacity to tell me to change.
I close my eyes, I see through the blinds of the shattered window of my broken home.
I see him walk into my room, that sweet summer day...a few days before I began the last year of torment in that hell hole that kept me captive for 4 fucking years of my misfortunate existence.
He sat on my bed...and as the tears fell down my face listening to "Drive" by my Ric Ocasek and the Cars, he said that he was done and that he couldn’t do it anymore... he left 2 days later.
"Let go your heart, let go your head"...He has forever left me repeatedly, and when shit gets hard I still run to him, but I cant anymore...but nothing, not even my intense hatred will make me stop doing so.
"Please forgive me, cause I know not what I do...Like a stone I fall in your eyes, deep into that mystery. I get half a mile to scream out loud, I get half a mile to die."
That cold, harsh fall has been every tomorrow that's turned into the past.
Aba, ani metta alechah...
The past is away from my sight, but forever in the cold, dead spirit that I have become.
Thank you for nothing....
It’s everything that's made me into the pale little girl with the I.V in her arm that you left out to rot.
and I still love you.
Replacing Emptiness: 9/2007
It has taken six painstaking years to come to a realization that what has happened has happened, and the distinct loss of everything I once encompassed that has made my life quite unbearable, will continue to resonate with each undying breath I take. Still, I sit in what was once my element, my sanctuary, and as the utter sadness of time passed wraps itself around my aching corpse, I close my eyes and drift away to that moment when my life came tumbling down once and for all. I see through the blinds of the shattered window of what was once my broken home. I see him walk into my room on that sweet summer day, a few days before the 12th year my reign as the supreme outcast began. I sat upon my bed, composed and fearful, as he sat down beside me, and gently moved aside my blue three-ring binder and a pack of blue Bic pens. As "Stand By Me" by Mr. King played on my Cd player and the tears began to stream down my tarnished face, My father, the man who had helped bring me into this world withholding a heart full of compassion and a piece of mind which had been fueled by an abusive past, decided to take the spirit within my soul, which he had tried to slay repeatedly throughout the years, and bestow upon it a fond farewell. My beautiful crazy shine, My father, My life, decided it was time to ditch the wife who made his life utter hell, and leave the product of his sperm donation to fend for herself, in this cold, cruel world. The next day, I began my senior year of high school, and came home that afternoon to a single mother for the 5th time in my life, only this time the heartache was undeniably going to linger beside me. Six years later, it may have been quite a disappointment, but I have come to cope with the notion that I will never be blessed with the spirit that was once my sweet father. It is the pain of missing him immensely, regardless of what he had done to instill such ambivalence within me. It is and will always be the fact that he once loved me, even if it may not hold true anymore for him. It is fighting back the cancer of my soul, in hopes of one day seeing the man I once had known to be my father...and it is fighting the truth, that there is no hope, and I will never see the real him again. I struggle each day to come to terms with a loss that has defined me day after day, counseling session after session, anti-depressant after anti-depressant, and yet the thing is I may have spent my life, up to this moment, yearning, yearning to kiss a childhood pain, a lingering moment that has yet to subside, a resonating goodbye, but the older I have become since that moment of truth that led me to believe that love leaves, I comprehend that my father had his reasons, and both my parents had their faults. Even though my father took his own disappointment in life, which was not having a father, out on me, I’d still give the world to be wrapped up in his tumultuous tempest and all its sheer wonder just one last time.
A Life of Love and Deception
Raindrops, intertwined with Serena’s tears, hit the pavement outside the therapist’s office on this sullen November morning. She trails far behind, listening to Phil Collins’ “In the Air Tonight” on the green iPod her father had given to her for her 16th birthday that September. Her mother, Kelly, and her flavor of the month, John, walk hand in hand, whispering into each other’s ears just a few steps ahead.
“Mom, this is utterly ridiculous! I don’t see any sense in this.”
Kelly sighs under the Chanel umbrella keeping her and John dry, and turns to look at Serena soaking wet,
“Rena, please cooperate with me! I’m not going to deal with your rebellion and unkindness towards me any longer! I’ve done nothing but been a good mother to you! If I can’t get you to treat me with respect, then maybe having you see a shrink will give you an attitude adjustment and open your eyes a bit.”
Serena looks at her mother in disgust. How could a woman who has committed such an act, be in such denial of it all? How can she be compelled to imply that her own daughter is the one who needs psychiatric help?
As they enter the Center for Family Counseling, John opens the door, smiling as Kelly enters. She blows him a kiss in return, and as Serena walks in, John notices her sigh deeply in what seems to be a look of nausea.
In the therapist’s office, the walls are covered with beautiful portraits of young children. As Serena makes her way to a brown rustic armchair, the painting above strikes her fancy. It is of a little girl with beautiful Native American hair, like her own, putting on ballet slippers, and suddenly Serena’s mind slips back into the days when her parents encouraged her to follow her dreams of becoming a Ballerina. She quickly wipes her tears away before her mother catches her letting her guard down. As her mother and John make their way to the red “loveseat” besides her, Dr. Anderson locks the office door, and plops her snobby rear end unto her white recliner.
“So Kelly and John, who is this lovely young woman you have brought in to see me today?”
Serena sighs and rolls her eyes at her mother. Her mother smiles back at her. “This is my beautiful daughter, Serena.”
“Hi Serena, Well, how can I help you today?
“Honestly, this isn’t for me, it’s for my Mother and her home wrecker boyfriend, husband, I don’t know—whatever the hell he is.”
Kelly looks at her, ashamed. “You see Doctor, she has become the absolute opposite of what I raised her to be. She has no respect, none for me, John, or anyone else for that matter.”
As Serena begins to cry, Dr. Anderson hands her a green box of tissues with a picture of a fall harvest drawn upon it. Thanksgiving, the year before, was the last time she saw her parents in a passionate embrace. “Tell me Serena, I understand you’re upset, but why? No one is here to judge, not even your mother.”
Serena looks out the window and wonders if the dark clouds are due to the sky having a heart full of pain. “You want to know what’s going on with me mother. You want to know why I’ve been acting this way. Huh?", Serena feels agitated by her mother’s long silence, slouches as she uncrosses her legs and stomps both feet down, "Well? Do you!!!!!!"
Kelly begins to worry by her daughter’s fit of implicit anger. “Yes, Yes baby, tell me, please.”
Serena sits up straight. “You see Dr. Anderson, I have nothing against my Mother or John; in fact I love John immensely, but not for becoming my mother’s lover.”
“Serena if you’re upset with me, fine, but don’t disrespect John.”
“You’re right Mom. Dr. Anderson, John is a perfect match for my Mother, a grungy musician, and a long-legged Blonde starlet, quite a blissful match. In fact better than his best friend, my father, ever was for her. Will that suffice Mother?”
Kelly looks at her daughter stunned, while the tears roll down Serena’s eyes, and her lips start to quiver, Kelly kindly responds, “Baby, Go on. Speak your piece.”
“I’m … I’m angry and caught up in the mess my mother could have prevented, if only she realized what her and my father really had. She allowed herself to fall out of love, or whatever her reasoning was, but I just don’t understand why? And if it was so necessary, why did she have to cheat with my father’s best friend?” Serena sobs silently, “Why would anyone do such a thing?”
Dr. Anderson hands her a bottle of water, and smiles with empathy for the sweet brokenhearted girl. “I understand that it is not easy to endure hardships like this in one’s life, but your mother may have had a cause unknown to you as to why she decided to act the way she has.”
Serena chuckles, and rolls her eyes. “Dr. Anderson, you do not understand. My life has not been perfect, but it has been more than I could have ever imagined. My parents busted their butts to allow my brother, my little sister and myself to live comfortably with all the finer things in life. They sent us to the best schools, and with my brother getting accepted to USC, they’re willing to pay for his tuition too but he doesn’t want them to, due to everything they’ve done for us. Now tell me, what other kid wouldn’t take Mommy and Daddy’s money whenever it was offered? My parents, my mom and “real” father belong together. The way my mother changed my father for the better, you would never believe she’d leave him in the end.”
Dr. Anderson looks at Kelly, then Serena, and smiles. “Do you love your mother?”
“Of course I do, she was an angel to all of us.”
“How did she change your father’s ways?”
“My father was a straight up narcotic fiend, a crazy addict. She pulled him out of it, never left his side through all his withdrawals and gave him a reason to live, and strive to become the musician he always aspired to be.” Serena looks at John with a look of contempt in her eyes. “If there ever was anything my Papa would give his life for, it was my mother and Johnny. “
Serena gets up and looks out of the window, and Kelly walks up and puts her arms around her and whispers in her ear, “Your father didn’t want me anymore.”
Serena turns around and slaps her mother across the face, and as John runs up to Kelly’s aid, Dr. Anderson looks at Serena with disappointment. “That was uncalled for young lady.”
Serena looks at the three of them. “She has left my father alone, and when he finds someone new the truth is, she won’t compliment him the way my mother did. Whatever my thoughts are on my mother’s relations with John, I’m entitled to them. He is not my stepfather, and never will he be anything of that sort to me. I am my father’s family; his daughter and only his.” Serena reaches into her pocket and feels the vibration of her cell phone. She glances at the screen, and can’t wait to answer it. She looks at Kelly and John, and looks down at their hands locked together. “As far as I am concerned, you both are as dead to me as you are to him.” She looks at Dr. Anderson and shakes her hand, “Well this has been quite enjoyable," she moves on to shake her mother’s hand, " Thank you, for the bullshit ending to a life I valued so very much, Kelly.”
As Serena slams the office door, she answers her father’s call. “Hi Papa.”
Anthony hears the hurt in his angel’s voice, and his voice trembles in wonder of what could have happened. “Rena, what happened? Why do you sound like you’re about to cry?”
Serena gets into the elevator, and standing against the metal railing, lays her head against the cold metal, slowly moving her body into the fetal position, as she sobs.
“Nothing, Papa, It’s just Mom, and John. They felt like playing a game of house, and took me to therapy.”
“You told her you wanted to go?”
“No, she’s just shocked by my intense behavior towards her and her sorry excuse for a boyfriend, and can’t for the life of her understand why. I’m so upset and angry, and I feel so ambivalent towards her for fucking up our family.” Serena grabs a hold of the metal railing, and pounds on the floor with her left fist, continuing to sob violently.
Anthony, driving home from his studio session, stops at a stop sign and pulls over on his way to pick up his little Lacey from Kindergarten. “Baby, please stop. I hate hearing you cry. You have a family, you’ve got Tony, Lace and I, and you know that no matter what happens between your mother and I, she loves you immensely and she always will. She never meant to hurt you.”
As the elevator doors open, Serena walks out of the building and sits on a bench in the pouring rain. “Can I see you, or are you at work?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at the plaza down the street from Lacey’s school.”
“I was on my way to pick her up, but I’ll be there in five minutes. Wait for me.”
The thought of her father asking her to wait leaves her with a sense of protection. Serena wipes her tears away, with a clear understanding that as long as her father is there to save her from harms way, then nothing else matters. “Thank you, Papa.”
As Anthony starts up the car, and makes a left at the stop sign, heading down to the plaza, Kelly calls him on his cell.
“Where is she, Anthony? What did you tell her to have her act like an ungrateful little bitch?”
“Excuse me??? First off, your daughter walking out on you has nothing to do with me, and how dare you call her an ungrateful little bitch. I won’t disrespect you, and stoop to your level, but-”, he drives up to Serena, waiting at the curb, and lets her in.
“Hi baby”, as he reaches over to kiss her forehead, Kelly gets frustrated on the line.
“What is she doing with you?”
“Excuse me, she’s my kid, and that’s all I’m going to say to you.
“Let me talk to her.”
“Rena, your mom wants to talk to you.”
Serena looks at him, “I don’t want to see her, or speak to her.”
Anthony holds his daughter’s hand, “ Baby, you know I’m on your side no matter what, but she’s your mother.” Serena looks at him, and shakes her head, as her frown manifests into tears, as Kelly becomes impatient over the phone, and angry with him for stealing Serena’s love away from her.
“Anthony, don’t brainwash my kid into hating me.”
Anthony becomes irate, and tries to keep his cool in front of Serena, but finds it difficult. “Kelly, one thing I do not do is point fingers, and push people to hate one another. Rena is upset and tired. This whole situation is killing our kids, so before you judge, please take a minute and re-evaluate the situation, and see who it is that has prompted Rena to act this way.”
Kelly stops silent, as her and John walk to the underground parking lot. John opens the car door for her, and waits till she gets in, and closes the door for her. On the other end, beyond his love for her, Anthony still feels betrayed and extremely broken hearted. “Why baby, why would you do this to me?”
John kisses Kelly on the forehead, and whispers to her that everything will be just fine. “I don’t know, Anthony.”
“You don’t know? You don’t know! Damn it Kelly! I can’t believe you and that asshole! I’m done Kelly; you did yourself in this time. It’s completely over and I’m prepared to fight.”
Serena puts her headphones on hoping to drown out the sounds of her sorrow.
Kelly opens the car window a little and lights up a cigarette. “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you threatening me?”
“No. How quickly you forget. I was the one who loved you and would’ve died for you. Now, how could I ever wish to hurt you, when all I knew was how to protect you? I’m just making sure you know what the deal is.”
Kelly exhales a puff of smoke, as cloudy as the love she once shared with her husband has become, and lets out a laugh fueled with sarcasm, “Which is what?” She turns her speakerphone on so John can hear the conversation.
“Tony is going off to college, so I’m not worried about my boy, but there’s no way in hell that my girls will ever, (his voice begins to shake) ever, live in a house with that asshole you left me for.”
Serena looks over at Anthony, and senses his upset with Kelly.
“Papa, just hang up on her!!!! Please. It kills me to see how she keeps on hurting you. Fuck. I can’t take it anymore!” Serena throws her ipod at the windshield, and buries her head in her hands.
Anthony lifts Serena’s head up, and looks at her, “You are my life, and I don’t want you to hurt when I hurt. I’m going to handle this. I promise that Tony, Lace, You and I will be okay, and I won’t rest until we are. You got me?”
Serena bites her lip, and takes a deep breath in, “Papa, don’t leave me with her.”
“It would be the biggest mistake anyone can ever make, leaving my little girl alone. You have my word, no matter what, your coming with me.” Anthony kisses her head, and hears Kelly harping on the phone, again.
“ Listen Anthony", kelly pauses laughing hysterically "you actually think you’re going to take my girls away from John and I?”
Anthony begins to cry, and simultaneously give in to a fit of rage. “JOHN AND YOU! John and you??? You’ve obviously lost your mind. I’m filing for divorce, and Serena and Lace are coming with me!”
Serena turns on the speakerphone switch button on the sun visor to hear what her mother is saying…
“Over my dead body; after all, Lacey’s begun to call John, daddy.”
The feeling of eternal silence fills Anthony’s soul, as if someone had ripped his heart right out of him, and left it to be trampled upon. Her mouth slightly drops, and she looks at her father’s tears nearly drowning him, as he lies in a comatose state. Serena tugs on her father’s arm, hoping he’d come out of it and talk to her. She takes the phone and hangs up on her mother.
“Papa, she’s trying to get to you. Lacey never calls John anything of that sort. Everyone knows who her papa is, especially her. She calls you daddy, and only you.”
As Kelly looks down at her phone, she sees that he has hung up. She wanders off to the days when Anthony and her first got together 19 years ago, in her mind. The one thing that stays constant is the notion that he was her first love, and he always will be.
John pulls her bangs away from her eyes, and looks at her sincerely, “Sweetheart, are you okay?”
She takes out her compact and fixes her mascara. “Yeah baby. It’s over and done with.”
“Are you okay with that?”
She reaches for John’s right hand and holds it tightly, “He was the only man I ever fell for. I gave him my youth, my dreams, a family, and all the love I held in my heart. These truths make it hard for me to deal with.”
John replies sadly, “Do you still want to be with him?”
“Oh no", she kisses his hand, "Johnny, my love", she states lifting his chin up "I did what I did and I will face the consequences. I love you, and I know Lacey loves you, and that’s all that matters. We’ll be happy, with our own little family. You, me and your real daughter.”
John moves in for the kill, and kisses her unlike she has ever been kissed before. “If you only knew how much I love you." As they share an embrace, Kelly lays her head against his chest and listens to his heartbeat.
“I already know.” Kelly brushes her hand gently down his chest, and stops before she gets carried away. “Come on baby, Let’s go get your little girl from school.”
“Mom, this is utterly ridiculous! I don’t see any sense in this.”
Kelly sighs under the Chanel umbrella keeping her and John dry, and turns to look at Serena soaking wet,
“Rena, please cooperate with me! I’m not going to deal with your rebellion and unkindness towards me any longer! I’ve done nothing but been a good mother to you! If I can’t get you to treat me with respect, then maybe having you see a shrink will give you an attitude adjustment and open your eyes a bit.”
Serena looks at her mother in disgust. How could a woman who has committed such an act, be in such denial of it all? How can she be compelled to imply that her own daughter is the one who needs psychiatric help?
As they enter the Center for Family Counseling, John opens the door, smiling as Kelly enters. She blows him a kiss in return, and as Serena walks in, John notices her sigh deeply in what seems to be a look of nausea.
In the therapist’s office, the walls are covered with beautiful portraits of young children. As Serena makes her way to a brown rustic armchair, the painting above strikes her fancy. It is of a little girl with beautiful Native American hair, like her own, putting on ballet slippers, and suddenly Serena’s mind slips back into the days when her parents encouraged her to follow her dreams of becoming a Ballerina. She quickly wipes her tears away before her mother catches her letting her guard down. As her mother and John make their way to the red “loveseat” besides her, Dr. Anderson locks the office door, and plops her snobby rear end unto her white recliner.
“So Kelly and John, who is this lovely young woman you have brought in to see me today?”
Serena sighs and rolls her eyes at her mother. Her mother smiles back at her. “This is my beautiful daughter, Serena.”
“Hi Serena, Well, how can I help you today?
“Honestly, this isn’t for me, it’s for my Mother and her home wrecker boyfriend, husband, I don’t know—whatever the hell he is.”
Kelly looks at her, ashamed. “You see Doctor, she has become the absolute opposite of what I raised her to be. She has no respect, none for me, John, or anyone else for that matter.”
As Serena begins to cry, Dr. Anderson hands her a green box of tissues with a picture of a fall harvest drawn upon it. Thanksgiving, the year before, was the last time she saw her parents in a passionate embrace. “Tell me Serena, I understand you’re upset, but why? No one is here to judge, not even your mother.”
Serena looks out the window and wonders if the dark clouds are due to the sky having a heart full of pain. “You want to know what’s going on with me mother. You want to know why I’ve been acting this way. Huh?", Serena feels agitated by her mother’s long silence, slouches as she uncrosses her legs and stomps both feet down, "Well? Do you!!!!!!"
Kelly begins to worry by her daughter’s fit of implicit anger. “Yes, Yes baby, tell me, please.”
Serena sits up straight. “You see Dr. Anderson, I have nothing against my Mother or John; in fact I love John immensely, but not for becoming my mother’s lover.”
“Serena if you’re upset with me, fine, but don’t disrespect John.”
“You’re right Mom. Dr. Anderson, John is a perfect match for my Mother, a grungy musician, and a long-legged Blonde starlet, quite a blissful match. In fact better than his best friend, my father, ever was for her. Will that suffice Mother?”
Kelly looks at her daughter stunned, while the tears roll down Serena’s eyes, and her lips start to quiver, Kelly kindly responds, “Baby, Go on. Speak your piece.”
“I’m … I’m angry and caught up in the mess my mother could have prevented, if only she realized what her and my father really had. She allowed herself to fall out of love, or whatever her reasoning was, but I just don’t understand why? And if it was so necessary, why did she have to cheat with my father’s best friend?” Serena sobs silently, “Why would anyone do such a thing?”
Dr. Anderson hands her a bottle of water, and smiles with empathy for the sweet brokenhearted girl. “I understand that it is not easy to endure hardships like this in one’s life, but your mother may have had a cause unknown to you as to why she decided to act the way she has.”
Serena chuckles, and rolls her eyes. “Dr. Anderson, you do not understand. My life has not been perfect, but it has been more than I could have ever imagined. My parents busted their butts to allow my brother, my little sister and myself to live comfortably with all the finer things in life. They sent us to the best schools, and with my brother getting accepted to USC, they’re willing to pay for his tuition too but he doesn’t want them to, due to everything they’ve done for us. Now tell me, what other kid wouldn’t take Mommy and Daddy’s money whenever it was offered? My parents, my mom and “real” father belong together. The way my mother changed my father for the better, you would never believe she’d leave him in the end.”
Dr. Anderson looks at Kelly, then Serena, and smiles. “Do you love your mother?”
“Of course I do, she was an angel to all of us.”
“How did she change your father’s ways?”
“My father was a straight up narcotic fiend, a crazy addict. She pulled him out of it, never left his side through all his withdrawals and gave him a reason to live, and strive to become the musician he always aspired to be.” Serena looks at John with a look of contempt in her eyes. “If there ever was anything my Papa would give his life for, it was my mother and Johnny. “
Serena gets up and looks out of the window, and Kelly walks up and puts her arms around her and whispers in her ear, “Your father didn’t want me anymore.”
Serena turns around and slaps her mother across the face, and as John runs up to Kelly’s aid, Dr. Anderson looks at Serena with disappointment. “That was uncalled for young lady.”
Serena looks at the three of them. “She has left my father alone, and when he finds someone new the truth is, she won’t compliment him the way my mother did. Whatever my thoughts are on my mother’s relations with John, I’m entitled to them. He is not my stepfather, and never will he be anything of that sort to me. I am my father’s family; his daughter and only his.” Serena reaches into her pocket and feels the vibration of her cell phone. She glances at the screen, and can’t wait to answer it. She looks at Kelly and John, and looks down at their hands locked together. “As far as I am concerned, you both are as dead to me as you are to him.” She looks at Dr. Anderson and shakes her hand, “Well this has been quite enjoyable," she moves on to shake her mother’s hand, " Thank you, for the bullshit ending to a life I valued so very much, Kelly.”
As Serena slams the office door, she answers her father’s call. “Hi Papa.”
Anthony hears the hurt in his angel’s voice, and his voice trembles in wonder of what could have happened. “Rena, what happened? Why do you sound like you’re about to cry?”
Serena gets into the elevator, and standing against the metal railing, lays her head against the cold metal, slowly moving her body into the fetal position, as she sobs.
“Nothing, Papa, It’s just Mom, and John. They felt like playing a game of house, and took me to therapy.”
“You told her you wanted to go?”
“No, she’s just shocked by my intense behavior towards her and her sorry excuse for a boyfriend, and can’t for the life of her understand why. I’m so upset and angry, and I feel so ambivalent towards her for fucking up our family.” Serena grabs a hold of the metal railing, and pounds on the floor with her left fist, continuing to sob violently.
Anthony, driving home from his studio session, stops at a stop sign and pulls over on his way to pick up his little Lacey from Kindergarten. “Baby, please stop. I hate hearing you cry. You have a family, you’ve got Tony, Lace and I, and you know that no matter what happens between your mother and I, she loves you immensely and she always will. She never meant to hurt you.”
As the elevator doors open, Serena walks out of the building and sits on a bench in the pouring rain. “Can I see you, or are you at work?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at the plaza down the street from Lacey’s school.”
“I was on my way to pick her up, but I’ll be there in five minutes. Wait for me.”
The thought of her father asking her to wait leaves her with a sense of protection. Serena wipes her tears away, with a clear understanding that as long as her father is there to save her from harms way, then nothing else matters. “Thank you, Papa.”
As Anthony starts up the car, and makes a left at the stop sign, heading down to the plaza, Kelly calls him on his cell.
“Where is she, Anthony? What did you tell her to have her act like an ungrateful little bitch?”
“Excuse me??? First off, your daughter walking out on you has nothing to do with me, and how dare you call her an ungrateful little bitch. I won’t disrespect you, and stoop to your level, but-”, he drives up to Serena, waiting at the curb, and lets her in.
“Hi baby”, as he reaches over to kiss her forehead, Kelly gets frustrated on the line.
“What is she doing with you?”
“Excuse me, she’s my kid, and that’s all I’m going to say to you.
“Let me talk to her.”
“Rena, your mom wants to talk to you.”
Serena looks at him, “I don’t want to see her, or speak to her.”
Anthony holds his daughter’s hand, “ Baby, you know I’m on your side no matter what, but she’s your mother.” Serena looks at him, and shakes her head, as her frown manifests into tears, as Kelly becomes impatient over the phone, and angry with him for stealing Serena’s love away from her.
“Anthony, don’t brainwash my kid into hating me.”
Anthony becomes irate, and tries to keep his cool in front of Serena, but finds it difficult. “Kelly, one thing I do not do is point fingers, and push people to hate one another. Rena is upset and tired. This whole situation is killing our kids, so before you judge, please take a minute and re-evaluate the situation, and see who it is that has prompted Rena to act this way.”
Kelly stops silent, as her and John walk to the underground parking lot. John opens the car door for her, and waits till she gets in, and closes the door for her. On the other end, beyond his love for her, Anthony still feels betrayed and extremely broken hearted. “Why baby, why would you do this to me?”
John kisses Kelly on the forehead, and whispers to her that everything will be just fine. “I don’t know, Anthony.”
“You don’t know? You don’t know! Damn it Kelly! I can’t believe you and that asshole! I’m done Kelly; you did yourself in this time. It’s completely over and I’m prepared to fight.”
Serena puts her headphones on hoping to drown out the sounds of her sorrow.
Kelly opens the car window a little and lights up a cigarette. “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you threatening me?”
“No. How quickly you forget. I was the one who loved you and would’ve died for you. Now, how could I ever wish to hurt you, when all I knew was how to protect you? I’m just making sure you know what the deal is.”
Kelly exhales a puff of smoke, as cloudy as the love she once shared with her husband has become, and lets out a laugh fueled with sarcasm, “Which is what?” She turns her speakerphone on so John can hear the conversation.
“Tony is going off to college, so I’m not worried about my boy, but there’s no way in hell that my girls will ever, (his voice begins to shake) ever, live in a house with that asshole you left me for.”
Serena looks over at Anthony, and senses his upset with Kelly.
“Papa, just hang up on her!!!! Please. It kills me to see how she keeps on hurting you. Fuck. I can’t take it anymore!” Serena throws her ipod at the windshield, and buries her head in her hands.
Anthony lifts Serena’s head up, and looks at her, “You are my life, and I don’t want you to hurt when I hurt. I’m going to handle this. I promise that Tony, Lace, You and I will be okay, and I won’t rest until we are. You got me?”
Serena bites her lip, and takes a deep breath in, “Papa, don’t leave me with her.”
“It would be the biggest mistake anyone can ever make, leaving my little girl alone. You have my word, no matter what, your coming with me.” Anthony kisses her head, and hears Kelly harping on the phone, again.
“ Listen Anthony", kelly pauses laughing hysterically "you actually think you’re going to take my girls away from John and I?”
Anthony begins to cry, and simultaneously give in to a fit of rage. “JOHN AND YOU! John and you??? You’ve obviously lost your mind. I’m filing for divorce, and Serena and Lace are coming with me!”
Serena turns on the speakerphone switch button on the sun visor to hear what her mother is saying…
“Over my dead body; after all, Lacey’s begun to call John, daddy.”
The feeling of eternal silence fills Anthony’s soul, as if someone had ripped his heart right out of him, and left it to be trampled upon. Her mouth slightly drops, and she looks at her father’s tears nearly drowning him, as he lies in a comatose state. Serena tugs on her father’s arm, hoping he’d come out of it and talk to her. She takes the phone and hangs up on her mother.
“Papa, she’s trying to get to you. Lacey never calls John anything of that sort. Everyone knows who her papa is, especially her. She calls you daddy, and only you.”
As Kelly looks down at her phone, she sees that he has hung up. She wanders off to the days when Anthony and her first got together 19 years ago, in her mind. The one thing that stays constant is the notion that he was her first love, and he always will be.
John pulls her bangs away from her eyes, and looks at her sincerely, “Sweetheart, are you okay?”
She takes out her compact and fixes her mascara. “Yeah baby. It’s over and done with.”
“Are you okay with that?”
She reaches for John’s right hand and holds it tightly, “He was the only man I ever fell for. I gave him my youth, my dreams, a family, and all the love I held in my heart. These truths make it hard for me to deal with.”
John replies sadly, “Do you still want to be with him?”
“Oh no", she kisses his hand, "Johnny, my love", she states lifting his chin up "I did what I did and I will face the consequences. I love you, and I know Lacey loves you, and that’s all that matters. We’ll be happy, with our own little family. You, me and your real daughter.”
John moves in for the kill, and kisses her unlike she has ever been kissed before. “If you only knew how much I love you." As they share an embrace, Kelly lays her head against his chest and listens to his heartbeat.
“I already know.” Kelly brushes her hand gently down his chest, and stops before she gets carried away. “Come on baby, Let’s go get your little girl from school.”
Broken
Never have I broken a bone in my body, though there remains the time where a fracture upon my 4ft frame occurred, crowning it as the only exception. Where I fell off the monkey bars and my collar bone broke my fall, leaving me bruised upon a glass bottle of whatever the ice tea craze was at the time, but as an adult I guess I have yet to be introduced to my pain tolerance for anything shy of a complete skeleton to the touch, unlike my pops.
Bubbly and vital; my frail bones never felt so alive. I was six-years-old, driving through the valley with my old man on that sullen, rain-reigned Saturday morning. I was fidgeting with the radio, hoping that perhaps Mc Hammer would come on and serenade me on the way to Ashley and Nicole’s house, but after a few moments, every station had declined my internal request. Silence between him and I was never spoken, I was laughing up a storm talking about Nadia and her dire need to overshadow Hammer’s running man at school yesterday, and just then, the unthinkable managed to overshadow the unthinkable. It was like being trapped inside something concaved where the blue sky waited for a sign to lift me vertically up and away, away from the day that I seemed to have loved. One minute is all it took, an intangible minute of silence, one that has lasted far longer than any minute has ever anticipated.
My old man, I break a smile at the heavenly thought of the handsome cold-hearted spirit in question. I drive through that intersection daily, you know, the one with the split in the road. That same telephone poll, harboring the 18-year-old scar, still struggles to stay intact. The echoes of paradise still chime loudly in my ears, and the lady, whose house my father absentmindedly decide to partially wipe out, still lives hazily in my memory. Like the few slight pleasures I have attained by living, seemingly lasting only countless seconds, the despair never seems to exhaust itself, that cataclysmic sound of death reverberates motionless, prolifically loud in my ears. I remember vaguely, the traces of blood upon my black and purple flannel. As a frightened child, my quiet composure still whole, I froze in wonder, silently for a moment.
I looked over to my left. My father undeniably lies comatose, with his sweet bald scalp, my crystal ball for as long as I can remember, sheltered by the clear glass of what was left of the windshield. A pale face, like one who had just conversed with a ghost of sorts, came running towards my contestably narcoleptic father and I. Her significant other, trying to keep cool, calls an ambulance. Bless her heart; she tries urgently to open my door, and yet another chance at living fearful is upon me.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” she asked with this sweet look of worry, worry that would compel anyone to save someone.
“Maxine.” I responded, from what my remembrance supplies me, fairly teary eyed.
She grabbed my hand and escorted my tiny frame, to which everyone referred to me as Skinny Bone Jones, my moniker back then.
The sidewalk welcomed a chockfull of uninvited guests, standing silent and chaotic in their massively abundant movement of gawking at a child’s misfortunate ordeal. I’ll call her Antonia, since her name has escaped me. Sweet Antonia, my redeemer for that hour, led me into her yellow, sunlit kitchen, and pulled out a chair at the breakfast nook in the corner, and asked me to take a seat. As I sat down, she began to wipe off the blood from my torn black Levi’s.
“Do you feel alright, my dear?” she sympathetically questioned.
“I, I, I think so.” I stuttered. She brought me a plate of Oreo cookies and I thought to myself, my mother would have never done this, as she placed a glass of milk in front of me.
“Everything will be alright. Your daddy’s going to be just fine.”
I smiled kindly, and I sat fondly of that charming woman, waiting, wishing, and wondering what would become of my short existence later on that afternoon.
My description of lovely Antonia has embarked on to breed dimly into the land of anonymous beings, the place in which the significant ones, who once affected your life, grow fainter into years later. Sometimes, if I find myself on Lassen Avenue, I drive by just hoping to catch a glimpse of her, but who knows if she still calls that humble abode home. If I close my eyes, I can still catch my mother running to his aide on the stretcher, as I stood aside with Antonia, deeply wishing she were my mother.
If only my recollection would serve me better. Did I truly struggle with any tears? I wonder; could I have known then that this would still impale my daily endeavors, 18 years into the future? Was this to mark the end of the eternal neglect and ruling of the iron fist, which paradoxically, I still loved wholeheartedly? If these things, this flash of my youthful remembrance, have played a part in my chronic illness, why then can I not bid them a tender parting? Perhaps by allowing justice to the past be served, then it would mean no longer would the warmth of yearning for a goodbye, radiate above me, keeping me ill yet tenderly sheltered in this cruel world, sunlight hours in and calendar days out, as I hunger for something more, more than what my eyes have seen, more than this, more than all of this.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
A Burning Dystopia: Response to Fahrenheit 451
Levi, Neda
English 312
November 6, 2008
A Burning Dystopia:
Response to Fahrenheit 451
Why would anyone want to reflect upon the ways of their certain society without any restrictions, if they were truly happy? Why would anyone advocate for a universal sense of individualism being practiced along with the freedoms of expressing themselves, if they lived in a society where everyone was created and treated as an equal? In Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 and its film depiction, the notions of control, knowledge or the lack there of, and power relations are all concepts that were a intricate part in his portrayal of what a 24th century society might entail and one can argue that these ideas definitely hold true in relation to the contemporary society in America, during the 21st century.
The government controls the citizens of Fahrenheit 451 by burning books and erasing any sense of an educated mind that one can possibly gain and positively pass on to another. Books offer conflicting points of view and to the government of Fahrenheit 451, books imply that a possibility of superiority, amongst those who may not understand the information that is gained from them in general, may arise. Why then should a society be divided by something, regardless of how current societies view books within the never-ending realm of powerful possibility, that may leave half of its people feeling incompetent and not worthy of existence?
The premise of the novel revolves around a fireman named Montag who instead of putting out fires starts them with his fellow, what I like to call “Arson-causing, Knowledge-fearing” firefighters. Montag goes about his daily endeavors without any qualms until he realizes that his life is based upon emptiness, therefore he has this dire need to find significance and comprehension into it by reading the information branded upon these books, though his occupation is to rid his society of them. Unlike his wife Mildred who with her suicide attempt, whether or not she was aware of having attempted it, needs psychiatric help and has become so obsessed with the figures upon the television screen, the powers that be, who make her feel bright and worthy of existence. Michel Foucault, philosopher and writer of Discipline & Punish, once stated, “In a sense, I am a moralist, insofar as I believe that one of the tasks, one of the meanings of human existence - the source of human freedom - is never to accept anything as definitive, untouchable, obvious, or immobile. No aspect of reality should be allowed to become a definitive and inhuman law for us. We have to rise up against all forms of power - but not just power in the narrow sense of the word, referring to the power of a government or of one social group over another: these are only a few particular instances of power. Power is anything that tends to render immobile and untouchable those things that are offered to us as real, as true, as good” (Foucault). Knowledge is power and it has been for centuries. Montag wants to break free from the sense of ignorance that his boss, Beatty who is one of the gifted ones having known all along the good that books can offer people, does not encounter. In choosing to keep the intellectual power to himself, he is unkindly able to point the finger, critique and rule over those who are lacking in knowledge. Beatty sees books as weapons, and yet as the great philosopher Plato did to denigrate poetry by using poetic devices, he uses the immeasurable amount of knowledge that he has accumulated throughout his reading of books to manipulate Montag further.
In the 21st century, technological advances and the media have made the pleasure of reading and gaining intellectual, emotional, and physical insight into the history of the world, a lesson that most would rather be enlightened by via the television or movie screen. Nowadays, everything has turned into something that technology, be it television, computers, the internet, ipods, or cell phones, can bring to the consumer a lot quicker than the era of the old-fashioned typewriter, pen and paper, and books used to. In America, our society seems to be too dependent on the knowledge one can gain within the blink of an eye. Demolish books and all of history is eradicated along with them. If technology is hindered by something in the future, everyone would have to crack open a book, which seems laborious to some, but it’s the way people before us gained their knowledge. Did Michel Foucault strike utter intellectual and philosophical genius by way of the Internet? Did anyone who paved the way for those who are attached to technology at the hip, use the Internet?
Bradbury’s novel seems to mirror very clearly what is happening in our society, let alone what might happen in the 24th century of American society. As a culture, a lot of our people no longer feel stimulated by a good book, or even a bad book in fact. We are dumbing down as a society, and allowing technology to run everything. Adorno states in The Culture Industry: Enlightenment as Mass Deception, “Anyone who resists can only survive by fitting in” (Adorno). In Fahrenheit 451, regardless of his own epiphanies, Montag began to find meaning within the books and realized that he must resist burning them, but in a society that is founded upon the notion that happiness is equated with equality, what else can one do through their need to rebel but go with the norm in order to survive, however wrong the conditions may seem.
Nothing is original anymore, a writer may not be able to spark or evoke the kind of intellectual emotion and passion from his/her reader like the writers of times past had been able to. Our children today are raised on stupid Nickelodeon television as opposed to the books that young adults can remember reading fondly. Instead of learning with Sesame Street and its respective children’s literature, our kids are playing with handheld computer games, even if it teaches them lessons, it still robs them the joy of reading and walking away with something that may not be colorful and exciting to play with, but colorful in words and lessons that will make a world of difference years down the road for them. Walter Benjamin’s article entitled, The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction, questions the idea of books becoming out of date and technology controlling completely supreme sooner or later. Our Libraries attest to this. You walk into a university library or any library for that matter, and see people pacing back and forth waiting for a computer. You never see people pacing back and forth, frantic because someone took the only copy of Fahrenheit 451. This society has become quite a dystopia. This invention of technology and its influence harboring over the existence of the essential way to gain awareness is nothing more or less than utterly sad.
Work Cited
Adorno, Theodor. "The Culture Industry: Enlightenment as Mass Deception" WebCT. CSUN.
Benjamin, Walter. "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction" WebCT.CSUN.
Bradbury, Ray. Fahrenheit 451. New York: Del Rey, 1978.
Foucault, Michel. Discipline & Punish : The Birth of the Prison. New York: Random House, 1975.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Please, Don't Get It Twisted.
You are definitely living in a realm only belonging to yourself. No one else lives the way you do. You immigrated, oh about 19 years ago, and fell into a rich man's arms, so what? Why do you get to live without reservations, while your uncle's wife still suffers, with dishpan hands scrubbing away at the baked-on falafel grease that your barbaric family caked unto her finest iron skillet more than a decade ago?
"Don't put the dish in the sink; put it beside the sink so Nina can wash it." You kindly tell me; in what you think is your kindest voice, in the middle of your Calabasas courtyard, on this fine October night, as I wish for a meteor to come crashing down into the epicenter of your Israeli palace from the night's sky.
"Oh right, for Nina… that's right." I respond with the roll of my eyes, as your eyes seem to negatively regress back into the care free days of a childhood, unfortunately not your own, but mine. You bring out a silver tray of pineapples, papayas, strawberries and cream, while your mother trails behind with a tray of 10 tea glasses and cinnamon rugelach for us to nosh on. Someone brings up the past and you and your brother mention my fascination with the color purple and how annoying I sounded when I was a child, and my facial expression depicts the notion that I am wondering where you people get off?
"What Leila, it's our childhood we're talking about here, come on now, we're all grownups just looking back on a time where things were simple." you state with this narcissistic naivety about you, that lives, unfortunately, unbeknownst by you.
I drift off and think profoundly of how I'd like to take you out with a 45 and a shovel.How on earth do you know what kind of life is simple? My parents cooked and clean after you, my father divorced my mother because of his brother, your fucked up excuse for a father, and his incessant triumphs at brainwashing him into paying more attention to all of your family rather than my mother! Please Maya, do not get any of this shit twisted.
Your younger sister's fiancé compels me to snap out of it as I hear his voice echoing, "What was it like immigrating to America back in the 80's?"
You answer him with such pride and lust towards yourself, I think to myself, looks like someone needs a cold shower. Please Maya, don't get it twisted.
"I was a senior in high school and listen Tal, I was attractive. I mean I had the looks and Americans in 89' didn't have the fashion that we had overseas, so of course I was just getting hit on by all the boys left and right, and for someone who didn't know the language, it was pretty degrading. I mean they all just wanted to do me." You rant nonchalantly making yourself seem like the victim, and I'm still thinking of that sweet 45 as the thought of your daughter's pail and shovel turns on the light bulb above my head, a figment of my imagination.
I have held you and your family like one holds the concept of taste aversion in hindsight. I refer briefly to how I drive daily past the intersection of Mayall and Mason in blustery pleasure of my days before you dictators overthrew my mother and took over her thrown and the attention of her King, and again I am starred down upon, by your brother and you, both probably wondering what a nutcase I am.
"What did you say?" you ask me in shock and before I can reiterate my gleeful moment of mesmerizing memory, your dumbass interrupts, "Oh my gosh, how could you miss that place, and that house??" you question, obviously looking for an answer, yet I just sit waiting for you to ramble on again, "Every time I find myself anywhere on Lassen, my body cringes. God, that was a horrible time for us."
Your sister's fiancé asks why, and I try to hold in my tears thanks to the bitch that you obviously are as your husband answers him,"It was just a tough time for Maya, her siblings, and her parents, for all of them."
Up until that moment, for the past ten years I wondered what your husband saw in you and your horrible terrorist-like family, and amidst his monetary wealth, I saw him as a the epitome of a male St. Theresa, but my respect for him has sunk at an all time low, and who knows if it'll ever regain its stamina.
I laugh within, thinking of how to mend the pieces of my subsistence back together in hopes of robbing you all of your undeserved wealth, prosperity and happiness. What about my mother? You remember her don't you? The woman whose 84' Chevrolet, which was lent out in mint condition, your damned brother return totaled to her? What have you done to deserve everything the man in the clouds has blessed you with? My father opened his heart and his home to you, and appointed my mother, his queen, as a servant for all of you to wrongly use and neglect showing any respect towards, and this is how you repay her, by brainwashing the only human being in your family, your husband, into thinking that she ruined your lives? It's quite amusing; you came from nothing into everything. My mother was born into everything till the day your uncle lied to her, and chose his brother over her. My mother stayed home instead of furthering her Cosmetology career to feed you motherfuckers, and all your ass did was open your legs to the next rich man who came your way, and sure enough it has given you a life that many would kill for. Some say, you were the source of my mother's disease, and I say you always will be. My mother is sick and has no insurance to tend to the Carpel Tunnel Syndrome that your family caused her to endure, but you; you've got the means to purchase insurance for her and everyone else whose life suffered tremendously because of you.
You may call me spiteful and merely upset at my own life and therefore I choose to take it out on you, and by all means, you may do so, but I know it's not true. There's something called Karma that you unkind Israelis think will never come to haunt you, but that's where your wrong. There's something called an Education and it goes along with Self-sufficiency, and that's what you lack.
You see, someday, I will give myself the life that only your husband can give you.
Someday, I will give my mother the life you robbed her of.
So tell me, what can you give anybody? And by you, I mean YOU, and not your husband.
"Don't put the dish in the sink; put it beside the sink so Nina can wash it." You kindly tell me; in what you think is your kindest voice, in the middle of your Calabasas courtyard, on this fine October night, as I wish for a meteor to come crashing down into the epicenter of your Israeli palace from the night's sky.
"Oh right, for Nina… that's right." I respond with the roll of my eyes, as your eyes seem to negatively regress back into the care free days of a childhood, unfortunately not your own, but mine. You bring out a silver tray of pineapples, papayas, strawberries and cream, while your mother trails behind with a tray of 10 tea glasses and cinnamon rugelach for us to nosh on. Someone brings up the past and you and your brother mention my fascination with the color purple and how annoying I sounded when I was a child, and my facial expression depicts the notion that I am wondering where you people get off?
"What Leila, it's our childhood we're talking about here, come on now, we're all grownups just looking back on a time where things were simple." you state with this narcissistic naivety about you, that lives, unfortunately, unbeknownst by you.
I drift off and think profoundly of how I'd like to take you out with a 45 and a shovel.How on earth do you know what kind of life is simple? My parents cooked and clean after you, my father divorced my mother because of his brother, your fucked up excuse for a father, and his incessant triumphs at brainwashing him into paying more attention to all of your family rather than my mother! Please Maya, do not get any of this shit twisted.
Your younger sister's fiancé compels me to snap out of it as I hear his voice echoing, "What was it like immigrating to America back in the 80's?"
You answer him with such pride and lust towards yourself, I think to myself, looks like someone needs a cold shower. Please Maya, don't get it twisted.
"I was a senior in high school and listen Tal, I was attractive. I mean I had the looks and Americans in 89' didn't have the fashion that we had overseas, so of course I was just getting hit on by all the boys left and right, and for someone who didn't know the language, it was pretty degrading. I mean they all just wanted to do me." You rant nonchalantly making yourself seem like the victim, and I'm still thinking of that sweet 45 as the thought of your daughter's pail and shovel turns on the light bulb above my head, a figment of my imagination.
I have held you and your family like one holds the concept of taste aversion in hindsight. I refer briefly to how I drive daily past the intersection of Mayall and Mason in blustery pleasure of my days before you dictators overthrew my mother and took over her thrown and the attention of her King, and again I am starred down upon, by your brother and you, both probably wondering what a nutcase I am.
"What did you say?" you ask me in shock and before I can reiterate my gleeful moment of mesmerizing memory, your dumbass interrupts, "Oh my gosh, how could you miss that place, and that house??" you question, obviously looking for an answer, yet I just sit waiting for you to ramble on again, "Every time I find myself anywhere on Lassen, my body cringes. God, that was a horrible time for us."
Your sister's fiancé asks why, and I try to hold in my tears thanks to the bitch that you obviously are as your husband answers him,"It was just a tough time for Maya, her siblings, and her parents, for all of them."
Up until that moment, for the past ten years I wondered what your husband saw in you and your horrible terrorist-like family, and amidst his monetary wealth, I saw him as a the epitome of a male St. Theresa, but my respect for him has sunk at an all time low, and who knows if it'll ever regain its stamina.
I laugh within, thinking of how to mend the pieces of my subsistence back together in hopes of robbing you all of your undeserved wealth, prosperity and happiness. What about my mother? You remember her don't you? The woman whose 84' Chevrolet, which was lent out in mint condition, your damned brother return totaled to her? What have you done to deserve everything the man in the clouds has blessed you with? My father opened his heart and his home to you, and appointed my mother, his queen, as a servant for all of you to wrongly use and neglect showing any respect towards, and this is how you repay her, by brainwashing the only human being in your family, your husband, into thinking that she ruined your lives? It's quite amusing; you came from nothing into everything. My mother was born into everything till the day your uncle lied to her, and chose his brother over her. My mother stayed home instead of furthering her Cosmetology career to feed you motherfuckers, and all your ass did was open your legs to the next rich man who came your way, and sure enough it has given you a life that many would kill for. Some say, you were the source of my mother's disease, and I say you always will be. My mother is sick and has no insurance to tend to the Carpel Tunnel Syndrome that your family caused her to endure, but you; you've got the means to purchase insurance for her and everyone else whose life suffered tremendously because of you.
You may call me spiteful and merely upset at my own life and therefore I choose to take it out on you, and by all means, you may do so, but I know it's not true. There's something called Karma that you unkind Israelis think will never come to haunt you, but that's where your wrong. There's something called an Education and it goes along with Self-sufficiency, and that's what you lack.
You see, someday, I will give myself the life that only your husband can give you.
Someday, I will give my mother the life you robbed her of.
So tell me, what can you give anybody? And by you, I mean YOU, and not your husband.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Rehabilitation and the Federal Prison System: Web Ct Post 10/8/08
Our federal prison systems today are too cluttered with criminals, and what it comes down to are criminals being released even if they aren’t rehabilitated. Our world is entirely corrupted along with our society and to agree with Christian, what purpose would Cops serve if Gang activity were to be kept under control and stopped? I just don’t agree with the notion of Prison systems today failing miserably in an attempt to rehabilitate its felons. I agree with Christian in that I know that our prison systems are immensely crowded and that people are let out to make room for more criminals and therefore allowing the cycle of injustice to continue, but who knows what is true or not, and if the guards and policemen in these systems help in any way to bring these criminals to full rehabilitation. Watching Clockwork Orange for the first time, I was surely surprised and quite uncomfortable at the horrible acts that Alex and his band of brothers committed to these women, and in reading my classmates posts, I am reminded of the movie The Shawshank Redemption, and I can say that I am sure that there are many beings who have been imprisoned that resonate with Morgan Freeman’s character, therefore whose to say that those incarcerated individuals are in any way failed miserably by the system? Some of them perhaps do not wish to be rehabilitated for the simple fear of when the time comes and they are eligible for parole, they might fear what has become of life on the outside, at least within those bars they have a purpose and a place to exist within the confines of whatever individual stature they have earned and accepted. There’s a scene in the movie when Freeman’s character meets with the parole board and they ask him, after having served 40 years of his life sentence, if he feels ready to rejoin society, and he simply answers profoundly,
“What do you really want to know? Am I sorry for what I did? There's not a day goes by I don't feel regret. Not because I'm in here, or because you think I should. I look back on the way I was then: a young, stupid kid who committed that terrible crime. I want to talk to him. I want to try and talk some sense to him, tell him the way things are. But I can't. That kid's long gone and this old man is all that's left. I got to live with that. Rehabilitated? It's just a bullshit word. So you go on and stamp your form, sonny, and stop wasting my time, because to tell you the truth, I don't give a shit. “
They grant him the seal of having been rehabilitated and then send him packing. I am sure that few, if any, experience epiphanies like this in prison, and so I truly believe that besides all the bad that our corrupt system and its leaders afflict on to the lives of those already corrupted by the powers that be, there has to be a few who actually give a damn, and wish to help those in dire need of some positive direction, outside of the prison cell, and amongst the cruel class of the social order.
“What do you really want to know? Am I sorry for what I did? There's not a day goes by I don't feel regret. Not because I'm in here, or because you think I should. I look back on the way I was then: a young, stupid kid who committed that terrible crime. I want to talk to him. I want to try and talk some sense to him, tell him the way things are. But I can't. That kid's long gone and this old man is all that's left. I got to live with that. Rehabilitated? It's just a bullshit word. So you go on and stamp your form, sonny, and stop wasting my time, because to tell you the truth, I don't give a shit. “
They grant him the seal of having been rehabilitated and then send him packing. I am sure that few, if any, experience epiphanies like this in prison, and so I truly believe that besides all the bad that our corrupt system and its leaders afflict on to the lives of those already corrupted by the powers that be, there has to be a few who actually give a damn, and wish to help those in dire need of some positive direction, outside of the prison cell, and amongst the cruel class of the social order.
Monday, October 6, 2008
What serves a function within a crazy society?
Web Ct Post #1
Message no. 37
Author: Neda Levi
Date: Thursday, September 4, 2008 12:33am
I look at the time on the corner of my laptop's screen: 11:57 p.m.
I look at how many journal entries have been posted: 32/33.
Therefore, I have come to the conclusion that I must lend my thoughts about what we
have covered in English 312 thus far, and allow it to find its place amongst the inspiring
and intellectual thoughts of my fine classmates.
Walking into class on the first day last week, I was utterly baffled by the notion that I had
to define Dystopian Literature and Film to Professor Wexler's asking. Dystopian, I
pondered. Utopian, I remembered...They must have something to do with one another, I
thought to myself.
I have never been a fan of Dystopian based Films, though I could say my life has many
Dystopian related dysfunctionality within it.
In reading Foucault, and watching Officer Krupke call those poor boys "Juvenile
Delinquents", though they have only been unfairly victimized by the wrath of what I see
Society as being: immensely ugly and undeniably crazy, I realized that I was simply
confused by the Panopticon and how someone off the streets is found a function within
that Society.
I mean, Who is to say what constitutes being crazy, or insane?
I guess, perhaps, I took our discussion in class very much to the heart.
I have no shame, and therefore that is why I was straightforward in class, and said that I
do not understand where this amazing philosopher Foucault was going with the concept of
Panopticism.
I comprehend the whole notion that if one knew that they were being watched then they
would be more likely to stay on their best behavior, within and outside of any prison cell,
but I guess my only question dealt with the concept of individualizing, and the system of
Judicial, Psychological, Criminology and Sociology, that a person without a function in
Society must be put through. These four systems all have a way of institutionalizing
someone, and for example, when a Psychologist treats an insane person, or someone
labeled as "insane" due to the mere fact that they may, perhaps , walk the streets
aimlessly, without a job or a home, and labels them as Schizophrenic, Bi-Polar, or
Clinically Depressed, does that really become their function within this world?
I know I am reading way too much into this, and Foucault probably had no intention of
writing with the thought that perhaps one day, an English major with an emphasis in
Creative Writing will read his work and completely veer away from his essential stance
upon such an intelligent theory, but please bear with me. I struggle everyday with
Clinical Depression and I wonder now, is being diagnosed as such, something someone
could label as my function within this demented, cruel and blind world that we live in?
Message no. 37
Author: Neda Levi
Date: Thursday, September 4, 2008 12:33am
I look at the time on the corner of my laptop's screen: 11:57 p.m.
I look at how many journal entries have been posted: 32/33.
Therefore, I have come to the conclusion that I must lend my thoughts about what we
have covered in English 312 thus far, and allow it to find its place amongst the inspiring
and intellectual thoughts of my fine classmates.
Walking into class on the first day last week, I was utterly baffled by the notion that I had
to define Dystopian Literature and Film to Professor Wexler's asking. Dystopian, I
pondered. Utopian, I remembered...They must have something to do with one another, I
thought to myself.
I have never been a fan of Dystopian based Films, though I could say my life has many
Dystopian related dysfunctionality within it.
In reading Foucault, and watching Officer Krupke call those poor boys "Juvenile
Delinquents", though they have only been unfairly victimized by the wrath of what I see
Society as being: immensely ugly and undeniably crazy, I realized that I was simply
confused by the Panopticon and how someone off the streets is found a function within
that Society.
I mean, Who is to say what constitutes being crazy, or insane?
I guess, perhaps, I took our discussion in class very much to the heart.
I have no shame, and therefore that is why I was straightforward in class, and said that I
do not understand where this amazing philosopher Foucault was going with the concept of
Panopticism.
I comprehend the whole notion that if one knew that they were being watched then they
would be more likely to stay on their best behavior, within and outside of any prison cell,
but I guess my only question dealt with the concept of individualizing, and the system of
Judicial, Psychological, Criminology and Sociology, that a person without a function in
Society must be put through. These four systems all have a way of institutionalizing
someone, and for example, when a Psychologist treats an insane person, or someone
labeled as "insane" due to the mere fact that they may, perhaps , walk the streets
aimlessly, without a job or a home, and labels them as Schizophrenic, Bi-Polar, or
Clinically Depressed, does that really become their function within this world?
I know I am reading way too much into this, and Foucault probably had no intention of
writing with the thought that perhaps one day, an English major with an emphasis in
Creative Writing will read his work and completely veer away from his essential stance
upon such an intelligent theory, but please bear with me. I struggle everyday with
Clinical Depression and I wonder now, is being diagnosed as such, something someone
could label as my function within this demented, cruel and blind world that we live in?
Planet of the Apes: Group Discussion (10.2.08)
In our group discussion, I chose to speak of how Planet of the Apes, the movie versions, can be categorized as a Blaxploitation movie, which is defined as a genre of American film of the 1970s featuring African-American actors in lead roles and often having antiestablishment plots, frequently criticized for stereotypical characterization and glorification of violence. In the book and movie, there were many racial elements apparent. The notion of the Apes disbelieving the fact that Ulysses could read and write can be compared to the way slaves were treated way back when. In the article that our group posted on Web Ct it mentioned how the traditional association of blacks and minorities with apes and monkeys was invoked to explain the 1965 riots in Watts, California. The Rodney King riots in 1991 also reminded me of the racial aspects found in the book. I feel that when it comes to African Americans and minorities , society always wants to find a way to bring them down, and as one student mentioned in class during our Planet of the Apes discussion, the police stood back as if nothing was happening until the riots in 91' moved throughout the surrounding cities in the Los Angeles county until the riots threatened Beverly Hills. It was only until money, stature and wealth was incorporated that the Police cared enough to protect anyone. In the book, the Gorillas and the Chimpanzees were the ones with the darker skin, which can be a mirror to the slaves and laborers, and the Apes, with the light and fair skin, mirrored the superior race in society then and in some cases today, the race minus any minorities.
English 312. Web Ct Posting 9/11/08
Message no. 73
Author: Neda Levi
Date: Thursday, September 11, 2008 1:15am
In response to the class' discussion about the Pledge of Allegiance signifying a sort of
Hate Week or not, I don't mean to offend anyone, but its completely up to interpretation.
I have never thought of it much until yesterday's discussion, but this so-
called "Multicultural Melting Pot" really strikes a chord with me and the discrimination,
anger, resentment, and ambivalence I have come to harbor within myself, living as a U.S
citizen, born and raised, though as a descendant of a certain country causing quite the
commotion in recent political and state affairs.
I am just as American as any blonde-haired, blue-eyed caucasian is seen as being, but
because of my dark hair and middle-eastern features, I get called a foreigner or a
terrorist if you will.
I guess I agree with the Pledge of Allegiance as a kind of Hate Week due to the fact that
throughout the years, and after September 11, 2001, I have never been more disgusted
by this country and the way it treats its true citizens, just because they may not seem to
fit the ideal mold, physically or culturally.
Why should I have to pledge allegiance to a certain banner when that American flag, the
one that I am qualified to be protected under, seems to shun me whenever the chance
comes?
I find it quite amusing you know, perhaps I am going off on tangents but I must speak
my piece on this pressing matter of hate in this country, but I am sick and tired of fresh-
faced "Americans" calling me Arabic or Iraqi just because I speak a tongue that tends to
strike fear within them. I pledge allegiance to a country whose true people, the ones who
do not fall into an ethnic minority category on a ballot, do not understand the notion that
the MIDDLE EAST IS NOT a category intended to be seen as ONE COUNTRY IN IT OF
ITSELF! I am not related to Osama in any way, shape or form. I am not Arabic nor am I
Iraqi, but my beautiful best friend is, and If I was, I would have no shame boarding a
plane and saying so.
I am half Iranian, and half Israeli, and yes, I know that people might fear me for my
ethnicity alone, but that does not make me any less American than someone whose
Ancestors come from, I don't know, a region in the midwest.
This country is made up of IMMIGRANTS, period, and I am sure that some others would
agree so, so why then must I pledge allegiance to a country that fears me, decides
to "RANDOMLY CHECK" my Middle Eastern ass in a line of more than 30 white Americans
boarding the same plane, and limits my endless capacity to make a difference in this
world just because I do not seem to equate their ideal form of what constitutes an
American?
I do not mean any classmates any offense, and if so I apologize profusely.
I am just outraged, and I have been the victim of hate ever since September 11 2001, as
has my mother ever since she stepped foot into this country more than 30 years ago. I just
do not understand this country and its treatment against minorities. Frankly, the Pledge
of Allegiance does not do me any justice, as a true American in my own right, anyways.
Author: Neda Levi
Date: Thursday, September 11, 2008 1:15am
In response to the class' discussion about the Pledge of Allegiance signifying a sort of
Hate Week or not, I don't mean to offend anyone, but its completely up to interpretation.
I have never thought of it much until yesterday's discussion, but this so-
called "Multicultural Melting Pot" really strikes a chord with me and the discrimination,
anger, resentment, and ambivalence I have come to harbor within myself, living as a U.S
citizen, born and raised, though as a descendant of a certain country causing quite the
commotion in recent political and state affairs.
I am just as American as any blonde-haired, blue-eyed caucasian is seen as being, but
because of my dark hair and middle-eastern features, I get called a foreigner or a
terrorist if you will.
I guess I agree with the Pledge of Allegiance as a kind of Hate Week due to the fact that
throughout the years, and after September 11, 2001, I have never been more disgusted
by this country and the way it treats its true citizens, just because they may not seem to
fit the ideal mold, physically or culturally.
Why should I have to pledge allegiance to a certain banner when that American flag, the
one that I am qualified to be protected under, seems to shun me whenever the chance
comes?
I find it quite amusing you know, perhaps I am going off on tangents but I must speak
my piece on this pressing matter of hate in this country, but I am sick and tired of fresh-
faced "Americans" calling me Arabic or Iraqi just because I speak a tongue that tends to
strike fear within them. I pledge allegiance to a country whose true people, the ones who
do not fall into an ethnic minority category on a ballot, do not understand the notion that
the MIDDLE EAST IS NOT a category intended to be seen as ONE COUNTRY IN IT OF
ITSELF! I am not related to Osama in any way, shape or form. I am not Arabic nor am I
Iraqi, but my beautiful best friend is, and If I was, I would have no shame boarding a
plane and saying so.
I am half Iranian, and half Israeli, and yes, I know that people might fear me for my
ethnicity alone, but that does not make me any less American than someone whose
Ancestors come from, I don't know, a region in the midwest.
This country is made up of IMMIGRANTS, period, and I am sure that some others would
agree so, so why then must I pledge allegiance to a country that fears me, decides
to "RANDOMLY CHECK" my Middle Eastern ass in a line of more than 30 white Americans
boarding the same plane, and limits my endless capacity to make a difference in this
world just because I do not seem to equate their ideal form of what constitutes an
American?
I do not mean any classmates any offense, and if so I apologize profusely.
I am just outraged, and I have been the victim of hate ever since September 11 2001, as
has my mother ever since she stepped foot into this country more than 30 years ago. I just
do not understand this country and its treatment against minorities. Frankly, the Pledge
of Allegiance does not do me any justice, as a true American in my own right, anyways.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Dystopia: Gentrification, Institutions of Learning, and Materialism.
Levi, Neda
English 312
September 22, 2008
So I sit, in Tarzana, south of Ventura Blvd, outside the steps of my teenage home, across the street from the other home that kept me sheltered for three years, five days a week, six hours a day, and I ponder upon my dire need to strike yet another moment of genius, a moment away from this debilitating bout of lyrical word impotence that Creative writing majors often seem to face. I sit outside these steps often because the spirits of my mother and I drinking tea on a sweet Saturday morning years ago, keep me in their prayers, and allow me to think rationally away from all the corruption I see before me. These adorable teenagers cross the street and talk uncontrollably fast on their cell phones…Wait a minute. I ask myself, “Cell phones? And these kids are only 13 years younger than me. So in 1995, when I was what they called a Scrub in the sixth grade, did my girlfriends and I have cell phones?”
I see this sweet angelic face caked in vanilla frosting, and upon second glance, I realize it's makeup gone horribly wrong. In 1995, the only girls wearing makeup were the stars of Clueless, not my 12-year-old companions. I then got to thinking on the topic of Clueless, and questioned myself, “Weren’t you and Nadia all about the knee highs, and argyle vests that Alicia Silverstone and Stacy Dash made popular?” All of a sudden, I felt the lyrical bout of impotence stop in its tracks and word vomit was about to pounce, or was it my lunch?
I am someone who deeply detests this country in terms of its materialistic, superficial flaw. I have come to realize that our institutions of learning, beginning at the elementary level, display quite a Dystopia, and in watching these kids, blinded by the infectious desire to want rather than need and how they begin to mean the same thing to them, the bigger scheme of things became apparent to me.
Last summer, this private construction company bought out the rights to demolish about 5 eateries, and 10 clothing stores, which had been in business on the southern corner of Yolanda and Ventura Blvd, since about 1990. In order to beautify Tarzana, and hopefully attract an influx of higher income families into it with its newfound beauty and riches, many of those business owners, who perhaps depended on their businesses profit for all of life’s necessities, had to be displaced without any contracts stating the renewal of their businesses. I worked at one of those stores, and I had found out that only about five of those businesses were cut a deal to have their property space remodeled and re-opened to the public with profits higher in volume than before the gentrification began, and the ones who were cut a deal were the ones who you knew, just by their appearances and their automobiles, could put thousandths upon thousandths of dollars up front for the positive future at hand for their companies.
This economic recession is utterly dystopic, and it has, to some big spenders, sparked the need to reestablish the lustrous city of Tarzana, and I hope that it does work out for my father’s sake, a contractor without any employment in the past eight months, and raise my homes value back up to its selling price or perhaps higher soon, but at the same time I feel that this improvement is only going to hinder the city more because they are planning to build 72 condominiums a top a Whole Foods Market. The fact that I live across the street from a middle school that clearly adds to traffic, upon the traffic I can foresee erupting by the 72 occupants, at the very least per house, and the “Organic Food” sanctuary, I can only fathom the interrupted rush to get down the two way street that leads directly on to Ventura Blvd, each and every morning.
The city of Tarzana does not need to be beautified. What is needed is a contractor with enough money and some heart, wishing and wanting to help with his monetary fortune, putting it towards aiding the world with compassion for those who have lost their homes and their jobs due to this recession. It all goes back to materialism.
Why do many people move further and further into the United States from California and New York? Simply to get to rural and suburban areas offering the same simplistic countryside, or farm life beauty though without the negative force and impact that the absolute necessity of money makes obligatory. I have come to realize that money does not bring happiness, and that was the only motto I stood firmly against for so long. All one needs in this life is food and shelter, and if wanting an education is something they strive for and if they still thrive on a life depended upon materialism, their success will allow them the means to bask in whatever their cold hard cash can by them. If only the people in power; government officials, money-makers, city-planners, and the official associates that established medical insurance eligibility cared enough to make a difference, allowing all human beings to start off on a solid foundation, evenly, then this world would be a much better place.
This situation reminds me of Orwell's 1984 and the how Julia spoke to Winston about what happened in room 101. Both her and him wished that their individual tortures were shifted upon the other, and these mutual acts of betrayal depict the truth in how the Party won their final psychological game. Despite her feelings for Winston, after the party sets them both free, Julia comes to an understanding that she knew, in order to come away from the party and their ties to corruption, she had to yearn for the torture that Winston would eventually come to face. In the end, the party proves to both Julia and Winston that the physical pain that one endures and the fear that comes with it, will always lead someone to betray what they strongly believe to have been true. This reminds me of the ones who are facing this economic recession without feeling slightly effected by any of it, whether it be the loss of their businesses, profits, depreciation in the values of their personal estates, and etc. These contractors can rack up millions of dollars by building more grocery and retail stores to vamp up the rich side of the boulevard, but what about the traffic that they are funding to cause with the 72 townhomes they are building right next to a one way street, near a public school, above what has become the holistic utopia of a food chain for New Age Hippies? What about all the lower incomed families who could benefit from the money that these rich folk probably see as nothing more than chump change? These rich people want to get richer, while the idea of people becoming poorer still breathes life and lives idly by beside them, just waiting and hoping for that day when these money hungry, social tycoons decide to look into their hearts and away from the hollow pit of the utter riches that they disgustingly inhabit, and give them a handout or to convey that long-awaited moment of important awareness towards them, that they have been waiting for for centuries already.
English 312
September 22, 2008
So I sit, in Tarzana, south of Ventura Blvd, outside the steps of my teenage home, across the street from the other home that kept me sheltered for three years, five days a week, six hours a day, and I ponder upon my dire need to strike yet another moment of genius, a moment away from this debilitating bout of lyrical word impotence that Creative writing majors often seem to face. I sit outside these steps often because the spirits of my mother and I drinking tea on a sweet Saturday morning years ago, keep me in their prayers, and allow me to think rationally away from all the corruption I see before me. These adorable teenagers cross the street and talk uncontrollably fast on their cell phones…Wait a minute. I ask myself, “Cell phones? And these kids are only 13 years younger than me. So in 1995, when I was what they called a Scrub in the sixth grade, did my girlfriends and I have cell phones?”
I see this sweet angelic face caked in vanilla frosting, and upon second glance, I realize it's makeup gone horribly wrong. In 1995, the only girls wearing makeup were the stars of Clueless, not my 12-year-old companions. I then got to thinking on the topic of Clueless, and questioned myself, “Weren’t you and Nadia all about the knee highs, and argyle vests that Alicia Silverstone and Stacy Dash made popular?” All of a sudden, I felt the lyrical bout of impotence stop in its tracks and word vomit was about to pounce, or was it my lunch?
I am someone who deeply detests this country in terms of its materialistic, superficial flaw. I have come to realize that our institutions of learning, beginning at the elementary level, display quite a Dystopia, and in watching these kids, blinded by the infectious desire to want rather than need and how they begin to mean the same thing to them, the bigger scheme of things became apparent to me.
Last summer, this private construction company bought out the rights to demolish about 5 eateries, and 10 clothing stores, which had been in business on the southern corner of Yolanda and Ventura Blvd, since about 1990. In order to beautify Tarzana, and hopefully attract an influx of higher income families into it with its newfound beauty and riches, many of those business owners, who perhaps depended on their businesses profit for all of life’s necessities, had to be displaced without any contracts stating the renewal of their businesses. I worked at one of those stores, and I had found out that only about five of those businesses were cut a deal to have their property space remodeled and re-opened to the public with profits higher in volume than before the gentrification began, and the ones who were cut a deal were the ones who you knew, just by their appearances and their automobiles, could put thousandths upon thousandths of dollars up front for the positive future at hand for their companies.
This economic recession is utterly dystopic, and it has, to some big spenders, sparked the need to reestablish the lustrous city of Tarzana, and I hope that it does work out for my father’s sake, a contractor without any employment in the past eight months, and raise my homes value back up to its selling price or perhaps higher soon, but at the same time I feel that this improvement is only going to hinder the city more because they are planning to build 72 condominiums a top a Whole Foods Market. The fact that I live across the street from a middle school that clearly adds to traffic, upon the traffic I can foresee erupting by the 72 occupants, at the very least per house, and the “Organic Food” sanctuary, I can only fathom the interrupted rush to get down the two way street that leads directly on to Ventura Blvd, each and every morning.
The city of Tarzana does not need to be beautified. What is needed is a contractor with enough money and some heart, wishing and wanting to help with his monetary fortune, putting it towards aiding the world with compassion for those who have lost their homes and their jobs due to this recession. It all goes back to materialism.
Why do many people move further and further into the United States from California and New York? Simply to get to rural and suburban areas offering the same simplistic countryside, or farm life beauty though without the negative force and impact that the absolute necessity of money makes obligatory. I have come to realize that money does not bring happiness, and that was the only motto I stood firmly against for so long. All one needs in this life is food and shelter, and if wanting an education is something they strive for and if they still thrive on a life depended upon materialism, their success will allow them the means to bask in whatever their cold hard cash can by them. If only the people in power; government officials, money-makers, city-planners, and the official associates that established medical insurance eligibility cared enough to make a difference, allowing all human beings to start off on a solid foundation, evenly, then this world would be a much better place.
This situation reminds me of Orwell's 1984 and the how Julia spoke to Winston about what happened in room 101. Both her and him wished that their individual tortures were shifted upon the other, and these mutual acts of betrayal depict the truth in how the Party won their final psychological game. Despite her feelings for Winston, after the party sets them both free, Julia comes to an understanding that she knew, in order to come away from the party and their ties to corruption, she had to yearn for the torture that Winston would eventually come to face. In the end, the party proves to both Julia and Winston that the physical pain that one endures and the fear that comes with it, will always lead someone to betray what they strongly believe to have been true. This reminds me of the ones who are facing this economic recession without feeling slightly effected by any of it, whether it be the loss of their businesses, profits, depreciation in the values of their personal estates, and etc. These contractors can rack up millions of dollars by building more grocery and retail stores to vamp up the rich side of the boulevard, but what about the traffic that they are funding to cause with the 72 townhomes they are building right next to a one way street, near a public school, above what has become the holistic utopia of a food chain for New Age Hippies? What about all the lower incomed families who could benefit from the money that these rich folk probably see as nothing more than chump change? These rich people want to get richer, while the idea of people becoming poorer still breathes life and lives idly by beside them, just waiting and hoping for that day when these money hungry, social tycoons decide to look into their hearts and away from the hollow pit of the utter riches that they disgustingly inhabit, and give them a handout or to convey that long-awaited moment of important awareness towards them, that they have been waiting for for centuries already.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Serving Her
7/27/08 10:28 pm
An appeal composed. A handsome voice, immensely dignified.
His memory serves her well.
Willingly trapped within her fundamental infant nature.
Green walls purple with wind; reverberating white air.
Not hoping for tomorrow; awaiting life as another woman.
Her potential name is now her ticket out; where her budding wants and juvenile needs, Vanilla or Chocolate pudding, once seemed more so promising.
Peach leaves and autumn rain a top; inhaling a heart of gold underneath, exiled from the cold.
Masculinity, sexual desire transpired by heat, an asylum from her fragile state of affairs; a divine creature in memory serves her well.
A pardon for what love seemed to be about has washed ashore; never defining its true condition runs profound within a sea of crimson, collapsing upon her trackless seams.
He awakens her senses, rids her of the leeches, in her pond of insecurity, leaving her body wilted and insensible.
She greets his image in dream, and passionately accepts his invitation: physical, discreet, sexual, and fearless.
She breathes love and all its designation.
The thought of his arms leave her potent and secreting a profusion of lyrical moisture, emotional condensation and objective, sensual prosperity.
Her dream has come true, and his memory serves her.
Delightfully aching with the touch of his thighs, entering estimable states of pure nirvana,
The bare thought of his stature returns her the favor.
A dream only, as she lies aware in wish.
Alive and well.
Her Stream Of Conciousness...
1:53 AM 7/1/08
Ugh! I can’t write unless it sounds poetic! Whoever put the idea, that everything in writing must leave a sense of awe within the minds of everyone who is exposed to it, into my head must pay!
Am I ever going to succeed?
If you can only comprehend the thoughts I keep playing in my head minute after minute, and hour after hour. I’m scared. I am the laziest human being ever, and I can sit here and tell you that this really isn’t me, but what if it is? It isn’t what if. It really is me. I don’t know why I chose English to major in, and I don’t know why I walk around telling my parents that when I strike it rich, they’ll swallow all their criticisms of me….
I will never make that kind of money, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Or does it?
I don’t want to turn into my mother.
I don’t want a broken heart, shedding tears on my unborn child, while my husband makes love to another overseas.
I thought my only pain was learning how to say goodbye to my past.
I haven’t thought of it much lately. Does this mean the fond farewell was truly accepted by both the recollections, and the character whose most difficult task in life was bidding those recollections adieu?
Constant Craving.
Attempting the inevitable even once, remember to make it last for all time.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Anywhere but here...
The vices which capacitate this world and its severe ugliness will never again, due to any emotional, mental and physical state of being known to man, get the best of me. I will find my way, away from here and the reality that social services only exist due to the lack of social justices being served. Serve yourself, and let go of this society and the crazy breed it harbors. I know I will, as I already have. I will never be the same. I assure you.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
My skin stings as I retreat back to its divine simplicity.
Like a lifelong dream,
a dream with only one solitary outcome in mind,
I wish to hear the motions of a life witnessed through the gaze of an engaging juvenile.
Voices of people unaffected by time,
Walk by preaching, “Say goodbye to yesterday.”
“Have no regrets, and do not look back….”
Why didn’t anyone tell me this?
Why wasn’t I told before she walked me outside to play, upon the sour patch of what was Sunny Brae Heaven?
Why wasn’t I told, as she put on my sweater those countless times?
Was it to keep me warm from the autumn fall, or sheltered from the winter ice that was yet to come?
It’s like she sang.
This used to be my childhood…
They say the best things in life are always free…
I wish my papa were here with me.
I can see your face, and all its beautiful compassion. They say you’re not a memory, but the truth is, that is all you’ll ever be to me.
Today will always be tomorrow’s yesterday.
Yesterday will always be where I felt life the best.
Yesterday will always be where I last heard my mind beat.
Yesterday will always be where I knew you loved me…
They say her spirit’s not dead, but
Yesterday will always be the only place where you could still hear her contagious laughter,
Loud, happy, and carefree to roam the kingdom of childhood…
The one place which, in Yesterday’s safe haven, remains the only realm that will never die.
"Don’t ever look back", they say.
Life is nothing but a short time to experience paradise.
Stuck in a minute, a blissful moment captured in the essence of 6 years.
A short time spent, yet with 18 years of bitter discomfort to show for it.
Melting away like ice cream cake, on a child’s hot and syrupy, June birthday.
Her voice longs to resonate in surround sound.
It simply resists the act of renouncing her motherly wisdom.
Obvious vocal attributes, reiterating...
“Don’t hold on to the past.”
The resilience of an echo, a voice muffled by tears yet survived through the crimes committed by the incomprehension of a guardian’s fatherly-bruised psyche, answers back…
“Well Mother, that’s too much to ask.”
How can one allow years of their life to past them by?
How can one believe that they have allowed life to past them by, when all they wish to live for are the exact seconds of a time that sweetly, notwithstanding its boundless anguish, in reflection has yet to pass them by?
It breathes life simultaneously.
It is every chord of the instruments that accompany the soundtrack of those charming adolescent days.
It is the random breeze felt via the car window on the corner of Parthenia and Corbin, on a Wednesday afternoon at 2:23 p.m.
It is the imagination of a young girl lying on her Grandmother’s Persian rug, entertained by the labor of string beans along with Inspector Gadget inside the once grayish house, that runs wild in her head.
It is the memory of the excitement in sharing the news that she got a 90210 calendar in 1992, and the look on her cousin’s face when she simply stated, “Honey, it’s December and 1992 is over. What are you going to do with it?”
It is the simple mind of a child. The effortless thoughts, and the somewhat profound awareness that a child attains that lead her to answer, “I’ll use it the next time it’s 1992.”
She remembers, and beneath the tears and yearning…begins to smile, as she thinks out loud,
“It was the most beautiful life I ever knew, and it was the most beautiful life anyone could have asked for. I can cry and fall deeper away from what I have become, but the ability to smile with a heart broken from a love lost, is the most profound gift I could have ever come away with. It may continue to leave me in a state of despondency, and on the verge of death as I wake up, live through the day, and lay my body down to sleep, but the constant craving of just one more minute, though it feels like someone literally cut a valley through the middle of my childhood essence and ripped the core of my being away from me, will always remain the most intense, disconcerting, terrifying, painstaking, and beautiful high of continuous longing known to man. A state of inestimable nirvana that no drug can ever produce.”
Nothing hurt, and it was all frightening.
Everything hurt, and it was simply divine…
Everyday is another yesterday that’s past.
You see, that’s the trouble with yesterday,
It will never be today or tomorrow, at least not in enough time for anyone to realize it.
…and most of all, unfortunately, not in enough time for her.
a dream with only one solitary outcome in mind,
I wish to hear the motions of a life witnessed through the gaze of an engaging juvenile.
Voices of people unaffected by time,
Walk by preaching, “Say goodbye to yesterday.”
“Have no regrets, and do not look back….”
Why didn’t anyone tell me this?
Why wasn’t I told before she walked me outside to play, upon the sour patch of what was Sunny Brae Heaven?
Why wasn’t I told, as she put on my sweater those countless times?
Was it to keep me warm from the autumn fall, or sheltered from the winter ice that was yet to come?
It’s like she sang.
This used to be my childhood…
They say the best things in life are always free…
I wish my papa were here with me.
I can see your face, and all its beautiful compassion. They say you’re not a memory, but the truth is, that is all you’ll ever be to me.
Today will always be tomorrow’s yesterday.
Yesterday will always be where I felt life the best.
Yesterday will always be where I last heard my mind beat.
Yesterday will always be where I knew you loved me…
They say her spirit’s not dead, but
Yesterday will always be the only place where you could still hear her contagious laughter,
Loud, happy, and carefree to roam the kingdom of childhood…
The one place which, in Yesterday’s safe haven, remains the only realm that will never die.
"Don’t ever look back", they say.
Life is nothing but a short time to experience paradise.
Stuck in a minute, a blissful moment captured in the essence of 6 years.
A short time spent, yet with 18 years of bitter discomfort to show for it.
Melting away like ice cream cake, on a child’s hot and syrupy, June birthday.
Her voice longs to resonate in surround sound.
It simply resists the act of renouncing her motherly wisdom.
Obvious vocal attributes, reiterating...
“Don’t hold on to the past.”
The resilience of an echo, a voice muffled by tears yet survived through the crimes committed by the incomprehension of a guardian’s fatherly-bruised psyche, answers back…
“Well Mother, that’s too much to ask.”
How can one allow years of their life to past them by?
How can one believe that they have allowed life to past them by, when all they wish to live for are the exact seconds of a time that sweetly, notwithstanding its boundless anguish, in reflection has yet to pass them by?
It breathes life simultaneously.
It is every chord of the instruments that accompany the soundtrack of those charming adolescent days.
It is the random breeze felt via the car window on the corner of Parthenia and Corbin, on a Wednesday afternoon at 2:23 p.m.
It is the imagination of a young girl lying on her Grandmother’s Persian rug, entertained by the labor of string beans along with Inspector Gadget inside the once grayish house, that runs wild in her head.
It is the memory of the excitement in sharing the news that she got a 90210 calendar in 1992, and the look on her cousin’s face when she simply stated, “Honey, it’s December and 1992 is over. What are you going to do with it?”
It is the simple mind of a child. The effortless thoughts, and the somewhat profound awareness that a child attains that lead her to answer, “I’ll use it the next time it’s 1992.”
She remembers, and beneath the tears and yearning…begins to smile, as she thinks out loud,
“It was the most beautiful life I ever knew, and it was the most beautiful life anyone could have asked for. I can cry and fall deeper away from what I have become, but the ability to smile with a heart broken from a love lost, is the most profound gift I could have ever come away with. It may continue to leave me in a state of despondency, and on the verge of death as I wake up, live through the day, and lay my body down to sleep, but the constant craving of just one more minute, though it feels like someone literally cut a valley through the middle of my childhood essence and ripped the core of my being away from me, will always remain the most intense, disconcerting, terrifying, painstaking, and beautiful high of continuous longing known to man. A state of inestimable nirvana that no drug can ever produce.”
Nothing hurt, and it was all frightening.
Everything hurt, and it was simply divine…
Everyday is another yesterday that’s past.
You see, that’s the trouble with yesterday,
It will never be today or tomorrow, at least not in enough time for anyone to realize it.
…and most of all, unfortunately, not in enough time for her.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Rumble
I cant help it.
It consumes every fiber of my being.
I know it'll leave me torn, but something keeps drawing me in.
Its strength is captivating, and its aura is mysterious.
I wish I had the strength to blow in the wind like the mystery in question.
A soul that epitomizes compassion and the ability to nurture in my opinion.
A beautiful vision, one that will only exist in my dreams....It's all you.
I'm hopeless and alone, with no one to care for me anymore.
If only you could...
I'd wish you would save me.
It consumes every fiber of my being.
I know it'll leave me torn, but something keeps drawing me in.
Its strength is captivating, and its aura is mysterious.
I wish I had the strength to blow in the wind like the mystery in question.
A soul that epitomizes compassion and the ability to nurture in my opinion.
A beautiful vision, one that will only exist in my dreams....It's all you.
I'm hopeless and alone, with no one to care for me anymore.
If only you could...
I'd wish you would save me.
What was her life without it?
Nobody told her there'd be days like these, filled with the beautifully painstaking lyrics, whose soul purpose is to guide her through the rocky waves of the rhythmic path to her past...her only lifeline.
R.I.P. Sunnybrae Heaven's Little Girl 1984-1991.
Her days in your care may have faded far away like the day that she loved but having spent the moments that composed her existence, in your hands has broadened the infinite notion that will rest alongside the vibrant light of her nights, and the culmination of every step, every twirl, every smile, every skip, and every moment she belonged in, as a part of, for all of infinite eternity....
What I would only give to be one with her again, up above, with only his lyrical painting of the sky.
Music, the muse radiating through the echoes of my past.
R.I.P. Sunnybrae Heaven's Little Girl 1984-1991.
Her days in your care may have faded far away like the day that she loved but having spent the moments that composed her existence, in your hands has broadened the infinite notion that will rest alongside the vibrant light of her nights, and the culmination of every step, every twirl, every smile, every skip, and every moment she belonged in, as a part of, for all of infinite eternity....
What I would only give to be one with her again, up above, with only his lyrical painting of the sky.
Music, the muse radiating through the echoes of my past.
Without its echoes, I would not be.
Silence is not spoken here...
It is everything I remember and everything I miss. It is everything from riding on his downbound train, to the constant craving that keeps her awake at night.
It is lying under the bridge with my sister and listening to Jeremy's heartache.
It is the touch of the invisible breeze that stole the hold on my heart on that spring morning in 1990, while it left me paralyzed in thought of life with no wordly possessions.
From the moment her voice calmed my fears with I wish I was your lover to exhaling her last breath, in reassurance of never again having to revisit the sting of living just another day without him....
It will always begin in hope of the deliverance to free my six-year-old soul, and end with the undying echos of her knocking on heaven's door.
It is everything I remember and everything I miss. It is everything from riding on his downbound train, to the constant craving that keeps her awake at night.
It is lying under the bridge with my sister and listening to Jeremy's heartache.
It is the touch of the invisible breeze that stole the hold on my heart on that spring morning in 1990, while it left me paralyzed in thought of life with no wordly possessions.
From the moment her voice calmed my fears with I wish I was your lover to exhaling her last breath, in reassurance of never again having to revisit the sting of living just another day without him....
It will always begin in hope of the deliverance to free my six-year-old soul, and end with the undying echos of her knocking on heaven's door.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Her Mother's Kitchen
A sweet child rests her eyes, allowing the scent of delicious peace linger through her.
She learns by heart, and the manifestation of her childhood dreaming begins to call.
She is welcomed by the white sliding door that has sheltered the fragrance of her Mother’s Ash Reshteh for so long.
She envisions her Mother’s territory; caramel colored wood cabinets against the black refrigerator her Father had just bought from Sears fully equipped with the new fad, an ice and water machine.
The warm brew of Sadaf Earl Grey.
The glazed wooden pantry with shelves lined with wallpaper, circa 1970.
Stocked with anything that would cause a six year old, quite a sugar rush.
The memories of baking rice crispy treats with mommy float above her, as she watches the annual Thanksgiving turkey basting, with 15 women causing utter chaos, like lions fighting over their pray.
The scent of her heritage runs wild.
Friday night services culminate with her Mother’s Khoreshteh Bamiyeh.
Her taste buds were ever so thankful,
before the tumultuous winters of years to come brought her kitchen walls tumbling down.
The sweet bliss of Saturday morning breakfasts shine a sweet light upon her adolescent eyes.
She is full, within a haze of pure intense discontent.
She lies awake in a comatose state seventeen years into the future.
Her childhood dream has melted away.
Her Mother’s kitchen was hit by a tempest of lies 14 years prior.
What remains, is the spirit of a woman that once had such a vibrant aura.
A refrigerator that no longer freezes ice, as black, as the shadows of 15 women
who once shared such a love for one another have become,
and the aching corpse of an adolescent who has been left out in the cold…
Away from the warmth radiating from her Mother’s tea kettle, the sheltering walls where her parents love once kept her safe from harms way, and the trust that once gave life to her Mother’s kitchen.
She learns by heart, and the manifestation of her childhood dreaming begins to call.
She is welcomed by the white sliding door that has sheltered the fragrance of her Mother’s Ash Reshteh for so long.
She envisions her Mother’s territory; caramel colored wood cabinets against the black refrigerator her Father had just bought from Sears fully equipped with the new fad, an ice and water machine.
The warm brew of Sadaf Earl Grey.
The glazed wooden pantry with shelves lined with wallpaper, circa 1970.
Stocked with anything that would cause a six year old, quite a sugar rush.
The memories of baking rice crispy treats with mommy float above her, as she watches the annual Thanksgiving turkey basting, with 15 women causing utter chaos, like lions fighting over their pray.
The scent of her heritage runs wild.
Friday night services culminate with her Mother’s Khoreshteh Bamiyeh.
Her taste buds were ever so thankful,
before the tumultuous winters of years to come brought her kitchen walls tumbling down.
The sweet bliss of Saturday morning breakfasts shine a sweet light upon her adolescent eyes.
She is full, within a haze of pure intense discontent.
She lies awake in a comatose state seventeen years into the future.
Her childhood dream has melted away.
Her Mother’s kitchen was hit by a tempest of lies 14 years prior.
What remains, is the spirit of a woman that once had such a vibrant aura.
A refrigerator that no longer freezes ice, as black, as the shadows of 15 women
who once shared such a love for one another have become,
and the aching corpse of an adolescent who has been left out in the cold…
Away from the warmth radiating from her Mother’s tea kettle, the sheltering walls where her parents love once kept her safe from harms way, and the trust that once gave life to her Mother’s kitchen.
My Brooklyn Escape
This place...
My safe haven.
It is no longer what it once was.
I'm so over this town…
Seeing faces of people you once used to know.
This town is crazy.
Even the clouds are dark and hazy.
How could they all have become so shady?
I wish to retreat to that jungle of green.
Under that tree where his spirit lies in dream.
A place where my thoughts can explore
the inner workings of my bliss.
A place of supernatural ecstasy.
Living a fantasy compelled by content, yet interrupted
by the falling of a facade.
My life's fallacy has been exposed.
I close my eyes.
I hear the clatter of dishes breaking.
The pitter-patter of a three year old,
and the chatter of commotion.
Interrupted by the chaos caused by her tears.
I wish to retreat to the home of my desires.
As tall as Brooklyn's skyscrapers.
Interrupted by rain, the demise of
my papier-mâché sculpture of serenity.
As diverse as my individuality,
Yet fallen in deep holes of conformity,
like my crochet blanket, lacking in warmth.
A place I yearn for far away from here, yet composed
by my lifelong fear.
Isn't it ironic?
A queen at a Gala, with her legs unshaven.
A criminal found innocent.
A beauty harboring a life of mystery.
A profound act of unkindness.
A moment of death prolonged.
Interrupted by a weak heart strong enough to hold on.
It is a place clear across the ocean of hope.
Where living for yesterday is okay.
Living for tomorrow needs no masquerade,
and yearning to feel comes without an
impression to be afraid.
A place where nobody knows my name.
Where passer bys dressed in flannel suits
play flutes, and engage in a childhood game of
Chutes and Ladders with me.
Where exhilaration is standing on the edge.
A cliff overlooking your past.
Where memories of Jiff peanut butter and
jelly sandwiches float above you,
and your Grandmother's split pea is once again
your favorite treat.
My safe haven, resurrected.
A rebirth of my shattered expectations.
I have found my place…
amongst the clouds mirroring his memory.
A place of bliss,
found in the evocative scent of Mom's liver and onions.
Where who I am today, walks hand in hand, with who I was then.
Lifelong companions.
This is my Brooklyn escape.
On the edge of twenty-three, awaken from a deep slumber
to a place where endings are no longer killing me slow,
and the divine rapture of life is upon me.
I feel complacent.
My safe haven.
It is no longer what it once was.
I'm so over this town…
Seeing faces of people you once used to know.
This town is crazy.
Even the clouds are dark and hazy.
How could they all have become so shady?
I wish to retreat to that jungle of green.
Under that tree where his spirit lies in dream.
A place where my thoughts can explore
the inner workings of my bliss.
A place of supernatural ecstasy.
Living a fantasy compelled by content, yet interrupted
by the falling of a facade.
My life's fallacy has been exposed.
I close my eyes.
I hear the clatter of dishes breaking.
The pitter-patter of a three year old,
and the chatter of commotion.
Interrupted by the chaos caused by her tears.
I wish to retreat to the home of my desires.
As tall as Brooklyn's skyscrapers.
Interrupted by rain, the demise of
my papier-mâché sculpture of serenity.
As diverse as my individuality,
Yet fallen in deep holes of conformity,
like my crochet blanket, lacking in warmth.
A place I yearn for far away from here, yet composed
by my lifelong fear.
Isn't it ironic?
A queen at a Gala, with her legs unshaven.
A criminal found innocent.
A beauty harboring a life of mystery.
A profound act of unkindness.
A moment of death prolonged.
Interrupted by a weak heart strong enough to hold on.
It is a place clear across the ocean of hope.
Where living for yesterday is okay.
Living for tomorrow needs no masquerade,
and yearning to feel comes without an
impression to be afraid.
A place where nobody knows my name.
Where passer bys dressed in flannel suits
play flutes, and engage in a childhood game of
Chutes and Ladders with me.
Where exhilaration is standing on the edge.
A cliff overlooking your past.
Where memories of Jiff peanut butter and
jelly sandwiches float above you,
and your Grandmother's split pea is once again
your favorite treat.
My safe haven, resurrected.
A rebirth of my shattered expectations.
I have found my place…
amongst the clouds mirroring his memory.
A place of bliss,
found in the evocative scent of Mom's liver and onions.
Where who I am today, walks hand in hand, with who I was then.
Lifelong companions.
This is my Brooklyn escape.
On the edge of twenty-three, awaken from a deep slumber
to a place where endings are no longer killing me slow,
and the divine rapture of life is upon me.
I feel complacent.
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