Poem Offering

A Poem from Jane Miller's A Palace of Pearls


4


Do you know how long it has been since a moral
choice presented itself
and the wrong choice was made
not two minutes
why is it not quiet between lightning and thunder
as if someone were asking
do you have other articulable feelings if so express
them now
tragedy ensues
with a laser blast from the cockpit
the dangled finger of God makes contact
PLEASE CALL FOR SEVERAL HUNDERED THOUSAND PHYSICIANS
QUICKLY

(narrativemagazine.com)

So many stereotypes, such a waste of my time.

I bought tickets to the AFP show in Detroit last night. I dreaded the inevitable: I had to inform my parents, like a high schooler, that I was going to the concert. The typical cascade of questions and concern covered their beyond-middle-aged faces and I felt myself revert back to a 16 year-old when it was a big deal to go out on a school night. I'd often make the comment, "If I were a boy it wouldn't matter." And I was precisely correct, my mother and father both admitted. Because I am a female, I am guarded by them with much more rigidity than I would be if I were endowed with balls, a penis, and buldging muscles.



Instead of screaming, "That's not fair!" as I have witnessed many of my peers do in their adolescense, I went about outsmarting my parents. I didn't ask permission to stay out late, I did not consult them when I got tattoos or piercings. When I wanted to go on a road trip they would strongly advise me against it, so I would lie to them and drive all over the place. I would, of course, admit to my whereabouts afterward. They were never upset, surpisingly. After a while, they learned to breathe a sigh of relief that I was still alive, unabducted, and in one piece.



I'm aware that this is the case now. I simply tell them what I am doing. I stopped asking a long time ago. But, why is it, at age twenty-three (almost twenty-four) that I am still so bothered by their concern? I know in the past I've done things that have resulted in therapy, scars, and practically restraining orders, but it still makes me completely defiant and indignant each time they say, "I don't think that's a good idea," or, "What in God's name would you want to do that?" as if their approval means something.



But last night, I knew, was about their little daughter going to a concert by herself in big bad Detroit. Don't get me wrong, I understand. I mean, here's a picture of the city we're talking about here:



Okay, so it's a horrible picture, but it's the general image that I would get if my daughter told me she was going to one of the nastiest cities in the country just so that she could see a concert.

But if it were my son? I don't think I would worry as much. This bothers me to no end. I have known situations of sexual abuse and assault in my life both through my own experiences and the experiences of my girlfriends, but I also have known it through some of my male friends. My reaction to my parents' concern is similar to the reaction I had to the damn R.A.D. (Rape and Aggression Defense or something like that) class I took at Dickinson College. There were no males allowed in the class, so, when our instructor asked us to write a short paper on what we thought of our daily punchings, I took the opportunity to state that I found the class completely sexist.


There was the assumption that men were never assaulted, that no male had even been molested or raped, or jumped in the street. It was ridiculous to me. I'm not trying to de-masculate anyone - all you boys can stick to your guns (no pun intended) by all means, but the assumption upon which the class was based on doesn't do anything except enhance stereotypes. It isn't quite fair that a man who has been taken advantage of cannot (and will not) admit to the action itself, let alone any form of trauma that has appeared as a result. The statistics do clearly state that women are more likely to be the victims of rape and aggression, but I also believe that men are less likely to report it.


My humanistic ramblings aside, I get infuriated that my mother and my father feel I am much more vulnerable because of my feminity. And I refuse, as I always have refused, to be scared because of it. I hope to God that none of you girls feel like you have to be afraid because of your gender. It might be rational to do so, but it doesn't change anything.

LEEDS United video

I'm a hardcore fan of Amanda Palmer. If you haven't heard of her, she's the lead singer of The Dresden Dolls who recently released her own album (note, the Dresden Dolls aren't over necessarily, just on a much needed break). Her CD, "Who Killed Amanda Palmer?" was produced by Ben Folds and put out by Roadrunner Records. A lot about this album is similar to your typical Dresden Dolls CD (self-titled, "Yes, Virginia," and "No, Virginia."). The theme of Cabaret-Punk still seems to be in-tact. However, Amanda's album proves to be much more personal, much more intense, and much more theatrical. She's on tour in the U.S. now, just recently returning from Europe with a lot of adrenaline.

Her performances are the highlight of my life (or, my music-life anyway). They are circus-like, loud, flashy, and equivalent to an ear-orgasm. I am planning on attending her show on Dec. 2nd in Detroit. Check out her Myspace Page for tour dates.
She has also been making multiple music videos for each song on the album. She has a page on YouTube devoted to them. She hangs around for hours after shows, signing fan's t-shirts (sometimes with a bleach pen...if you ask), boobs, faces, etc. She also updates her blog religiously. Needless to say that she is dedicated to her fans. I'm pretty sure she'd die for them, and most of them would undoubtedly do so for her. Most of those traveling with her, especially the Danger Ensemble who puts on most of the theatrics at the shows, are paid through donations and merch. So, if you do go to a show, bring some cash with you to show your gratitude.

She posted her video for the song, "LEEDS United," just the other day.



Roadrunner Records wanted to edit the video, stating that she looked fat. Her fans are pretty pissed about the comment, as you can imagine. Her persona and her message as a musician go against this type of censorship, so she literally made them keep the video as is. It was a good decision, in my opinion. Amanda is quite thin, and has no qualms with how she looks in the video - something which is a breath of fresh air in her industry.

Silly, silly Roadrunner jerks.

Can we say, "Depression," yet?

For those of you who are wondering why I have so much time on my hands, it's because Michigan is in an economic melt-down. Everyone here is either unemployed or worried about unemployment. General Motors is going bankrupt, which means that my grandfather is doomed to no health insurance. I'm beginning to wonder if Michigan is going to look like a Cormac McCarthy novel.




















That's really the mental image that's been in my head for the past month. Just take out the car, and we're in business. Or, out of business to be more frank. Now we just need some whacko to blow up a temp agency or a job-hunting office and everyone will be dead...or fifty percent of us anyway.

I saw a billboard yesterday (yes, we still use billboards here) for a walk-in clinic. It read, "Got the flu? S'not a problem!" and almost started crying. I'm in the twilight zone. My first thought was, "That advertising agency should really hire me." And then I remembered that it probably was done by the Clinic. No one here believes in Ad Agencies. Is the Clinic hiring? No, they closed down last week.

Couldn't have said it better myself...

Here is a video my friend, Rajeev, and his sister, Manju posted on Facebook. I did as well, but I figure reinforcement never hurt anyone. It's on Prop 8. I realize everyone is a bit tired of hearing about it, but it really is quite important. Point blank - everyone deserves equal rights.

I am...not...Humbert Humbert...

.ReviewTime.

(Lolita By Vladimir Nabokov)

Nabovok’s Lolita presents an excellent character study for writers. Mr. Humbert is an utterly despicable character to someone who has never read the novel. He’s a pedophile, a rapist, and just kind of pathetic. To someone who has read the book (specifically someone who has just recently read it), however, Humbert Humbert is a likeable man. His character makes for an exasperating predicament; the reader is disgusted with Humbert at times, but is oddly enough willing to overlook his sexual interactions with twelve year-old Dolores Haze. The novel is thought, by writer for Vanity Fair, to be one of the most compelling love stories of its century. Now, if Lolita is the most convincing and honest love stories of 1900’s (and let’s note that the article was written before that century was over and is strictly based on one person’s opinion), then I’m a bit confused. I’d have to ask, “What does love actually mean to us?”

The problem with this question is the word, “us.” I’m referring to everyone who is not a pedophile, and let us not forget that individuals with this fetish are human beings as well (Nabokov certainly didn’t). What the author presents to us is not a “fetish” as we would like it to be, and not even a preference. Humbert does not choose to lust over adolescent women, in fact he tries avoid his feelings for them. Pedophelia is in his genetic makeup; it is unavoidable. The way we see Humbert is quite similar to how we might see the protagonist in E.M. Forster’s Maurice, or any gay character in modern literature. Just as Maurice cannot avoid his feelings for males no matter how hard he attempts to suppress them, Humbert is unable to discontinue his attraction to young girls. Likewise, “we” believe that lesbian women only have sexual preference for other women, and, finally, bi-sexuals for both sexes. In an odd way, Humbert’s inclination makes sense to the reader who does not want to see themself as a pervert, but is trying to understand the perversion in their own language. The reader thinks to his/herself, “I suppose I only have sexual preference for people in my acceptable age group, so this is plausible.” It is another case of the “norm” attempting to define “deviance.” This was my train of thought as I was reading the novel; I could relate to him because I was not like him, but have my own inclinations toward women and older men so perhaps…perhaps Humbert is normal?

In reality, he is not. In reality, Humbert Humbert possibly caused the character Lolita a great deal of childhood trauma. Her mother passed away early on in the novel and she was left with a man who seduced her, kidnapped her, and was overwhelmingly abusive psychologically, physically and sexually. She was married and with child by age seventeen. This is the horror that underlies the novel throughout. It is because we believe Humbert cannot change his love for this “nymphet” that it is somehow acceptable, but Nabokov is honest and allows us awareness of the character’s actions. I would venture to say that Lolita is such a “compelling” love story because of its inherent perversity. Without the underlying uneasiness that the reader feels, the novel would be similar to Madame Bovary; I would be nauseated with the flowery language. Apologies to those who like Madame Bovary, but I hate the novel. The only thing redeeming, and actually satisfying about it, is the end. I was (sadistically) elated when Bovary repeatedly vomited after taking arsenic. Afterward I was thinking, “YES! DEATH TO ROMATICISM!”

And, in this way, Lolita is actually quite similar in more ways than its language. Nabokov, in a sense, murders romanticism or at least the image we might have for an average romantic relationship. The main difference is that Flaubert tortures us through the entire book until the end, which is the only passage I can bare to read. Nabovok, so to speak, vomits all over us throughout the book, so that we don’t have to wait until the very end to be satisfied. By allowing us to be horrified and in love at the same time, we don’t tire of Humbert’s obnoxious poetry and ramblings. As odd as it may sound, this combination is what does make a real love story. Sorry Flaubert, you were not as crafty as a Vladimir. Perhaps you should have worked on it. What Nabokov understood is that most of us fail at love. Until we find any kind of solid partner, there is that underlying horror that our relationships will end. That sentiment of doom, perhaps, is what Vanity Fair was referring to.

Counting {version I}

[Character 1 is telling a dramatic story to Character 2. The Narrator's story-telling is separate from the Character's, although passing into their realm every so often. At times the Characters inaudibly carry on their conversation while the Narrator speaks, at other times they freeze.]

Character 1: So, I was walking down a road yesterday...[freeze]

Narrator: It was a long, winding, back-road. Too narrow for much traffic, but just wide enough for cars to squeeze past one another.

Character 1:...and this car came down the road really fast. [continues to talk inaudibly]

Narrator: The car was, in fact, an old blue Volvo. It was swerving back and forth as if to indicate that the driver was impaired in some manner.

Character 1: I heard it though; I couldn't see anything 'cause it was too dark. [freeze]

Narrator: Information that would have been more useful at the beginning of the story, don't you think?

Character 1: So, I heard this car driving really fast...[freeze]

Narrator: Yes, we know, you can detect exact Miles Per Hour with the vibrations in your ear drums.

Character 2: Is that possible?

Character 1: You know what I mean. I could hear the engine running fast...So, I get off the road...[freeze]

Narrator: She moved to the right until she could feel the soft comfortable padding of grass beneathe her feet.

Character 1: But, of course, I see the car's headlights coming right toward me.

Narrator: [to Character 1] Headlights? You could see headlights. I believe I need to see your story-telling resume.

Character 1: [to Narrator] Oh, shut up.

[Narrator turns back to the audience]

Character 2: Did you move?

Character 1: Just enough. The car ran right into a tree; practically right beside me. [freeze]

Narrator: In a last moment of panic, she jumped out of the vehicle's path. She fell to the ground, rolling, rolling -

Character 1: [to Narrator] I didn't roll.

Narrator: Pretend you did.

Character 1: [to Character 2] I rolled out of the way. [Continues to talk inaudibly]

Narrator: The sound of the car in collision with the huge oak tree was so loud, so prolonged, that it seemed to be all that existed at that second, minute, hour.

Character 2: So, why did the car crash?

Character 1: Well, the guy that was driving the car - [freeze]

Narrator: In that minute in which Mr. Wellington smashed his convulsing head -

Character 1: [interrupting loudly] -had a seizure. [freeze]

Narrator: - against the steering wheel. The airbag expanded. His continuing jolts of involuntary movement made ripples through the polyester/vinyl fabric.

Character 1: By the time he crashed the car, he was still seizing.

Character 2: Oh my God. What did you do?

Character 1: Well, I had to figure out what was going on first. [Continues talking in inaudibly]

Narrator: She picked the leaves out of her hair and looked over at the vehicle in disgust. The entire front muffler was bent around the trunk of the tree. They were now puzzle pieces that slid together with ease, that Volvo and its oak tree.

Character 1: I mean, I was just pissed off, you know? [Continues talking inaudibly]

Narrator: All was disturbingly still. All except for the soft movements coming from the driver's seat. Was the driver stuck between his seat and the airbag?

Character 1: I mean, what kind of whack-job just smashes into a tree? A tree that I happen to be standing next to? I was going to give this guy a piece of my fucking mind.

Character 2: How did you even know he was alive?

Character 1: I could see him moving...duuuhhh...[Continues talking inaudibly]

Narrator: She approached Mr. Wellington in his Volvo, with wrinkles of concern edged across her face.

Character 1: The asshole could've killed me. [freeze]

Narrator: What she saw was a man shaking his upper torso. A phantom seemed to have possessed his body. His head was dragged by it, although it remained at a forward angle in the airbag.

Character 1: But once I got over there, I could see that his moving was actually seizing. The windshield had broken in his face. He was bleeding everywhere. And, he had no control over his head, so it was just planted in the airbag. [continues talking inaudibly]

Narrator: The glass particles of the windshield rubbed relentlessly between his face and the bag.

Character 1: It took me forever to figure out where my cell was 'cause I was so freaked out.

Character 2: Where was it?

Character 1: In my pocket...But, you know, I was like freaking out. I didn't know where my fucking hands were in relation to my body.

Character 2: Oh man...[Continues talking inaudibly]

Narrator: It occurred to her that this man might suffocate to death. She fumbled around, feeling her sides for something she should be looking for, a movement or gesture she should have been making.

Character 1: So I dialed 9-1-1, and they told me to move his head.

Character 2: Ewww...[freeze]

Narrator: "You're going to have to adjust his head so that he can breathe," the man on the phone said. She wedged her cell phone between her shoulder and her right ear.

Character 1: But, no shit Mr. 9-1-1 Man, I couldn't get the front doors open. I had to open the back seat and crawl up behind him. [continues talking inaudibly]

Narrator: The front doors were visibly smashed and unable to be opened. Thus, she opened the back door and positioned herself behind Mr. Wellington. Her hands were placed firmly on either side of his head. His head was finally upward and still, but his body shook violently.

Character 1: So, I told the guy on the phone that I was worried I was giving him whip-lash or that he was going to break his neck. I mean, imagine your body moving really fast and your head staying in place. [freeze]

Narrator: The man on the phone assured her that the seizing would be over soon, that one part of the body being held in place would actually help subdue the rest of the body.

Character 1: He told me not to let go. But the dude was so out of control...it was like me holding his head was making it worse. So, I closed my eyes and started counting.

Character 2: Counting?

Character 1: Counting. [character 1 and character 2 both look at the narrator]

Narrator: Our heroine counted to ten and then let go.

Character 2: [to character 1] You let go of his head?

Character 1: [to character 2] I let go of his head.

Character 2: But, why?

Narrator: She was overcome with fear.

Character 1: I just gave up.


[the end]