"The tradition she wants to join is that of Lenny Bruce and Richard Pryor, and in some ways she faces greater challenges than they did. Not just because she is a woman in a profession defined and dominated by men, but also because it is not as easy as it used to be to separate the hip from the square. What Bruce did with obscenity and Mr. Pryor - especially in his first concert film - did with race was to find the outer boundary of the audience's tolerance and push beyond it, confronting and confusing the satisfied self-image of the liberal, sophisticated public."
"This kind of transgression has long since become ritualized and normalized, and Ms. Silverman's act is the latest evidence that mocking political correctness has become a form of political correctness in its own right. Her version of insult humor is actually flattering, both to herself and to those who find it funny. She depends on the assumption that only someone secure in his or her own lack of racism would dare to make, or to laugh at, a racist joke, the telling of which thus becomes a way of making fun simultaneously of racism and of racial hyper-sensitivity. (Like many young, otherwise deracinated Jewish comedians, Ms. Silverman falls back on her ethnic identity as a way of claiming ready-made outsider status.)"
"Everything she says is delivered through enough layers of self-consciousness - air quotes wrapped in air quotes - to make anyone who finds it offensive look like a sucker. She even makes fun of the idea that she might be thought of as an "edgy" comedian. And indeed she isn't. Ms. Silverman is a skilled performer, and "Jesus Is Magic" is occasionally very funny, but don't be fooled: naughty as she may seem, she's playing it safe."
---------------------
A.O. Scott's reviews are incredible. But, he might be dealing harsh cards to someone who doesn't deserve it. Sarah Silverman seems harmless enough, and from what I can tell, means well. I haven't seen "Jesus is Magic" but I like the title, and the trailer's are a good indication.
And it isn't her movie that really concerns me. I'm persuaded to stay up on a worknight to write this entry because of A.O. Scott's criticism. His point about political correctness, and "edgy" humor, is a good one, and should be remembered next time someone says "he/she is too sensitive"--"racism is a reality, and you might as well accept it"--"the only way to fight racism is to be as politically incorrect as possible!"--"you need a sense of humor."
And you know, it's very myserious what makes us laugh. I laugh very easily, and at things "I know I shouldn't laugh at." But my reaction to something doesn't explain much. Laughter can be nervous. Laughter can be madness.
Some laugh at everything. To think life is at all serious is to ask for a lot of heart ache and dissapointment, because, life is nonsense! The world's crazy; why take it seriously? The painted face of a clown can be the most absurd as well as the most tragic thing.
"Laughter is the best medicine"--indeed, it heals, and it is one of the most redemptive kinds of release, next to crying, and screaming.
Is this laughter madness?
At whose expense?
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Another exercise, 1/2 an hour
Jason looked away from the computer monitor and out the window. He was thirsty.
The hallway down to John's room was narrow and long, and often Jason would announce his arrival way in advance as he left his room: "Hey John! Want to go out for a beer?"
John looked up from his book and eyed the stack of papers he had to grade for tomorrow. He had left them alone all weekend, not out of laziness, but simply because he had so many other piles keeping him busy. There was Shakespeare and Film, American Film Genres, and, possibly the worst, the Musicals and Comedies. Not that he disliked the students--outside of class, they could easily be a fun group, great for hanging out and watching the game, but in class it was all too clear these kids were just looking for an easy "A." The last and lingering pile was for this class.
"Yeah, let's do it."
Jason knocked on the only closed door in the apartment, "Jen, let's go."
Jen opened the door: "You know, all our names begin with a J, and I know that, too, but really, we don't have to do this."
"Yes we do, I'm bored."
"Don't you have a website to build?"
"That can wait, but now, beer."
"Well, shit. I can't lie, I want nothing more to do with this junk."
As Jen collected her jacket and keys, she had to dance around the scattered papers and dirty laundry.
John leaned on the doorway, "The only girl in this house, and you're a pig."
"Oink fucking oink."
Jen hardly had time to think, which was unfortunate, since she tried to juggle writing her novel with working at a law firm as a legal assistant. The papers on the floor were "drafts" and they were as scattered as her unfinished story, yet it didn't seem to bother her; there was always some kernel of a direction she seemed to chew on.
Jason had been playing counter-strike for five hours straight, and he was thirsty. The three apartment-mates huddled out in their winter jackets and locked the door behind them.
Across the street, there was an Irish pub that attracted a crew of drinkers as diverse as the public schools in the neighborhood. A gray haired woman kept things in order as the lady in charge, and a pretty young blond served drinks. Most of the patrons were over 40, Puerto Rican, Dominican, Irish, Italian, Greek, and tired after a day of bullshit jobs and aching prides.
This was the scene our three friends walked into--a latin chick, and two korean dudes, after having graduated from college in the spring, shared an apartment and this pub was their hang out spot, every Sunday night.
"Hey Anne, how are ya?"
"I'm good Jason, you kids grabbing a booth?"
"Yeah, can you give each of us a heini?"
"Sure Jason, be right with you."
The pretty blond swung the top half her body like a blade down under the counter where she'd open the fridge to find three cold green bottles for the kids. She held all three in one hand and three coasters in the other. Jason always stared at how her skinny fingers could manage the most impossible orders.
The hallway down to John's room was narrow and long, and often Jason would announce his arrival way in advance as he left his room: "Hey John! Want to go out for a beer?"
John looked up from his book and eyed the stack of papers he had to grade for tomorrow. He had left them alone all weekend, not out of laziness, but simply because he had so many other piles keeping him busy. There was Shakespeare and Film, American Film Genres, and, possibly the worst, the Musicals and Comedies. Not that he disliked the students--outside of class, they could easily be a fun group, great for hanging out and watching the game, but in class it was all too clear these kids were just looking for an easy "A." The last and lingering pile was for this class.
"Yeah, let's do it."
Jason knocked on the only closed door in the apartment, "Jen, let's go."
Jen opened the door: "You know, all our names begin with a J, and I know that, too, but really, we don't have to do this."
"Yes we do, I'm bored."
"Don't you have a website to build?"
"That can wait, but now, beer."
"Well, shit. I can't lie, I want nothing more to do with this junk."
As Jen collected her jacket and keys, she had to dance around the scattered papers and dirty laundry.
John leaned on the doorway, "The only girl in this house, and you're a pig."
"Oink fucking oink."
Jen hardly had time to think, which was unfortunate, since she tried to juggle writing her novel with working at a law firm as a legal assistant. The papers on the floor were "drafts" and they were as scattered as her unfinished story, yet it didn't seem to bother her; there was always some kernel of a direction she seemed to chew on.
Jason had been playing counter-strike for five hours straight, and he was thirsty. The three apartment-mates huddled out in their winter jackets and locked the door behind them.
Across the street, there was an Irish pub that attracted a crew of drinkers as diverse as the public schools in the neighborhood. A gray haired woman kept things in order as the lady in charge, and a pretty young blond served drinks. Most of the patrons were over 40, Puerto Rican, Dominican, Irish, Italian, Greek, and tired after a day of bullshit jobs and aching prides.
This was the scene our three friends walked into--a latin chick, and two korean dudes, after having graduated from college in the spring, shared an apartment and this pub was their hang out spot, every Sunday night.
"Hey Anne, how are ya?"
"I'm good Jason, you kids grabbing a booth?"
"Yeah, can you give each of us a heini?"
"Sure Jason, be right with you."
The pretty blond swung the top half her body like a blade down under the counter where she'd open the fridge to find three cold green bottles for the kids. She held all three in one hand and three coasters in the other. Jason always stared at how her skinny fingers could manage the most impossible orders.
20 Minute Exercise
His footsteps echo throughout the dark theatre as he walks on to the brightly lit stage.
"Here, is a gun."
A loud bang cracks as he fires the gun into the darkness.
"So what?"
Someone darts out from left stage, wearing a red cape, and tackles the man with the gun. They struggle until the man with the gun overcomes the hero. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
He fires the gun into the man's mouth before he can answer.
There's blood everywhere.
Then, applause, along with a few boos.
The theatre crumbles, and the sun shines, and the man with the gun stands in the middle of the stage which remains standing, the huge red curtains strewn over the rubble. The man walks off-stage, over the steel and broken wood, and into the front yard of a house that stands directly in front of him. A puppy runs out the door and on to the yard, wagging its tail, and jumps up on its hind legs towards the man with the gun.
He puts the gun into the front of his pants and proceeds to pet the dog lovingly.
"Aw, puppy. Hi, puppy. You're a cutey, aren't you?"
The man feels the desire to beat the puppy with the butt of his gun, until the puppy is a small wet pulpy mess, but then checks himself: "No, I would regret that, and I would be upset all day afterwards."
Police officers have snuck up all around him, creating a circular perimeter. They move in mock bushes, and several dog houses seem to be slowly meandering towards the man and the puppy. They get close enough to smell his deodorant, but he's too preoccupied with the puppy, or perhaps he willingly ignores them; it is uncertain how they could possibly get so close to him, except that perhaps there's no reason why police officers should even be there, nor is there any explanation for their disguises, and certainly no context for a crime chase. Arms reach out from the bushes, and the roofs of doghouses are raised. They snatch his gun first, then him. He screams. The dog jumps several feet away only to turn around and start barking at the commotion. "Stop!"
"Stop," he says. "Stop!"
"Here, is a gun."
A loud bang cracks as he fires the gun into the darkness.
"So what?"
Someone darts out from left stage, wearing a red cape, and tackles the man with the gun. They struggle until the man with the gun overcomes the hero. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
He fires the gun into the man's mouth before he can answer.
There's blood everywhere.
Then, applause, along with a few boos.
The theatre crumbles, and the sun shines, and the man with the gun stands in the middle of the stage which remains standing, the huge red curtains strewn over the rubble. The man walks off-stage, over the steel and broken wood, and into the front yard of a house that stands directly in front of him. A puppy runs out the door and on to the yard, wagging its tail, and jumps up on its hind legs towards the man with the gun.
He puts the gun into the front of his pants and proceeds to pet the dog lovingly.
"Aw, puppy. Hi, puppy. You're a cutey, aren't you?"
The man feels the desire to beat the puppy with the butt of his gun, until the puppy is a small wet pulpy mess, but then checks himself: "No, I would regret that, and I would be upset all day afterwards."
Police officers have snuck up all around him, creating a circular perimeter. They move in mock bushes, and several dog houses seem to be slowly meandering towards the man and the puppy. They get close enough to smell his deodorant, but he's too preoccupied with the puppy, or perhaps he willingly ignores them; it is uncertain how they could possibly get so close to him, except that perhaps there's no reason why police officers should even be there, nor is there any explanation for their disguises, and certainly no context for a crime chase. Arms reach out from the bushes, and the roofs of doghouses are raised. They snatch his gun first, then him. He screams. The dog jumps several feet away only to turn around and start barking at the commotion. "Stop!"
"Stop," he says. "Stop!"
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
The Moral High Ground and Standing Up For What You Believe
So today, while I was at work, I went on thefacebook and found myself jumped by an uncontrollable hate and anger I have not expressed in a long time.
Read my previous post and you can see what happened.
What happened next was that one of the people I called out on decided to respond:
Mr. Park, your posts are really dumb.
Reread what I asked (it was a question, not a statement), think before you decide the conclusion, and then maybe your posts will be worth paying more attention to.
Mr. Wang, thank you for continuing the discussion (something Mr. Park espouses the virtues of, yet then scurries from). I'll respond once I get home to a computer with sound so I can relisten to Rosie's stuff because it's been awhile.
I felt two things:
1. Shame--although he chose to ignore my points, he did point out that I had lost my cool, and that I had acted more from emotion and less from a cool minded detachment that such a serious topic might deserve.
2. Outrage--he was the one who started with the foul language, the disrespectful tone, and he was the one who pushed me to feel personally assaulted by the accusatory tone.
Then, two things happened that I am very thankful for.
1. I didn't call him names, and I didn't tell him I'd hunt him down and kill him. I held in my outrage, and, also, my shame. I picked myself up and told myself I did the right thing. I had acted on emotions, and that was not the smartest thing to do, but it's also the most honest reaction I had in me. And I value my honesty more than anything. Most of all, I am thankful that I learned from my mistake. I responded by pointing out that although he had asked a question, I had trouble taking it seriously because of the way in which he asked his question:
Though it might surprise you, I know you posted a question. I chose to ignore it because of the phrase "whiney bitches" and the word "salivating"--next time, if you expect respect from others, act like someone who cares.
and yes, please go back to the origin of your statements, and watch the clip again.
I can't say none of my resentment found its way in to my response, but I can say I practiced restraint--in both not lashing out at him, and in refusing to simply concede that my reaction was unfounded, if not miscalculated in the context of the debate at hand.
2. It was then my conversation with Sixiang Wang that made me realize that the person who had responded to me (Sean Sweat) had originally spoken in a tone that was in line with many of the other people on the Forum. Only, the other people on the forum were expressing their general outrage at the Rosie incident. Their comments were just as virulent, personal, and disrespectful of both themselves and the topic at hand.
What we had gathered to discuss was the racist explosion that occurred on "The View"--the continual complacency of the person who committed the racist act, and the continual ignorance of those who felt she had done nothing wrong. The forum's purpose was to make a statement that her actions are unacceptable and why they are unacceptable.
Sean was right. We should have started to discuss the reasons for our outrage, instead of sounding like what he called "whiny bitches... salivating to be victims."
In fact, it was my conversation with Six that made me realize much of what I have written in this post. Without his listening and telling me how he felt, I would not have been able to settle down with today's events. I would have been unable to sleep. I would have felt disappointment in my inability to remain cool headed, and I would have been depressed at how impossible the debate about racial intolerance and ignorance has become, with everyone's opinion polarized to either extreme hate or complete irreverence--my voice being unable to be an exception, and instead a example of the rule.
But instead, I feel good that I was able to restrain myself.
Why would I lash out and try to burn anyone?
Well, Because: I was afraid I would act the coward. I was afraid I'd fall into deeper shame
if I didn't hurt him.
However, it's very clear, now--it's this fear that drives all of us to be paralyzed with hate. Hate can become the fuel for something great. Hate can drive an individual to murder the master, and save the slave. Hate can be the ringing voice that lasts the test of time.
But not hatred from fear. To take blood when I have no blood to lose?
That's losing. And we need to win. Take back the high ground. Stand up for what we believe in.
Believe
Read my previous post and you can see what happened.
What happened next was that one of the people I called out on decided to respond:
Mr. Park, your posts are really dumb.
Reread what I asked (it was a question, not a statement), think before you decide the conclusion, and then maybe your posts will be worth paying more attention to.
Mr. Wang, thank you for continuing the discussion (something Mr. Park espouses the virtues of, yet then scurries from). I'll respond once I get home to a computer with sound so I can relisten to Rosie's stuff because it's been awhile.
I felt two things:
1. Shame--although he chose to ignore my points, he did point out that I had lost my cool, and that I had acted more from emotion and less from a cool minded detachment that such a serious topic might deserve.
2. Outrage--he was the one who started with the foul language, the disrespectful tone, and he was the one who pushed me to feel personally assaulted by the accusatory tone.
Then, two things happened that I am very thankful for.
1. I didn't call him names, and I didn't tell him I'd hunt him down and kill him. I held in my outrage, and, also, my shame. I picked myself up and told myself I did the right thing. I had acted on emotions, and that was not the smartest thing to do, but it's also the most honest reaction I had in me. And I value my honesty more than anything. Most of all, I am thankful that I learned from my mistake. I responded by pointing out that although he had asked a question, I had trouble taking it seriously because of the way in which he asked his question:
Though it might surprise you, I know you posted a question. I chose to ignore it because of the phrase "whiney bitches" and the word "salivating"--next time, if you expect respect from others, act like someone who cares.
and yes, please go back to the origin of your statements, and watch the clip again.
I can't say none of my resentment found its way in to my response, but I can say I practiced restraint--in both not lashing out at him, and in refusing to simply concede that my reaction was unfounded, if not miscalculated in the context of the debate at hand.
2. It was then my conversation with Sixiang Wang that made me realize that the person who had responded to me (Sean Sweat) had originally spoken in a tone that was in line with many of the other people on the Forum. Only, the other people on the forum were expressing their general outrage at the Rosie incident. Their comments were just as virulent, personal, and disrespectful of both themselves and the topic at hand.
What we had gathered to discuss was the racist explosion that occurred on "The View"--the continual complacency of the person who committed the racist act, and the continual ignorance of those who felt she had done nothing wrong. The forum's purpose was to make a statement that her actions are unacceptable and why they are unacceptable.
Sean was right. We should have started to discuss the reasons for our outrage, instead of sounding like what he called "whiny bitches... salivating to be victims."
In fact, it was my conversation with Six that made me realize much of what I have written in this post. Without his listening and telling me how he felt, I would not have been able to settle down with today's events. I would have been unable to sleep. I would have felt disappointment in my inability to remain cool headed, and I would have been depressed at how impossible the debate about racial intolerance and ignorance has become, with everyone's opinion polarized to either extreme hate or complete irreverence--my voice being unable to be an exception, and instead a example of the rule.
But instead, I feel good that I was able to restrain myself.
Why would I lash out and try to burn anyone?
Well, Because: I was afraid I would act the coward. I was afraid I'd fall into deeper shame
if I didn't hurt him.
However, it's very clear, now--it's this fear that drives all of us to be paralyzed with hate. Hate can become the fuel for something great. Hate can drive an individual to murder the master, and save the slave. Hate can be the ringing voice that lasts the test of time.
But not hatred from fear. To take blood when I have no blood to lose?
That's losing. And we need to win. Take back the high ground. Stand up for what we believe in.
Believe
Allow me to explain: the following is a link to a facebook group I was invited to--then, there are some comments that made me feel a kind of anger I haven't felt in a long time--it's inexplicable, why I am suddenly so pissed off.
I used to be one problem child when it came to race politics--I never heard anyone out, I aggressively argued anyone who even remotely implied that identity politics were not the most important problem we faced as Americans, and I hated white men as if they were hoards of barbarians.
Needless to say I grew up and mellowed out. I realized that hatred only hurts me, and that to generalize a group of people would be to act as hypocrite. To argue so aggressively is to close my mind, and to close my mind is to end any chance of resolution.
But I am pissed off, fed up, and fucking sick and tired of this bullshit. Poeple have to wake up, have to wake up, have to wake up, because this flame is lit, this fire is alive, and this mother fucker is burning down.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
http://columbia.facebook.com/group.php?gid=2228618755
Adrian Bruns (Southeastern OSU) wrote
at 5:50pm on January 4th, 2007
I agree with the guy below me. Every single race in the world has had moments like these but you really do not see them making a facebook group about it. Grow up and realize that people say rude and ignorant shit...welcome to America!!
Message - Report
Sean Sweat (MIT) wrote
at 10:56am on January 3rd, 2007
Does anyone want to explain why what she said was offensive and, by extension, why this group isn't a bunch of whiny bitches salivating at the chance to be victims?
Adam Goldberg replied to Michael's post on Dec 16, 2006 at 1:36 PM
I think this is a fair example of hyper-sensitivity.
Every language has distinct sounds as heard from the perspective of one's native language. For example, native Spanish speakers often say English sounds like "washa washa, washa washa ..." Hebrew and French, similarly, make use of a throat sound which is often mimicked by clearing one's throat. There is nothing inherently offensive about the sounds of a language.
Granted Rosie O'Donnell's comment was ignorant; I would not go so far as to call it unacceptable. I laughed when I heard it.
---------------------------------------------
I feel my reponse was meek at best, and I was trying to use some restraint. But still, these were my most virulent retorts about this subject matter in a long time:
Ms. O'Donnell's problem is that she is out of touch with her own (our) culture. Maybe when the members of the View are hanging out drinking coffee her chinaman jokes are a hit, but most people know that it's not funny unless your russell peters; which brings me to my question--at what point is this shit funny? Is racism inherently funny? Would we be laughing if it were a better 'impression'?
and who the fuck is this sean sweat? are you making a point, or being an asshole. another mystery. adrian burns, when's the last time this happened to "your" people? Welcome to america, indeed.
-------------------------------------------
I seek no apology. For these words, or for my spending valuable work time writing this post. It was simply a matter of urgency.
I used to be one problem child when it came to race politics--I never heard anyone out, I aggressively argued anyone who even remotely implied that identity politics were not the most important problem we faced as Americans, and I hated white men as if they were hoards of barbarians.
Needless to say I grew up and mellowed out. I realized that hatred only hurts me, and that to generalize a group of people would be to act as hypocrite. To argue so aggressively is to close my mind, and to close my mind is to end any chance of resolution.
But I am pissed off, fed up, and fucking sick and tired of this bullshit. Poeple have to wake up, have to wake up, have to wake up, because this flame is lit, this fire is alive, and this mother fucker is burning down.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
http://columbia.facebook.com/group.php?gid=2228618755
Adrian Bruns (Southeastern OSU) wrote
at 5:50pm on January 4th, 2007
I agree with the guy below me. Every single race in the world has had moments like these but you really do not see them making a facebook group about it. Grow up and realize that people say rude and ignorant shit...welcome to America!!
Message - Report
Sean Sweat (MIT) wrote
at 10:56am on January 3rd, 2007
Does anyone want to explain why what she said was offensive and, by extension, why this group isn't a bunch of whiny bitches salivating at the chance to be victims?
Adam Goldberg replied to Michael's post on Dec 16, 2006 at 1:36 PM
I think this is a fair example of hyper-sensitivity.
Every language has distinct sounds as heard from the perspective of one's native language. For example, native Spanish speakers often say English sounds like "washa washa, washa washa ..." Hebrew and French, similarly, make use of a throat sound which is often mimicked by clearing one's throat. There is nothing inherently offensive about the sounds of a language.
Granted Rosie O'Donnell's comment was ignorant; I would not go so far as to call it unacceptable. I laughed when I heard it.
---------------------------------------------
I feel my reponse was meek at best, and I was trying to use some restraint. But still, these were my most virulent retorts about this subject matter in a long time:
Ms. O'Donnell's problem is that she is out of touch with her own (our) culture. Maybe when the members of the View are hanging out drinking coffee her chinaman jokes are a hit, but most people know that it's not funny unless your russell peters; which brings me to my question--at what point is this shit funny? Is racism inherently funny? Would we be laughing if it were a better 'impression'?
and who the fuck is this sean sweat? are you making a point, or being an asshole. another mystery. adrian burns, when's the last time this happened to "your" people? Welcome to america, indeed.
-------------------------------------------
I seek no apology. For these words, or for my spending valuable work time writing this post. It was simply a matter of urgency.
Caravaggio slips the book out of the man's hands.
"When you crashed in the desert--where were you flying from?"
"I was leaving the Gilf Kebir. I had gone there to collect someone. In late August. Nineteen forty-two."
"During the war? Everyone must have left by then."
"Yes. There were just armies."
"The Gilf Kebir."
"Yes."
"Where is it?"
"Give me the Kipling book . . . here."
On the frontispiece of Kim was a map with a dotted line for the path the boy and the Holy One took. It showed just a portion of India--a darkly cross-hatched Afghanistan, and Kashmir in the lap of the mountains.
He traces his black hand along the Numi River till it enters the sea at 23 30 latitude. He continues sliding his finger seven inches west, off the page, onto his chest; he touches his rib.
"Here. The Gilf Kebir, just north of the Tropic of Cancer. On the Egyptian--Libyan border."
-- Excerpt from The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje.
"When you crashed in the desert--where were you flying from?"
"I was leaving the Gilf Kebir. I had gone there to collect someone. In late August. Nineteen forty-two."
"During the war? Everyone must have left by then."
"Yes. There were just armies."
"The Gilf Kebir."
"Yes."
"Where is it?"
"Give me the Kipling book . . . here."
On the frontispiece of Kim was a map with a dotted line for the path the boy and the Holy One took. It showed just a portion of India--a darkly cross-hatched Afghanistan, and Kashmir in the lap of the mountains.
He traces his black hand along the Numi River till it enters the sea at 23 30 latitude. He continues sliding his finger seven inches west, off the page, onto his chest; he touches his rib.
"Here. The Gilf Kebir, just north of the Tropic of Cancer. On the Egyptian--Libyan border."
-- Excerpt from The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje.
Monday, January 08, 2007
This is what I should be doing
I have yet to feel what I imagine would be the rush of doing something I love with an intensity to match that love. And though my imagination draws images of it, I know the limits of imagination, and the distance one travels in doing.
And I think many people relate... do you?
But also, I think there must be some unseen part to this perspective, some unrecognized triumph that's been lost under piles of papers, mounds of effort. We stare and we stare.. and in the end all we see is a mess. But maybe... maybe also that mess is our triumph. Maybe this is more than an untidy room.
Am I letting myself get off the hook, too easily? Is this the talk of a mollified mouse, nibbling on a piece of cheese? where's the roar? where is the bristling mane?
To be continued...
And I think many people relate... do you?
But also, I think there must be some unseen part to this perspective, some unrecognized triumph that's been lost under piles of papers, mounds of effort. We stare and we stare.. and in the end all we see is a mess. But maybe... maybe also that mess is our triumph. Maybe this is more than an untidy room.
Am I letting myself get off the hook, too easily? Is this the talk of a mollified mouse, nibbling on a piece of cheese? where's the roar? where is the bristling mane?
To be continued...
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
My thoughts on the past few months...
At first, I wanted to write to myself. I wanted to speak so that only I would hear, write so that only I would read. I wanted to do this because I wanted a closeness to myself where I could be honest, and most importantly, so that my voice would create change in the tomorrow, nudge my soft body into action, and be the harbinger for a new day.
I want change, of course, because I am unsatisfied. I am unhappy with the state of things, the way I am. And there simply hasn't been enough time, or rather, I have not made enough time where I can plainly lay before me the many pieces. To view the many elements in my daily weather. The many voices in this truly never ending conversation.
I then realized, and you are witness to this realization, that this would not work. Writing to myself, for myself, for a selfish reason, would not have the same power, the same spirit, as writing to you, whomever it may be, generous enough to read.
~
I have been working at a law firm for about three months now, and working has left me filled with so many new sensations, yet I have not been able to sort through them all.
For one thing, I have never expected much from life, and this job offers me a lot. Another thing, I have always sought so much out from life, and I have yet to find nearly any of it.
Good pay, professional environment, benefits, and responsibilities. I have never felt more a part of the adult world--far from my parents' world, and instead, a world where people take for granted the control they have over their circumstances, where outrage is a form of expression that is listened to and heeded, not simply tolerated, ignored, by god, always, but also by he who owns your misery.
I have always had a privileged life, but as a generally quiet child, who preferred the sideline, but craved the limelight, the world felt ungraspable, and I often expected the indifference I received as deserved, and the attention from others as a blessing. I always felt my Asian race as the opposite of easy access to community, identity, and general cultural pride. It always left me feeling uneasy in any social group, since I suspected, as I am sure others have felt, where I am from, and who I appear to be, was a sliver of who I am, and where I want to go.
It's strange that the sterile environment of the office space offered me a sense of ability, and deservedness I have never felt before. In the office space I felt for the first time a new and raw sense of empowerment. Crazy, what having some money in your pocket can do. I can have my own apartment. I can buy my friends' drinks. I can help the family I love. As a professional, I am entitled to my say in things as long as I am right. There are no opinions, there is only the simple statement of fact. I am at times the Asian guy, but only when the atmosphere becomes relaxed enough so that we stop talking about work related things. When we work, we don't bring our personal lives, we are a sterile group of egos and iq's. I am not your buddy, I am not your friend, I am Mr. Park, and I am someone you should respect--and this feeling is new to me. I am Mr. Park, and I am someone you should respect. That is not how you pronounce my name, and my name is not another Korean. That I should deserve respect, that someone should speak to me as an equal, and not some other. I liked this. From standing in the shade, I walked into the light, and the blinding cloak of whiteness felt warm, and comforting, and almost Godly.
~
I have always wanted so much from this life. I have always believed in beauty, and in love. I crave peace, and humanness. I respect generosity, and I am grateful for all gifts. And life is a gift. Every single voice, as it quivers in the darkness, with its small distinct vibration, is a feather of a giant phoenix and we all live, and we all die, and we all miraculously burn and fade into ashes, and the process is a million years old, timeless, and infinite as the stars. I wish to open my arms, my mouth, my heart, and show the world what I mean. And I have always believed, as I do now, and I pray I will until my final day, that what I speak can have some say in the magnificent conversation that is this burning world, this dying day.
So I cannot stay cloaked. And I cannot remain comforted by a blinding light, in the stead of a darkening shade. Such extremities are the result of a hungry heart, and I have hungered for a long time. But after gorging myself on this, and on that, at the age of 23, what I really crave is a calm. A peace where I can steadily see myself and the world before me in the soft glow from my open mouth.
I will always love the sunset, and I will continue to drink from the starry night, but such indulgences are not for the human heart. The human heart beats at a constant tempo, sometimes a little more fervently than other times, but throughout life the human heart is a room, and a room cannot grow, cannot shrink; but there, there is the place where it all begins.
This act is an act of arrival. These words are a delivery of light.
This is the only way I can see who I am, and how beautiful you really are.
And that will get me through the day; that is how I choose to burn.
We are not simple beings of hunger, we are more than fuel, more than fire, we are the flame, the dancing shadow and the light, with dimmer thoughts of desperation as well as glimmering dreams on our minds.
I want change, of course, because I am unsatisfied. I am unhappy with the state of things, the way I am. And there simply hasn't been enough time, or rather, I have not made enough time where I can plainly lay before me the many pieces. To view the many elements in my daily weather. The many voices in this truly never ending conversation.
I then realized, and you are witness to this realization, that this would not work. Writing to myself, for myself, for a selfish reason, would not have the same power, the same spirit, as writing to you, whomever it may be, generous enough to read.
~
I have been working at a law firm for about three months now, and working has left me filled with so many new sensations, yet I have not been able to sort through them all.
For one thing, I have never expected much from life, and this job offers me a lot. Another thing, I have always sought so much out from life, and I have yet to find nearly any of it.
Good pay, professional environment, benefits, and responsibilities. I have never felt more a part of the adult world--far from my parents' world, and instead, a world where people take for granted the control they have over their circumstances, where outrage is a form of expression that is listened to and heeded, not simply tolerated, ignored, by god, always, but also by he who owns your misery.
I have always had a privileged life, but as a generally quiet child, who preferred the sideline, but craved the limelight, the world felt ungraspable, and I often expected the indifference I received as deserved, and the attention from others as a blessing. I always felt my Asian race as the opposite of easy access to community, identity, and general cultural pride. It always left me feeling uneasy in any social group, since I suspected, as I am sure others have felt, where I am from, and who I appear to be, was a sliver of who I am, and where I want to go.
It's strange that the sterile environment of the office space offered me a sense of ability, and deservedness I have never felt before. In the office space I felt for the first time a new and raw sense of empowerment. Crazy, what having some money in your pocket can do. I can have my own apartment. I can buy my friends' drinks. I can help the family I love. As a professional, I am entitled to my say in things as long as I am right. There are no opinions, there is only the simple statement of fact. I am at times the Asian guy, but only when the atmosphere becomes relaxed enough so that we stop talking about work related things. When we work, we don't bring our personal lives, we are a sterile group of egos and iq's. I am not your buddy, I am not your friend, I am Mr. Park, and I am someone you should respect--and this feeling is new to me. I am Mr. Park, and I am someone you should respect. That is not how you pronounce my name, and my name is not another Korean. That I should deserve respect, that someone should speak to me as an equal, and not some other. I liked this. From standing in the shade, I walked into the light, and the blinding cloak of whiteness felt warm, and comforting, and almost Godly.
~
I have always wanted so much from this life. I have always believed in beauty, and in love. I crave peace, and humanness. I respect generosity, and I am grateful for all gifts. And life is a gift. Every single voice, as it quivers in the darkness, with its small distinct vibration, is a feather of a giant phoenix and we all live, and we all die, and we all miraculously burn and fade into ashes, and the process is a million years old, timeless, and infinite as the stars. I wish to open my arms, my mouth, my heart, and show the world what I mean. And I have always believed, as I do now, and I pray I will until my final day, that what I speak can have some say in the magnificent conversation that is this burning world, this dying day.
So I cannot stay cloaked. And I cannot remain comforted by a blinding light, in the stead of a darkening shade. Such extremities are the result of a hungry heart, and I have hungered for a long time. But after gorging myself on this, and on that, at the age of 23, what I really crave is a calm. A peace where I can steadily see myself and the world before me in the soft glow from my open mouth.
I will always love the sunset, and I will continue to drink from the starry night, but such indulgences are not for the human heart. The human heart beats at a constant tempo, sometimes a little more fervently than other times, but throughout life the human heart is a room, and a room cannot grow, cannot shrink; but there, there is the place where it all begins.
This act is an act of arrival. These words are a delivery of light.
This is the only way I can see who I am, and how beautiful you really are.
And that will get me through the day; that is how I choose to burn.
We are not simple beings of hunger, we are more than fuel, more than fire, we are the flame, the dancing shadow and the light, with dimmer thoughts of desperation as well as glimmering dreams on our minds.
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