Dear Josephine,
Last night I dreamed I lived in France and met young men and women who understood me in glances, who dreamed too, and when I woke up reality was muted and boring.
I live in a constant circle of happiness and boredom and depression. This city dislikes me and I it, and right now I have a fever and the potential for strep throat and willingness for change.
Leave the bourbon at the store. I have no use for pleasantries or goodness or binges. For now, I'm revising texts and commissioning my future.
I think I'm ready for those dusty evenings. I think I'm ready to drive for hours and speak in riddles.
It's time for action.
l.c.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Friday, October 17, 2008
Letter 27
Dear Josephine,
We are both in places labeled "Washington" on an map of the United States. Are you considering extending your travels to British Columbia? Yesterday I traced a line from the heart of the district to "Santo Domingo", romanticizing the journey (the paper map, my sandy fingertip).
Here, though, my life has contained bottling, leakage. Yesterday I cried three times over feelings of frustration, and inadequacy, and a sense of worth. I'm rarely emotional in seeing, in eyes that scratch.
I am stripping myself of this constant sadness. I am approaching life through numbers. It's no surprise my decision-making hinges on the pull of rationale and emotions, of being two tabs more an "F" than a "T".
My father called me recently and we talked. I wanted to say, "I miss the summer afternoons when you picked me up from camp and tennis practice, and we chewed neon bubblegum and listened to smokey robinson's testimonials ['outside, i'm masquerading. inside, my hope is fading.']." Father, I'm a marauder of concepts. Here, my loot is in these palms (outstretched). Look closely; can you see the gold dust?
And George was right:
"And as I think back over so many years
Love that's filled my ears
I got to thank you lord for giving us pure smokey
And anyone who hears - hears that voice so free
He really got a hold on me
And I thank you all for giving to us smokey - smokey."
And I guess this letter is a tribute to you -- how you shuffled across the stage, offered palms to women who didn't keep still; how I, sixteen and sparkling, shuffled too: "And oh, why do you wanna make me blue? After all, I've been good to you."
boy, i've been good to you.
l.c.
We are both in places labeled "Washington" on an map of the United States. Are you considering extending your travels to British Columbia? Yesterday I traced a line from the heart of the district to "Santo Domingo", romanticizing the journey (the paper map, my sandy fingertip).
Here, though, my life has contained bottling, leakage. Yesterday I cried three times over feelings of frustration, and inadequacy, and a sense of worth. I'm rarely emotional in seeing, in eyes that scratch.
I am stripping myself of this constant sadness. I am approaching life through numbers. It's no surprise my decision-making hinges on the pull of rationale and emotions, of being two tabs more an "F" than a "T".
My father called me recently and we talked. I wanted to say, "I miss the summer afternoons when you picked me up from camp and tennis practice, and we chewed neon bubblegum and listened to smokey robinson's testimonials ['outside, i'm masquerading. inside, my hope is fading.']." Father, I'm a marauder of concepts. Here, my loot is in these palms (outstretched). Look closely; can you see the gold dust?
And George was right:
"And as I think back over so many years
Love that's filled my ears
I got to thank you lord for giving us pure smokey
And anyone who hears - hears that voice so free
He really got a hold on me
And I thank you all for giving to us smokey - smokey."
And I guess this letter is a tribute to you -- how you shuffled across the stage, offered palms to women who didn't keep still; how I, sixteen and sparkling, shuffled too: "And oh, why do you wanna make me blue? After all, I've been good to you."
boy, i've been good to you.
l.c.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Letter 26
Dearest Josephine,
You said: It seems our conversations lack the concrete.
I said: I do not understand what you mean.
You said: You always speak in riddles.
I said: We all speak in codes.
You said: For you -- morse code, or some other intangible, nearly obsolete language.
I said: Would you rather I told you -- today I went to the grocery store. I almost bought eggs but then I decided to buy tomatoes and pre-packaged beets.?
You said: Why did you not buy eggs.
I said: Because I did not want to buy cheese and bread.
You said: I'm framing this conversation.
I said: It's already been manipulated into a square.
You said: I want a rectangle - squares are too uniform.
I said: And two long lines and two short ones is not?
You said: Tell me about your evening.
I said: You're not asking the right questions.
You said: Tell me something that you fear.
I said: Intimacy.
You said: Tell me about your parent's divorce.
I said: Yes, now you understand.
We must catalogue these snippets. I see an island growing between the rectangle and the significance of parting.
l.c.
You said: It seems our conversations lack the concrete.
I said: I do not understand what you mean.
You said: You always speak in riddles.
I said: We all speak in codes.
You said: For you -- morse code, or some other intangible, nearly obsolete language.
I said: Would you rather I told you -- today I went to the grocery store. I almost bought eggs but then I decided to buy tomatoes and pre-packaged beets.?
You said: Why did you not buy eggs.
I said: Because I did not want to buy cheese and bread.
You said: I'm framing this conversation.
I said: It's already been manipulated into a square.
You said: I want a rectangle - squares are too uniform.
I said: And two long lines and two short ones is not?
You said: Tell me about your evening.
I said: You're not asking the right questions.
You said: Tell me something that you fear.
I said: Intimacy.
You said: Tell me about your parent's divorce.
I said: Yes, now you understand.
We must catalogue these snippets. I see an island growing between the rectangle and the significance of parting.
l.c.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Letter 25
Dear Josephine,
Yesterday was my half birthday. I have these celebrations to maintain a sense of self. Also birthdays are meant for living.
I feel myself slowly morphing again and this terrifies me as I am happy with this stagnant person. Lately I've been emotional and self-analyzing. Even silence has a deeper meaning.
Alfred Lord Tennyson said: "Come, my friends, 'tis not too late to seek a newer world." Here is the fear- am I not using time to seek out something greater? Four walls and billing codes confine me. I need to get a prescription for sleeping pills - or even over-the-counter - as I can't sleep anymore due to anxiety and all my dreams are work related. I think I've gotten 3 hours of sleep per evening for the past two weeks. I feel like a zombie.
In other news, I'm trying to find a babysitting or tutoring job. We will see how that pans out.
I don't know what else to write. I read "The Weight: The Myth of Atlas and Heracles" by J. Winterson and loved it. She writes: "I keep telling the story again and though I find different exits, the walls never fall. My life is paced out - here and here and here - I can alter it's shape but I can't get beyond it. I tunnel through, seem to find a way out, but the exits lead nowhere. I'm back inside, leaning on the limits of myself."
yours in the theoretical,
l.c.
Yesterday was my half birthday. I have these celebrations to maintain a sense of self. Also birthdays are meant for living.
I feel myself slowly morphing again and this terrifies me as I am happy with this stagnant person. Lately I've been emotional and self-analyzing. Even silence has a deeper meaning.
Alfred Lord Tennyson said: "Come, my friends, 'tis not too late to seek a newer world." Here is the fear- am I not using time to seek out something greater? Four walls and billing codes confine me. I need to get a prescription for sleeping pills - or even over-the-counter - as I can't sleep anymore due to anxiety and all my dreams are work related. I think I've gotten 3 hours of sleep per evening for the past two weeks. I feel like a zombie.
In other news, I'm trying to find a babysitting or tutoring job. We will see how that pans out.
I don't know what else to write. I read "The Weight: The Myth of Atlas and Heracles" by J. Winterson and loved it. She writes: "I keep telling the story again and though I find different exits, the walls never fall. My life is paced out - here and here and here - I can alter it's shape but I can't get beyond it. I tunnel through, seem to find a way out, but the exits lead nowhere. I'm back inside, leaning on the limits of myself."
yours in the theoretical,
l.c.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Letter 23
Dear Josephine,
This is the longest correspondence I've ever maintained. In honor of this, I have decided to write you a letter markedly less vague.
I've decided that I need to buckle down and plan my future rather than coasting through these twenties focused solely on work/apartment/family life. There is more to living than categories. I've started studying for the GREs; this is the most self-motivated/determined I've been since writing my thesis. I'm terrified of not meeting my goals. Does everything comes down to numbers?
And too, I'm terrified of the act of erasure. Tell me Josephine, did you ever learn to make construction paper (wo)men who clasp hands, who create a half-wreath of communal love/friendship? Sometimes I imagine that the violence of scissors disconnecting body from body parallels the act of removing a person from one's life. Yes, the paper congregation murmurs, thank you for our moments of joy and giving, we will retain this scar, this reminder of your absence.
The other day I thought about my father. You are right; this is a topic I conceal through silence. Two weeks ago I made a half-hearted attempt at reconciliation, because I'm not wading in lukewarm water anymore, because I'm tired of battered conversations and unnecessary resentment. I believe in forgiveness -- grudges are stunted trees that darken landscapes. Still: I haven't returned his phone call, don't know what we'll say to one another through the lines.
I've been craving reading and writing literary theory again. You only have to look at my amazon.com shopping cart to see:
1. Proust and the Squid: The Story and Science of the Reading Brain - Maryanne Wolf
2. Mating in Captivity: Unlocking Erotic Intelligence - Esther Perel
3. Disturbing the Universe: Power and Repression in Adolescent Literature - Roberta S. Trites
4. On Kissing, Tickling, and Being Bored: Psychoanalytic Essays on the Unexamined Life - Adam Phillips
5. Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (Routledge Classics) - Judith Butler
6. Sexing the Body: Gender Politics and the Construction of Sexuality - Anne Fausto-Sterling
7. Constructing the Black Masculine: Identity and Ideality in African American Men's Literature and Culture, 1775-1995 (A John Hope Franklin Center Book) - Maurice O. Wallace
8. Orientalism - Edward W. Said
9. All About Love: New Visions - bell hooks
10. Blues, Ideology, and Afro-American Literature: A Vernacular Theory - Houston A. Baker Jr.
etc.
This past weekend I re-read papers I wrote in college. One paper was 27 pages discussing the cloaking power of the linguistic modifier "I" in relation to the creationary "self". I miss academia.
What else to tell you? This past year I meandered through cities (some real, some imaginary), practiced introspection, and felt trampled/muffled/rumpled. But now, the word is only: refreshing, refreshed, refreshment.
l.c.
This is the longest correspondence I've ever maintained. In honor of this, I have decided to write you a letter markedly less vague.
I've decided that I need to buckle down and plan my future rather than coasting through these twenties focused solely on work/apartment/family life. There is more to living than categories. I've started studying for the GREs; this is the most self-motivated/determined I've been since writing my thesis. I'm terrified of not meeting my goals. Does everything comes down to numbers?
And too, I'm terrified of the act of erasure. Tell me Josephine, did you ever learn to make construction paper (wo)men who clasp hands, who create a half-wreath of communal love/friendship? Sometimes I imagine that the violence of scissors disconnecting body from body parallels the act of removing a person from one's life. Yes, the paper congregation murmurs, thank you for our moments of joy and giving, we will retain this scar, this reminder of your absence.
The other day I thought about my father. You are right; this is a topic I conceal through silence. Two weeks ago I made a half-hearted attempt at reconciliation, because I'm not wading in lukewarm water anymore, because I'm tired of battered conversations and unnecessary resentment. I believe in forgiveness -- grudges are stunted trees that darken landscapes. Still: I haven't returned his phone call, don't know what we'll say to one another through the lines.
I've been craving reading and writing literary theory again. You only have to look at my amazon.com shopping cart to see:
1. Proust and the Squid: The Story and Science of the Reading Brain - Maryanne Wolf
2. Mating in Captivity: Unlocking Erotic Intelligence - Esther Perel
3. Disturbing the Universe: Power and Repression in Adolescent Literature - Roberta S. Trites
4. On Kissing, Tickling, and Being Bored: Psychoanalytic Essays on the Unexamined Life - Adam Phillips
5. Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (Routledge Classics) - Judith Butler
6. Sexing the Body: Gender Politics and the Construction of Sexuality - Anne Fausto-Sterling
7. Constructing the Black Masculine: Identity and Ideality in African American Men's Literature and Culture, 1775-1995 (A John Hope Franklin Center Book) - Maurice O. Wallace
8. Orientalism - Edward W. Said
9. All About Love: New Visions - bell hooks
10. Blues, Ideology, and Afro-American Literature: A Vernacular Theory - Houston A. Baker Jr.
etc.
This past weekend I re-read papers I wrote in college. One paper was 27 pages discussing the cloaking power of the linguistic modifier "I" in relation to the creationary "self". I miss academia.
What else to tell you? This past year I meandered through cities (some real, some imaginary), practiced introspection, and felt trampled/muffled/rumpled. But now, the word is only: refreshing, refreshed, refreshment.
l.c.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Letter 22
Dear Josephine,
It appears Neko Case has peered into my soul. Walking to work, her lyrics flash through my mind: "Thought I was young, now I've freezing hands and bloodless viens, as numb as I've become, I'm so tired."
The above quotation, coupled with the first stanza of Stephen Dunn's poem "A Chance for the Soul" accurately reflects how I've been feeling:
"Am I leading the life that my soul,
Mortal or not, wants me to lead is a question
That seems at least as meaningful as the question
Am I leading the life I want to live
Given the vagueness of the pronoun "I,"
The number of things it wants at any moment."
I've been trying to define my lack of motivation, coming up only with the words "disheartened" and "disillusioned", which serve a dramatic purpose but do not apply to the cloud that seems to have positioned itself in front of my body. Look, mother, an automaton. Look mother, albaster and mutilated statues.
Now, thanks to Neko Case and S. Dunn, I've managed to explain this fever as a blinding numbness I'm both striving to analyze and reveal. There is no concealing this unhappiness, the door began to crack upon entering, splinters wait for bare heels. No, do not fetch more wood, I have no need for pilings. No, do not mend this door with spackle and sweat, the scars are there for the seeing.
Only: decide what one is doing. Life is always a staying and a going.
l.c.
p.s. Sometimes I pray for tears.
It appears Neko Case has peered into my soul. Walking to work, her lyrics flash through my mind: "Thought I was young, now I've freezing hands and bloodless viens, as numb as I've become, I'm so tired."
The above quotation, coupled with the first stanza of Stephen Dunn's poem "A Chance for the Soul" accurately reflects how I've been feeling:
"Am I leading the life that my soul,
Mortal or not, wants me to lead is a question
That seems at least as meaningful as the question
Am I leading the life I want to live
Given the vagueness of the pronoun "I,"
The number of things it wants at any moment."
I've been trying to define my lack of motivation, coming up only with the words "disheartened" and "disillusioned", which serve a dramatic purpose but do not apply to the cloud that seems to have positioned itself in front of my body. Look, mother, an automaton. Look mother, albaster and mutilated statues.
Now, thanks to Neko Case and S. Dunn, I've managed to explain this fever as a blinding numbness I'm both striving to analyze and reveal. There is no concealing this unhappiness, the door began to crack upon entering, splinters wait for bare heels. No, do not fetch more wood, I have no need for pilings. No, do not mend this door with spackle and sweat, the scars are there for the seeing.
Only: decide what one is doing. Life is always a staying and a going.
l.c.
p.s. Sometimes I pray for tears.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Letter 21
Dear Josephine,
In that age-old phrase about bridges, I find that I've always focused on the latter clause about burning, and disregarded the former clause about crossing. Additionally, when I have approached the saying from both angles, I've applied the "crossing" to my "public" life (which I'm defining as job, school, apartment; basically the components that present myself to others) and the "burning" to my "private" life (which I'm defining as my personal thoughts, my relationships with others, etc. - the components that take longer to reveal). I realize my qualification of this statement renders supposedly different spheres of my life as contingent on two opposing actions: moving forward, and moving away. How, then, is it that my personal life tends to take leaps, and my private life tends to retreat?
Even while I pose this question, I do not find it surprising. I find safety in independence, on living for myself rather than living for myself and another. I wonder, though, if I'm losing something in maintaining that type of freedom. Funny, I've always embraced tennis as my favorite sport to watch. I wonder if it's because on that court love means zero, means having nothing, means making one's way from the bottom to a concrete "match point" -- as if "love" never meant anything other than trying to obtain a point for one's self, or for the sake of the game.
lcs
In that age-old phrase about bridges, I find that I've always focused on the latter clause about burning, and disregarded the former clause about crossing. Additionally, when I have approached the saying from both angles, I've applied the "crossing" to my "public" life (which I'm defining as job, school, apartment; basically the components that present myself to others) and the "burning" to my "private" life (which I'm defining as my personal thoughts, my relationships with others, etc. - the components that take longer to reveal). I realize my qualification of this statement renders supposedly different spheres of my life as contingent on two opposing actions: moving forward, and moving away. How, then, is it that my personal life tends to take leaps, and my private life tends to retreat?
Even while I pose this question, I do not find it surprising. I find safety in independence, on living for myself rather than living for myself and another. I wonder, though, if I'm losing something in maintaining that type of freedom. Funny, I've always embraced tennis as my favorite sport to watch. I wonder if it's because on that court love means zero, means having nothing, means making one's way from the bottom to a concrete "match point" -- as if "love" never meant anything other than trying to obtain a point for one's self, or for the sake of the game.
lcs
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Letter 20
Dear Josephine,
You are right, stories are never simply stories. Even definition #6: "a narration of the events in the life of a person or the existence of a thing, or such events as a subject for narration."
Walking in this city and perusing my computer I see stories everywhere. In the slogans we display, the articles we read, to the plaques that explain why a building was constructed. In this letter is a story, both fabricated and true. Listen, my skirt is woven by stories. Sometimes I wonder if everyone has a fictional narrative they cling to in times of boredom or duress. I dream of a faceless lover who breaks down all my barriers through both patience and aggressiveness. Those words are not antonyms. And here my fantasy tells you more about me, about this construction of walls and facades that dominate a segment of my subconscious.
Sometimes I quote Anne Sexton in my head, saying "Kind Sir: This is an old game that we played when we were eight and ten" [pause -- for I prefer beginnings and ends], "Still, I search these woods and find nothing worse than myself, caught between the grapes and the thorns." I find that I enjoy this concept of finding one's self, as if it is lost, as if it can be found. Still I prefer the concept of difference, of self-perception, a revelation in Sexton's lines:
"I promise to love more if they come,
because in spite of cruelty
and the stuffed railroad cars for the ovens,
I am not what I expected. Not an Eichmann.
The poison just didn't take.
So I won't hang around in my hospital shift,
repeating The Black Mass and all of it.
I say Live, Live because of the sun,
the dream, the excitable gift."
Illumination.
yours,
l.c.
You are right, stories are never simply stories. Even definition #6: "a narration of the events in the life of a person or the existence of a thing, or such events as a subject for narration."
Walking in this city and perusing my computer I see stories everywhere. In the slogans we display, the articles we read, to the plaques that explain why a building was constructed. In this letter is a story, both fabricated and true. Listen, my skirt is woven by stories. Sometimes I wonder if everyone has a fictional narrative they cling to in times of boredom or duress. I dream of a faceless lover who breaks down all my barriers through both patience and aggressiveness. Those words are not antonyms. And here my fantasy tells you more about me, about this construction of walls and facades that dominate a segment of my subconscious.
Sometimes I quote Anne Sexton in my head, saying "Kind Sir: This is an old game that we played when we were eight and ten" [pause -- for I prefer beginnings and ends], "Still, I search these woods and find nothing worse than myself, caught between the grapes and the thorns." I find that I enjoy this concept of finding one's self, as if it is lost, as if it can be found. Still I prefer the concept of difference, of self-perception, a revelation in Sexton's lines:
"I promise to love more if they come,
because in spite of cruelty
and the stuffed railroad cars for the ovens,
I am not what I expected. Not an Eichmann.
The poison just didn't take.
So I won't hang around in my hospital shift,
repeating The Black Mass and all of it.
I say Live, Live because of the sun,
the dream, the excitable gift."
Illumination.
yours,
l.c.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Letter 19
Dear Josephine,
I was unable to decipher your voicemail message from the chatter in the background, or perhaps the disapproval I heard edging into your voice, and voted against returning your call. Please accept this letter as my sincerest apologies in not writing to you for nearly two months.
I've been to Ohio to D.C. and back again, and am happy to finally be home for one week as I've missed my bed and that element of stability (shocking I know). Lately life has been very stressful at work and at home, and I'm trying to go day-by-day, which is proving to be easier than I thought. I pegged myself a planner as I've been writing "to do" lists since the age of 5, but I think I've mellowed in the recent months.
I've stopped my frantic search for rusty terrains and have devoted myself to groundings and morning walks and d.c. humidity. I'm sure the terrains will once again dominate my dreams, but for now I am content to walk this same path. Everything looks better and its only been a year since this journey has begun. How can so much change in 12 months?
I won an award at work and really want to splurge on this cute dress:
(see the july 23 post)
Instead I'm putting it towards my credit card bill, which appears to refuse to remotely topple. It's frustrating.
I like this advice: "Sometimes you put walls up not to keep people out, but to see who cares enough to break them down.”
I really want to tell you more but I am exhausted and need to sleep. Tomorrow has promises for being a long day.
Love to you,
l.c.
I was unable to decipher your voicemail message from the chatter in the background, or perhaps the disapproval I heard edging into your voice, and voted against returning your call. Please accept this letter as my sincerest apologies in not writing to you for nearly two months.
I've been to Ohio to D.C. and back again, and am happy to finally be home for one week as I've missed my bed and that element of stability (shocking I know). Lately life has been very stressful at work and at home, and I'm trying to go day-by-day, which is proving to be easier than I thought. I pegged myself a planner as I've been writing "to do" lists since the age of 5, but I think I've mellowed in the recent months.
I've stopped my frantic search for rusty terrains and have devoted myself to groundings and morning walks and d.c. humidity. I'm sure the terrains will once again dominate my dreams, but for now I am content to walk this same path. Everything looks better and its only been a year since this journey has begun. How can so much change in 12 months?
I won an award at work and really want to splurge on this cute dress:
(see the july 23 post)
Instead I'm putting it towards my credit card bill, which appears to refuse to remotely topple. It's frustrating.
I like this advice: "Sometimes you put walls up not to keep people out, but to see who cares enough to break them down.”
I really want to tell you more but I am exhausted and need to sleep. Tomorrow has promises for being a long day.
Love to you,
l.c.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Letter 18
Dear Josephine,
I’ve been fantasizing about my future: owning and furnishing my apartment, drinking red wine while relaxing on my patio, and running outside with my dog. I have spent the past twenty minutes trying to decide whether I would like my future companion to be a German Shorthaired Pointer or a Hungarian Viszla. Clearly if this is the biggest decision I’m contemplating, my life is pretty good right now.
I’m going to Lollapolooza this summer and visiting Jess. I am unbelievably excited. Tonight I am buying my ticket – I’ve already placed the dates on my Outlook calendar, with green text boxes and reminders to help me deal with the wait. This summer is not going to be easy to hold as all of my weekends are sandwiched between flights to Columbus, travels to the beach, or days spent relaxing in PA.
I’m dreading the return of Fall, when my moods are dictated by the weather, when I have to make grander decisions and stop skimming streets due to comfort. For now I am focusing on the d.c. humidity and my current happiness. There isn’t any uncertainty here, only a newfound appreciation for waiting and an enjoyment of my surroundings. My goals are small: pay off/cancel credit card, meet savings goal by August, appreciate my 23rd summer.
And for now, that is enough.
Peace,
l.c.
I’ve been fantasizing about my future: owning and furnishing my apartment, drinking red wine while relaxing on my patio, and running outside with my dog. I have spent the past twenty minutes trying to decide whether I would like my future companion to be a German Shorthaired Pointer or a Hungarian Viszla. Clearly if this is the biggest decision I’m contemplating, my life is pretty good right now.
I’m going to Lollapolooza this summer and visiting Jess. I am unbelievably excited. Tonight I am buying my ticket – I’ve already placed the dates on my Outlook calendar, with green text boxes and reminders to help me deal with the wait. This summer is not going to be easy to hold as all of my weekends are sandwiched between flights to Columbus, travels to the beach, or days spent relaxing in PA.
I’m dreading the return of Fall, when my moods are dictated by the weather, when I have to make grander decisions and stop skimming streets due to comfort. For now I am focusing on the d.c. humidity and my current happiness. There isn’t any uncertainty here, only a newfound appreciation for waiting and an enjoyment of my surroundings. My goals are small: pay off/cancel credit card, meet savings goal by August, appreciate my 23rd summer.
And for now, that is enough.
Peace,
l.c.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Letter 17
Dear Josephine,
There are eternities between spaces. That is my excuse for not writing you sooner; I became lost and found again, an object brought in to discuss during show and tell, although there was all show and no tell.
I am seriously considering a career in educational assessment/testing, and find this both humorous and depressing (in that my life is being carved out at such a young age). I dream of Grecian shores and western mountains. These will be part of the carving, at some point. I think life means learning patience.
How many vague statements can I write to you; will you interpret them as thinly veiled bull-shit or abstractions of truth?
I've finished On the Road and it struck me to be about understanding people's faults and recognizing their beauty and importance in one's life and appreciating everything - in the ramblings was America, in a form rarely seen yet seen everyday.
Take me on a road trip, Josephine. Let's wander down the southern coast and lose ourselves in Texas. We can pretend we've been abandoned by circumstances and intended mistakes, frequent dinners and converse with strangers. I'm packing an atlas and a handful of dresses, I suggest you bring water bottles and suntan lotion. Summer is here, and her heat makes fools of us all.
yours,
l.c.s.
There are eternities between spaces. That is my excuse for not writing you sooner; I became lost and found again, an object brought in to discuss during show and tell, although there was all show and no tell.
I am seriously considering a career in educational assessment/testing, and find this both humorous and depressing (in that my life is being carved out at such a young age). I dream of Grecian shores and western mountains. These will be part of the carving, at some point. I think life means learning patience.
How many vague statements can I write to you; will you interpret them as thinly veiled bull-shit or abstractions of truth?
I've finished On the Road and it struck me to be about understanding people's faults and recognizing their beauty and importance in one's life and appreciating everything - in the ramblings was America, in a form rarely seen yet seen everyday.
Take me on a road trip, Josephine. Let's wander down the southern coast and lose ourselves in Texas. We can pretend we've been abandoned by circumstances and intended mistakes, frequent dinners and converse with strangers. I'm packing an atlas and a handful of dresses, I suggest you bring water bottles and suntan lotion. Summer is here, and her heat makes fools of us all.
yours,
l.c.s.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Letter 16
Dear Josephine,
How much there is to tell, and how much there is to conceal. Is there always that binary? Tell me: is it false or real? Are quotations needed, even there?
Lately there has been a fusion of days, all slow and long and fast and short, never fully characterized because I barely remember them. I know I enjoyed the contact between my pillow and my ear, but little else seemed to be of note.
Even now, when I set out to write this letter to you, I had a thousand statements I swore I’d hold steadfast to (and not bore you with constant dialogues of “reality” and disappointments with trying to be more alive. See: my body shining brightly).
To the business of letter writing [although it’s not a franchise – these feelings of mine]. Well, since work takes up 40 hours of the 112 hours I am awake, or perhaps I sleep even more than 8 hours a day, I can tell you that there is nothing new to report on that front. I am spending a decent amount of my summer traveling for work, which is frustrating because I am having trouble coordinating important one-on-one time with the people I love. I still walk to work everyday, either organizing mixed cds in my head or day-dreaming. Day-dreaming is a major component of being an INFJ. What can you do? Sometimes fantasy is more interesting than everyday life.
Lately I’ve been watching MTV’s The Paper and it’s causing me to realize I have lost my passion. Can this intangible concept actually be lost? The answer is a resounding yes. I used to breathe writing, used to advocate for a censorless world, and now I have become an automaton and have forgotten the joy of creating, forgotten to remember to hold fast to enjoyable activities. Thank you, MTV and Amanda Lorber. It’s important to never lose that drive, to never forget the importance of expression and doing something you feel you’d die if you couldn’t do it. And censoring (imagine here a judge’s gavel pounding away at art) is a devil in disguise.
Reality television makes me feel old even though twenty-three is just the start of another voyage. Tonight I don’t want to watch television or cook myself pasta. A slight rupture in my tiny universe. The cracks are beginning to show.
What did you say to me recently? “We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection.” So said your mentor Anais Nin, and so said you. Repetition can equal creation.
You and Anais might be right. But I think life is more than tasting and multiples, and pillows and automatic movements. I have unplayed that movement. I am claiming, not being claimed.
honestly,
l. c.
How much there is to tell, and how much there is to conceal. Is there always that binary? Tell me: is it false or real? Are quotations needed, even there?
Lately there has been a fusion of days, all slow and long and fast and short, never fully characterized because I barely remember them. I know I enjoyed the contact between my pillow and my ear, but little else seemed to be of note.
Even now, when I set out to write this letter to you, I had a thousand statements I swore I’d hold steadfast to (and not bore you with constant dialogues of “reality” and disappointments with trying to be more alive. See: my body shining brightly).
To the business of letter writing [although it’s not a franchise – these feelings of mine]. Well, since work takes up 40 hours of the 112 hours I am awake, or perhaps I sleep even more than 8 hours a day, I can tell you that there is nothing new to report on that front. I am spending a decent amount of my summer traveling for work, which is frustrating because I am having trouble coordinating important one-on-one time with the people I love. I still walk to work everyday, either organizing mixed cds in my head or day-dreaming. Day-dreaming is a major component of being an INFJ. What can you do? Sometimes fantasy is more interesting than everyday life.
Lately I’ve been watching MTV’s The Paper and it’s causing me to realize I have lost my passion. Can this intangible concept actually be lost? The answer is a resounding yes. I used to breathe writing, used to advocate for a censorless world, and now I have become an automaton and have forgotten the joy of creating, forgotten to remember to hold fast to enjoyable activities. Thank you, MTV and Amanda Lorber. It’s important to never lose that drive, to never forget the importance of expression and doing something you feel you’d die if you couldn’t do it. And censoring (imagine here a judge’s gavel pounding away at art) is a devil in disguise.
Reality television makes me feel old even though twenty-three is just the start of another voyage. Tonight I don’t want to watch television or cook myself pasta. A slight rupture in my tiny universe. The cracks are beginning to show.
What did you say to me recently? “We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection.” So said your mentor Anais Nin, and so said you. Repetition can equal creation.
You and Anais might be right. But I think life is more than tasting and multiples, and pillows and automatic movements. I have unplayed that movement. I am claiming, not being claimed.
honestly,
l. c.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Letter 15
Dear Josephine,
Everything in this universe seems to be aligning into some sort-of reality that contains my wishes and it scares me and makes me very happy at the same time. If I could cross my toes I would; instead I read wikipedia articles about communication mergers and mining companies, and focus on the discovery of anklyosaurus, celebrating the latter as a bizarre full circle and message proclaiming, “Be bold. Be bold. Be bold.” In jubilation I focus on dimmer lighting and dusky reds and kindness. I write to define a greater purpose, a definition as vague as the term allows. I surround myself with honey and brown rice green tea, spontaneous weekends, and stuff good karma into my pillow at night.
love,
l.c.
Everything in this universe seems to be aligning into some sort-of reality that contains my wishes and it scares me and makes me very happy at the same time. If I could cross my toes I would; instead I read wikipedia articles about communication mergers and mining companies, and focus on the discovery of anklyosaurus, celebrating the latter as a bizarre full circle and message proclaiming, “Be bold. Be bold. Be bold.” In jubilation I focus on dimmer lighting and dusky reds and kindness. I write to define a greater purpose, a definition as vague as the term allows. I surround myself with honey and brown rice green tea, spontaneous weekends, and stuff good karma into my pillow at night.
love,
l.c.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Letter 14
Dear Josephine,
Ms. magazine, recently published an article "out-of-body image: self-objectification -- seeing ourselves through others' eyes -- impairs women's body image, mental health, motor skills and even sex lives" by Caroline Heldman. Heldman argues that the objectification of women's bodies as presented in our culture via communication mediums, and it can be mentioned, genderized images, causes women to not only critique their own bodies, but to see them as objects of desire: "A steady diet of exploitative, sexually provocative depictions of women feeds a poisonous tread in women's and girls' perception of their bodies, one that has recently been recognized by social scientists as self-objectification - viewing one's body as a sex object to be consumed by the male gaze."
This self-objectification leads to women's judgement of their physical appearance and their awareness of outside perception (or, how they believe they are perceived by others). It is this perception, in part, that causes women to place importance upon a body image (measuring the "flab" on their stomach, wearing high heels, acting like a "woman"), etc. Heldman spends a portion of her essay discussing the mental, physical, cognitive impact self-objectification has on those who are "medium or high self-objectifiers": they are more likely to be depressed, have low self-esteem, are at higher risk of eating disorders, may perform lower on their academic studies, are often less interested in politics, etc.
In addition, Heldman states, young girls are taught at an early age to flaunt their bodies. During this portion of the article I couldn't stop thinking of those ever-popular bratz dollz, like the ones seen here. These dolls implicitly place a value on materialism by showing the dolls' attentiveness to clothing, makeup, and hair styles. They even, subliminally, appear to place an importance on posing - isn't it interesting the placement of their bodies (in that picture) and the high-heeled shoes that seem to so effortlessly support them?
Later in the article, Heldman discusses the implications of self-objection on sex. She asserts:
"Self-objectification can likely explain some other things that researchers are just starting to study. For instance, leading anti-sexist male activist and author Jackson Katz observes, 'Many young women now engage in sex acts with men that prioritize the man's pleasure, with little or no expectation of reciprocity.' Could this be another result of women seeing themselves as sexual objects, not agents?"
In the above quotations Heldman is making a fascinating point. If, as she earlier stated, "girls are taught: your body is a project that needs work before you can attract others," then they are also taught: your body is an object with the primary objective - please, not be pleased. This concept makes men the primary focus of sexual pleasure, and makes women the servers of that pleasure. And, since media is purporting women's bodies as the pinnacle of male desire, then there bodies are fulfilling this image when, for example, there is a blatant disregard for women's satisfaction during the sex act.
Here is the paradox of objectification: it is founded in a perspective that forces personal identity and physical bodies to become separate, while simultaneously relying on bodies for the formation of an identity (women as agents of desire). The objectification of women, enforced by cultural depictions of them as sex pleasers, marginalizes women by stripping them of their identities and re-defining them solely by their bodies. These bodies in turn, become sexualized, a movement that renders them unrecognizable by their owners.
And, in turn, here is the biggest danger of self-objectification: the loss of personal identity (for example, how we show who we "are", what we believe in, etc.). For self-objectification finds its roots in society that creates and upholds socialized bodies and identities as normative.
In a sense, our bodies represent a signification process. To illuminate this process is to call attention to the genderized society in which we reside. But this is only one step. We have to, states Heldman, "view our bodies as tools to master our environment, instead of projects to be constantly worked on". We have to redirect our attention to ourselves and away from media images, to "create mental and emotional space for true self-exploration."
In her essay “The Body and the Reproduction of Femininity: A Feminist Appropriation of Foucault”, Susan Bordo advocates for individuals to resist prescribed gender roles. “I view our bodies as a site of struggle," she states, "where we must work to keep our daily practices in the service of resistance to gender domination, not in the service of ‘docility’ and gender normalization”.
Both Heldman and Bordo are right. We must stop seeing ourselves as objects, and focus on understanding our own identities.
love,
l.c.
Ms. magazine, recently published an article "out-of-body image: self-objectification -- seeing ourselves through others' eyes -- impairs women's body image, mental health, motor skills and even sex lives" by Caroline Heldman. Heldman argues that the objectification of women's bodies as presented in our culture via communication mediums, and it can be mentioned, genderized images, causes women to not only critique their own bodies, but to see them as objects of desire: "A steady diet of exploitative, sexually provocative depictions of women feeds a poisonous tread in women's and girls' perception of their bodies, one that has recently been recognized by social scientists as self-objectification - viewing one's body as a sex object to be consumed by the male gaze."
This self-objectification leads to women's judgement of their physical appearance and their awareness of outside perception (or, how they believe they are perceived by others). It is this perception, in part, that causes women to place importance upon a body image (measuring the "flab" on their stomach, wearing high heels, acting like a "woman"), etc. Heldman spends a portion of her essay discussing the mental, physical, cognitive impact self-objectification has on those who are "medium or high self-objectifiers": they are more likely to be depressed, have low self-esteem, are at higher risk of eating disorders, may perform lower on their academic studies, are often less interested in politics, etc.
In addition, Heldman states, young girls are taught at an early age to flaunt their bodies. During this portion of the article I couldn't stop thinking of those ever-popular bratz dollz, like the ones seen here. These dolls implicitly place a value on materialism by showing the dolls' attentiveness to clothing, makeup, and hair styles. They even, subliminally, appear to place an importance on posing - isn't it interesting the placement of their bodies (in that picture) and the high-heeled shoes that seem to so effortlessly support them?
Later in the article, Heldman discusses the implications of self-objection on sex. She asserts:
"Self-objectification can likely explain some other things that researchers are just starting to study. For instance, leading anti-sexist male activist and author Jackson Katz observes, 'Many young women now engage in sex acts with men that prioritize the man's pleasure, with little or no expectation of reciprocity.' Could this be another result of women seeing themselves as sexual objects, not agents?"
In the above quotations Heldman is making a fascinating point. If, as she earlier stated, "girls are taught: your body is a project that needs work before you can attract others," then they are also taught: your body is an object with the primary objective - please, not be pleased. This concept makes men the primary focus of sexual pleasure, and makes women the servers of that pleasure. And, since media is purporting women's bodies as the pinnacle of male desire, then there bodies are fulfilling this image when, for example, there is a blatant disregard for women's satisfaction during the sex act.
Here is the paradox of objectification: it is founded in a perspective that forces personal identity and physical bodies to become separate, while simultaneously relying on bodies for the formation of an identity (women as agents of desire). The objectification of women, enforced by cultural depictions of them as sex pleasers, marginalizes women by stripping them of their identities and re-defining them solely by their bodies. These bodies in turn, become sexualized, a movement that renders them unrecognizable by their owners.
And, in turn, here is the biggest danger of self-objectification: the loss of personal identity (for example, how we show who we "are", what we believe in, etc.). For self-objectification finds its roots in society that creates and upholds socialized bodies and identities as normative.
In a sense, our bodies represent a signification process. To illuminate this process is to call attention to the genderized society in which we reside. But this is only one step. We have to, states Heldman, "view our bodies as tools to master our environment, instead of projects to be constantly worked on". We have to redirect our attention to ourselves and away from media images, to "create mental and emotional space for true self-exploration."
In her essay “The Body and the Reproduction of Femininity: A Feminist Appropriation of Foucault”, Susan Bordo advocates for individuals to resist prescribed gender roles. “I view our bodies as a site of struggle," she states, "where we must work to keep our daily practices in the service of resistance to gender domination, not in the service of ‘docility’ and gender normalization”.
Both Heldman and Bordo are right. We must stop seeing ourselves as objects, and focus on understanding our own identities.
love,
l.c.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Letter 13
Dear Josephine,
I haven't written poetry in a long time. My first-year of college my Creative Writing professor pulled me aside, telling me that he had showed some of my poetry to his colleagues and that they were impressed by my writing, wondering how such a voice emanated from an eighteen-year-old's hand. I didn't understand the link between age and talent, but I was floored. My junior year I fell in love (again) with literary theory, and presented myself with an unnecessary decision: focus on criticism or creation. I chose the former. I haven't written a poem in nearly three years, when I wrote the upwards of twenty-some poems a year from fourth grade to my third year of college. Today, I attempted to write something. And although I am unsatisfied, it is a step in the right direction (as it's a movement away from my regular topics):
I value the planes between your shoulder and the floor
According to an online resource, “running
and dancing are kinetic activities.” So is fucking:
my hand at a cavity; I value kindness.
I enjoy the not feeling sensation of feeling.
Inertia is for those unable to implode.
See: this paradigm of loving.
-l.c.
I haven't written poetry in a long time. My first-year of college my Creative Writing professor pulled me aside, telling me that he had showed some of my poetry to his colleagues and that they were impressed by my writing, wondering how such a voice emanated from an eighteen-year-old's hand. I didn't understand the link between age and talent, but I was floored. My junior year I fell in love (again) with literary theory, and presented myself with an unnecessary decision: focus on criticism or creation. I chose the former. I haven't written a poem in nearly three years, when I wrote the upwards of twenty-some poems a year from fourth grade to my third year of college. Today, I attempted to write something. And although I am unsatisfied, it is a step in the right direction (as it's a movement away from my regular topics):
I value the planes between your shoulder and the floor
According to an online resource, “running
and dancing are kinetic activities.” So is fucking:
my hand at a cavity; I value kindness.
I enjoy the not feeling sensation of feeling.
Inertia is for those unable to implode.
See: this paradigm of loving.
-l.c.
Letter 12
Dear Josephine,
"Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it.
Well, when one is drunk, one finds herself a prophet. I do believe in all those things I listed in my last letter, although my endorsement of them are a bit more pronounced (and generic) upon glass numero tres of red wine.
Anyway, this weekend I went with my mother to The Library of Congress. The "great hall" is stunning in its architecture and painted walls, which are embossed with many quotes, among them: "The light shineth in the darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not." It struck me to silence.
Can't that quote be applied to the meaning of ignorance?:
ig·no·rance (ĭg'nər-əns) : n. The condition of being uneducated, unaware, or uninformed.
Isn't the darkness ignorance? And in this cloak of darkness there is an inability, or a lack of participation in the quest, to understand "truth"? Here, blindness, even in the brightest of places.
Later, dressed in boxer shorts and a t-shirt, I "googled" the phrase. I wasn't surprised to learn it's from the bible.
John 1:
"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning."Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it.
"There came a man who was sent from God; his name was John. He came as a witness to testify concerning that light, so that through him all men might believe. He himself was not the light; he came only as a witness to the light. The true light that gives light to every man was coming into the world."
Lord! Look at that multifaceted narrative. It's really quite brilliant. Here "word" becomes "Word", which changes the meaning, or at least the intention of the word, entirely. And John is both an observer and a channel of knowledge and creation. That excerpt is a fold within itself.
Right now, I'm listening to Dire Straits "Romeo and Juliet". I'm fascinated by the impetus provided by literary texts. Inspiration, inspiration, you sneaky woman. We all steal stories, I suppose.
Lately I've been unable to give voice to my thoughts, and even now I find this letter to be inadequate. I've become quieter and more contemplative, and this is a good thing. Kenneth Bruffee once said (paraphrase here): "Writing is conversation internalized re-externalized onto paper." I believe that. Another bullet to the list.
yours,
l.c.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Letter 10
Dear Josephine,
My senior year of college, whenever I was depressed, I listened to Jim Croce's album Photographs and Memories. The other day I was watching television and I saw a program about his life, which showed some segments of him singing his songs. I was reminded of my former obsession with his "lover's cross". Jim sings:
"'Cause now it seems that you wanted a martyr/Just a regular guy wouldn't do/But baby I can't hang upon no lover's cross for you"
The quotation led me to thinking about my relationships, some still going strong, others now quietly on hiatus, and still others that have ended. I think in all my failed relationships (I'm using this term loosely, as it's all encompassing) there was always this misunderstanding of the other's character. And I don't mean that I misjudged a person's character or vice-versa, but that I misjudged my own understanding of that person. A frame within a frame within a frame. Simply put: I think in all relationships we are prone to eventually expect a fellow comrade to act in a specific manner, or become more aware of his/her shortcomings, and change. But we fail to realize that our attempts at making this person a "better" person, have not only isolated him/her, they've skewed our own perceptions. This causes us to try to make this comrade come to terms with his/her failings, but we in turn use these failings to justify the "faulty" decisions he/she makes. Where is the happy medium? If we are using their faults to justify other faults, how can we give others the benefit of the doubt? But that's not really it - how can we see that they are changing, or that they are reflecting on what we are saying, when are perceptions of them have stayed the same? Have we become preachers who forget to listen to the voices of their congregations? Even there, in that simile, a hierarchy emerges.
And still Jim sings:
"'Cause tables are meant for turnin'/And people are bound to change/And bridges are meant for burnin'/When the people and memories they join aren't the same"
And finally --
I've been haunted by Before Sunset since I watched it months ago. In the movie the two main characters, Jesse and Celine, share this interaction:
Jesse: Oh, God, why didn't we exchange phone numbers and stuff? Why didn't we do that?
Celine: Because we were young and stupid.
Jesse: Do you think we still are?
Celine: I guess when you're young, you just believe there'll be many people with whom you'll connect with. Later in life, you realize it only happens a few times.
Jesse: And you can screw it up, you know, misconnect.
I wonder: I constantly see emails and read articles that draw a line between my body and a stranger's, connecting me to one family tree and to another, or one country to another, or one phone network to another, placing tiny bobbing heads across a map of the united states (and beyond). Connections are painted as being innumerable. Of course I am connected (even with this medium) to those living in locations across the globe. But Celine is right - that tenuous line is so rare, that when it reverberates, one shouldn't ignore its sound.
best,
l.c.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Letter 9
Dear Josephine,
Reading On the Road is causing me to become an emotional train wreck. In addition, it's causing me to hoard all of my money and live off of yogurt, fruit, pizza, and honey/tea. Why? Because, I'm trying to save money to pay off my credit card bill. These are the ties that bind. I'm desperately seeking other terrains -- this summer I'm going on a road trip to quell this wanderlust/hunger that's driving me crazy.
Do not: mention sands, mountains, rivers, or valleys; sing to me, "do not hasten to bid me adieu"; draw maps and lines that intersect like highways and byways; radios and heat and higher altitudes. Do: whisper Washingtonian summers, dance parties, and metro rails. It's always on my mind.
I need to learn how to drive a manual. I am going to have to find someone to teach me. I need to learn patience. I also need a second job.
Damn finances.
This letter is cynical. I wish you days full of confetti, as I associate those strips of garbage with celebratory evenings and noteworthy success stories.
And yes, I do appreciate your constant support.
always,
l.c.
Reading On the Road is causing me to become an emotional train wreck. In addition, it's causing me to hoard all of my money and live off of yogurt, fruit, pizza, and honey/tea. Why? Because, I'm trying to save money to pay off my credit card bill. These are the ties that bind. I'm desperately seeking other terrains -- this summer I'm going on a road trip to quell this wanderlust/hunger that's driving me crazy.
Do not: mention sands, mountains, rivers, or valleys; sing to me, "do not hasten to bid me adieu"; draw maps and lines that intersect like highways and byways; radios and heat and higher altitudes. Do: whisper Washingtonian summers, dance parties, and metro rails. It's always on my mind.
I need to learn how to drive a manual. I am going to have to find someone to teach me. I need to learn patience. I also need a second job.
Damn finances.
This letter is cynical. I wish you days full of confetti, as I associate those strips of garbage with celebratory evenings and noteworthy success stories.
And yes, I do appreciate your constant support.
always,
l.c.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Letter 8
Dear Josephine,
Okay, okay, stop hasseling me. For my birthday I would like to be credit card debit free. Aside from that, there is one dress I've been dreaming about for weeks:
click here!
In other news, there isn't much to report. I'm attempting to un-stick myself from the glue of placement, but that shouldn't be to difficult. So you know, I'm purposefully being vague.
I've been thinking about bodies and culture, and this quote from Michael Pitt skims the surface of a greater depth of "written" codes:
[On The Dreamers (2003)]: I was nervous for the sex scenes. It's tough for an American actor, because it can be looked upon very badly. It's a serious risk to take in your career. It's risky with the studios and with the American public. It's looked down upon in American culture at a serious level. It could be perceived not as work but as pornography. Every time I was nervous about it, I would remind myself that possibly I was going to be a part of something that was going to change those attitudes. I don't agree with those values at all. It's totally fine showing someone getting their head blown off in America and you can't show the human body. I think that shows something about the culture.
Of course he is right.
Last night I dreamed I was writing a thesis again. I miss those days. If only I could spend my life writing/reading/studying gender/race/literary theory, I think I would be happy. Isn't that always what we are trying to obtain? I've written to you about this before. Of course, paychecks are always part of the sum to survive. Here - broken record. Here - office attire. Here - internal monologues.
What is the sum?
yours,
laura
Okay, okay, stop hasseling me. For my birthday I would like to be credit card debit free. Aside from that, there is one dress I've been dreaming about for weeks:
click here!
In other news, there isn't much to report. I'm attempting to un-stick myself from the glue of placement, but that shouldn't be to difficult. So you know, I'm purposefully being vague.
I've been thinking about bodies and culture, and this quote from Michael Pitt skims the surface of a greater depth of "written" codes:
[On The Dreamers (2003)]: I was nervous for the sex scenes. It's tough for an American actor, because it can be looked upon very badly. It's a serious risk to take in your career. It's risky with the studios and with the American public. It's looked down upon in American culture at a serious level. It could be perceived not as work but as pornography. Every time I was nervous about it, I would remind myself that possibly I was going to be a part of something that was going to change those attitudes. I don't agree with those values at all. It's totally fine showing someone getting their head blown off in America and you can't show the human body. I think that shows something about the culture.
Of course he is right.
Last night I dreamed I was writing a thesis again. I miss those days. If only I could spend my life writing/reading/studying gender/race/literary theory, I think I would be happy. Isn't that always what we are trying to obtain? I've written to you about this before. Of course, paychecks are always part of the sum to survive. Here - broken record. Here - office attire. Here - internal monologues.
What is the sum?
yours,
laura
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Letter 7
Dear Josephine,
Sometimes I think of you as my patron saint. Isn't writing a type of prayer? Tonight a tiny airplane carried me from New York City to Washington. It barreled through the sky as if to say, "yes, I am here, and no, I do not have time to talk I am in a hurry", and we cruised over a cloud landscape that resembled a hiker's snowy terrain and the mountainous volumes in Alaska; although I have never been to Alaska I know this analogy must be true. But the pilot moved the plane so quickly and without much grace and I clutched my seat and mentally stated everything for wish I am thankful. My reasoning was such: I do not want to die, so God (although I can't claim to be "a believer") here are the things in life I appreciate. Is appreciation and recognition a sign of admission? I ended, as perhaps I too often do, dramatically, with a homage to Pandora, for she left us with an allowance for hope. I am fearful of despair.
Going to London made me recognize the importance of expression, how we often forget to express ourselves, how we make routine expressive of our lives. "Today I decided to get a cappuccino instead of drip coffee," seems a rupture in the daily ho-hum, something note-worthy. For the past months I've fallen into this comfortable trap, I've lost the allure and hunger for creativity and a voice. In a London museum I found myself again. On a plane departing from England and destined for America, I dreamed of canvases and primary colors. I dreamed of the clicking of typing and the definition of words. How foolhardy of me to forget this necessity, this will to create.
There were no thorns in this discovery, Anne Sexton, but a finding. Thoreau is always right, it seems.
love,
your laura
Sometimes I think of you as my patron saint. Isn't writing a type of prayer? Tonight a tiny airplane carried me from New York City to Washington. It barreled through the sky as if to say, "yes, I am here, and no, I do not have time to talk I am in a hurry", and we cruised over a cloud landscape that resembled a hiker's snowy terrain and the mountainous volumes in Alaska; although I have never been to Alaska I know this analogy must be true. But the pilot moved the plane so quickly and without much grace and I clutched my seat and mentally stated everything for wish I am thankful. My reasoning was such: I do not want to die, so God (although I can't claim to be "a believer") here are the things in life I appreciate. Is appreciation and recognition a sign of admission? I ended, as perhaps I too often do, dramatically, with a homage to Pandora, for she left us with an allowance for hope. I am fearful of despair.
Going to London made me recognize the importance of expression, how we often forget to express ourselves, how we make routine expressive of our lives. "Today I decided to get a cappuccino instead of drip coffee," seems a rupture in the daily ho-hum, something note-worthy. For the past months I've fallen into this comfortable trap, I've lost the allure and hunger for creativity and a voice. In a London museum I found myself again. On a plane departing from England and destined for America, I dreamed of canvases and primary colors. I dreamed of the clicking of typing and the definition of words. How foolhardy of me to forget this necessity, this will to create.
There were no thorns in this discovery, Anne Sexton, but a finding. Thoreau is always right, it seems.
love,
your laura
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Letter 6
Dear Josephine,
I have to admit - I've been pretty exhausted lately. Black half moons have appeared under my eyes and have taken permanent residence. To combat this unwelcome stay I decided to revolutionize my diet. I've already been getting the now-required 10 hours of sleep per evening, so when I took a "health assessment" quiz I wasn't shocked to read the findings:
a. daily intake of fruit - poor
b. daily intake of veggies - poor
c. alcohol intake - moderate
(everything else, dear Josephine, was fine)
I've already given up c. I realized I was drinking to excess every time beer/liquor/wine touched my lips and my young body does not need that kind of battering. I'm giving up alcohol until I can re-realize my limits, understand my body, feel rejuvenated, and not drink to get trashed.
In response to a and b, this morning I went grocery shopping and bought loads of fruit, veggies, nuts, hummus, and yogurt. I'm going home this evening and throwing out all foods with loads of transfat. I'm actually eating breakfast. I'm taking iron supplements. I know it sounds cheesy to say, but I think change is a brewin'.
Which leads me to topic two. I think it's really a slap-in-the-face when corporate America forces their youngest employees to pay for their groceries by using their credit cards. I mean, don't get me wrong - I have a good job with a decent starting pay, but it's not enough to sustain my standard of living (which I tell you, is not high). Frankly, I wanted to cry today at Trader Joes (which has good cheap produce) when I had to pull out my credit card in order to nourish my body. Yes, I am being dramatic.
I just don't understand how strips of crane paper and cloth can cause so many restless nights. It's caused me to realize that these non-profit jobs my friends tend to gravitate towards that offer mid-twenty salaries are not feasible options (especially when one is living in the city). I think there needs to be a shift in salaries so that starting pay for corporate/non-profit jobs accurately reflect 1.5 times the standard of living as stipulated by the surrounding location. At least 1.5 as let's face it - at least half of all Americans are in some sort-of debt.
To conclude: it does not surprise me that 45% of all American currency produced is the one-dollar bill, nor that it is the most popular "rag" used. Should I be content to know that we haven't started making 50 cent bills?
In response to your question, no I hadn't considered that stance. Let me reflect on it a while longer; I will respond shortly.
Finally, I know there has been literature published on the direct correlation of salary and nutrition, and salary and standard of living (take Nickel and Dimed for example), I just wonder when more people are going to take note.
truly,
l.c.
I have to admit - I've been pretty exhausted lately. Black half moons have appeared under my eyes and have taken permanent residence. To combat this unwelcome stay I decided to revolutionize my diet. I've already been getting the now-required 10 hours of sleep per evening, so when I took a "health assessment" quiz I wasn't shocked to read the findings:
a. daily intake of fruit - poor
b. daily intake of veggies - poor
c. alcohol intake - moderate
(everything else, dear Josephine, was fine)
I've already given up c. I realized I was drinking to excess every time beer/liquor/wine touched my lips and my young body does not need that kind of battering. I'm giving up alcohol until I can re-realize my limits, understand my body, feel rejuvenated, and not drink to get trashed.
In response to a and b, this morning I went grocery shopping and bought loads of fruit, veggies, nuts, hummus, and yogurt. I'm going home this evening and throwing out all foods with loads of transfat. I'm actually eating breakfast. I'm taking iron supplements. I know it sounds cheesy to say, but I think change is a brewin'.
Which leads me to topic two. I think it's really a slap-in-the-face when corporate America forces their youngest employees to pay for their groceries by using their credit cards. I mean, don't get me wrong - I have a good job with a decent starting pay, but it's not enough to sustain my standard of living (which I tell you, is not high). Frankly, I wanted to cry today at Trader Joes (which has good cheap produce) when I had to pull out my credit card in order to nourish my body. Yes, I am being dramatic.
I just don't understand how strips of crane paper and cloth can cause so many restless nights. It's caused me to realize that these non-profit jobs my friends tend to gravitate towards that offer mid-twenty salaries are not feasible options (especially when one is living in the city). I think there needs to be a shift in salaries so that starting pay for corporate/non-profit jobs accurately reflect 1.5 times the standard of living as stipulated by the surrounding location. At least 1.5 as let's face it - at least half of all Americans are in some sort-of debt.
To conclude: it does not surprise me that 45% of all American currency produced is the one-dollar bill, nor that it is the most popular "rag" used. Should I be content to know that we haven't started making 50 cent bills?
In response to your question, no I hadn't considered that stance. Let me reflect on it a while longer; I will respond shortly.
Finally, I know there has been literature published on the direct correlation of salary and nutrition, and salary and standard of living (take Nickel and Dimed for example), I just wonder when more people are going to take note.
truly,
l.c.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Letter 5
Dear Josephine,
Whose to say the Sphinx got it wrong? Well, according to a NYTimes article published back in October, she did. Today there are six stages of life: childhood, adolescence, odyssey, adulthood, active retirement and old age. To cater to this, we must ask Oedipus: how does (wo)man find this journey? Do not, we whisper, tell me about your marriage bed and lapse about the time between the loss and reclaiming of Penelope.
Let's focus (how aptly!) on the stage known as the Odyssey. This stage takes place during one's twenties, where "finding oneself" becomes a pattern of jobs, relationships, and periods of self-doubt. States the NYTimes:
"Through their work, you can see the spirit of fluidity that now characterizes this stage. Young people grow up in tightly structured childhoods, Wuthnow observes, but then graduate into a world characterized by uncertainty, diversity, searching and tinkering. Old success recipes don’t apply, new norms have not been established and everything seems to give way to a less permanent version of itself.
Dating gives way to Facebook and hooking up. Marriage gives way to cohabitation. Church attendance gives way to spiritual longing. Newspaper reading gives way to blogging. (In 1970, 49 percent of adults in their 20s read a daily paper; now it’s at 21 percent.)"
Apparently in this stage, twenty-somethings lead "improvisational lives." I'm telling you, Josephine, scripts would be handy. Take the definition of "improvise":
transitive verb
1 : to compose, recite, play, or sing extemporaneously
2 : to make, invent, or arrange offhand
3 : to make or fabricate out of what is conveniently on hand
intransitive verb
: to improvise something
What is being fabricated? Am I leading my life as though it's a play? I find my actions merit more serious worth.
Anyway, doesn't this all leads back to the motto "life is a journey" (which both fascinates me and triggers my gag reflex)? There has to be a better way to describe this life were living than merely through a series of quantitative terms. Why must everything be mapped out to be understood? Have we all become folders within a larger filing cabinet?
Forgive me, I am in a terrible mood. Anyway, since I'm just beginning these Odyssey years (I'm marking the beginning as graduation from College), I have to admit the NYTimes is on to something. In the short span since graduation, I have become more comfortable and uncomfortable and comfortable again with my "self." Perhaps though, through all of it, I have come closer to understanding what it is I really want. Because I think we all understand ourselves at some level, and the phrase "understanding who we are" always seems to become synonymous or even overshadow the real question - what we want. Isn't that always the hardest question to answer? There are always other factors to consider.
In short, I think the Odyssey years mark the time when there are the least amount of factors that need to be considered when decision-making, so there's more of a drive to understand what one wants. That, in itself, is an exhausting, and contemplative, journey.
sending you love,
l.c.
Whose to say the Sphinx got it wrong? Well, according to a NYTimes article published back in October, she did. Today there are six stages of life: childhood, adolescence, odyssey, adulthood, active retirement and old age. To cater to this, we must ask Oedipus: how does (wo)man find this journey? Do not, we whisper, tell me about your marriage bed and lapse about the time between the loss and reclaiming of Penelope.
Let's focus (how aptly!) on the stage known as the Odyssey. This stage takes place during one's twenties, where "finding oneself" becomes a pattern of jobs, relationships, and periods of self-doubt. States the NYTimes:
"Through their work, you can see the spirit of fluidity that now characterizes this stage. Young people grow up in tightly structured childhoods, Wuthnow observes, but then graduate into a world characterized by uncertainty, diversity, searching and tinkering. Old success recipes don’t apply, new norms have not been established and everything seems to give way to a less permanent version of itself.
Dating gives way to Facebook and hooking up. Marriage gives way to cohabitation. Church attendance gives way to spiritual longing. Newspaper reading gives way to blogging. (In 1970, 49 percent of adults in their 20s read a daily paper; now it’s at 21 percent.)"
Apparently in this stage, twenty-somethings lead "improvisational lives." I'm telling you, Josephine, scripts would be handy. Take the definition of "improvise":
transitive verb
1 : to compose, recite, play, or sing extemporaneously
2 : to make, invent, or arrange offhand
3 : to make or fabricate out of what is conveniently on hand
intransitive verb
: to improvise something
What is being fabricated? Am I leading my life as though it's a play? I find my actions merit more serious worth.
Anyway, doesn't this all leads back to the motto "life is a journey" (which both fascinates me and triggers my gag reflex)? There has to be a better way to describe this life were living than merely through a series of quantitative terms. Why must everything be mapped out to be understood? Have we all become folders within a larger filing cabinet?
Forgive me, I am in a terrible mood. Anyway, since I'm just beginning these Odyssey years (I'm marking the beginning as graduation from College), I have to admit the NYTimes is on to something. In the short span since graduation, I have become more comfortable and uncomfortable and comfortable again with my "self." Perhaps though, through all of it, I have come closer to understanding what it is I really want. Because I think we all understand ourselves at some level, and the phrase "understanding who we are" always seems to become synonymous or even overshadow the real question - what we want. Isn't that always the hardest question to answer? There are always other factors to consider.
In short, I think the Odyssey years mark the time when there are the least amount of factors that need to be considered when decision-making, so there's more of a drive to understand what one wants. That, in itself, is an exhausting, and contemplative, journey.
sending you love,
l.c.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Letter 4
Dear Josephine,
If there was one book that I believe everyone should read, it would be "The History of Sexuality" (vol. 1) by Michel Foucault. However, you should know that I have not read "Invisible Man" by Ellison yet, and that might trump the former publication. I will give you my prognosis upon completion of Ellison's novel. But, unfortunately, this imposed education (which of course, I state with all intended pretentiousness) will never be inflicted - nor really, should it as what one reads is a personal as with whom one chooses to have sex (if one equates "intimacy/personal" with "sex").
Instead, I encourage you to read both novels and tell me your opinion. For now, appease your scholarly curiosity with the poem below. It was the epigraph to my thesis, and I think it accurately summarizes "socialization" and the concept of "identity" (in similar ways to Foucault and Ellison's theses):
Prospero, you are the master of illusion.
Lying is your trademark.
And you have lied so much to me
(lied about the world, lied about me)
that you have ended by imposing on me
an image of myself.
underdeveloped, you brand me, inferior,
That’s the way you have forced me to see myself
I detest that image! What's more, it's a lie!
But now I know you, you old cancer,
and I know myself as well.
– A Translation of the Final Scene in Une Tempete (A Tempest) a play by Aimé Césaire.
Anyway, the narrative that is my life is constantly being re-assessed. I wonder sometimes if everyone would benefit from some sort-of script; then, of course, there would be minimal creativity in personal expression.
In this letter these words create a pattern: personal, identity, socialization, and sex. My conscious most be affected by those corporate valentine's day commercials and victoria secret campaign ads. Yes, I do blame thoughts on cultural/media influences. Why has showing one's "love" for another been equated with the giving of trinkets and things? But more importantly, why is it necessary to show one's love through these means? Why are we always trying to prove things?
I don't have anything else to write this evening. I have spent a day wishing I had not spent others they way I did - but everyone has moments of introspection.
In conclusion, of course I am being foolish. Would you expect anything different?
So much love--
l.c.
If there was one book that I believe everyone should read, it would be "The History of Sexuality" (vol. 1) by Michel Foucault. However, you should know that I have not read "Invisible Man" by Ellison yet, and that might trump the former publication. I will give you my prognosis upon completion of Ellison's novel. But, unfortunately, this imposed education (which of course, I state with all intended pretentiousness) will never be inflicted - nor really, should it as what one reads is a personal as with whom one chooses to have sex (if one equates "intimacy/personal" with "sex").
Instead, I encourage you to read both novels and tell me your opinion. For now, appease your scholarly curiosity with the poem below. It was the epigraph to my thesis, and I think it accurately summarizes "socialization" and the concept of "identity" (in similar ways to Foucault and Ellison's theses):
Prospero, you are the master of illusion.
Lying is your trademark.
And you have lied so much to me
(lied about the world, lied about me)
that you have ended by imposing on me
an image of myself.
underdeveloped, you brand me, inferior,
That’s the way you have forced me to see myself
I detest that image! What's more, it's a lie!
But now I know you, you old cancer,
and I know myself as well.
– A Translation of the Final Scene in Une Tempete (A Tempest) a play by Aimé Césaire.
Anyway, the narrative that is my life is constantly being re-assessed. I wonder sometimes if everyone would benefit from some sort-of script; then, of course, there would be minimal creativity in personal expression.
In this letter these words create a pattern: personal, identity, socialization, and sex. My conscious most be affected by those corporate valentine's day commercials and victoria secret campaign ads. Yes, I do blame thoughts on cultural/media influences. Why has showing one's "love" for another been equated with the giving of trinkets and things? But more importantly, why is it necessary to show one's love through these means? Why are we always trying to prove things?
I don't have anything else to write this evening. I have spent a day wishing I had not spent others they way I did - but everyone has moments of introspection.
In conclusion, of course I am being foolish. Would you expect anything different?
So much love--
l.c.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Letter 3
Dear Josephine,
Yes, I am alive. I am glad you mentioned your understanding of my busy schedule, although of course you're right - I shouldn't neglect you. Please do not fret about a dwindling correspondence, I find little time to write to you as I'm spending my twenty-two year-old days & nights writing flowery poetry and eating chocolate frosting from a plastic container (actually I'm pounding my liver and have begun to frequent: restaurants that specialize in brunch, free! museums).
Yes, I realize it is now 2008; I am not without a daily (technological) calendar and have been forced to sign checks that detail all the months I've paid rent. I have made resolutions, although they are more for my personal growth and not worth sharing. Instead, I have made a list of things I would like to accomplish in 2008. Here:
a. Begin to write poetry again. Try writing form poetry, as it is challenging. Do not write about the familiar.
b. Hone baking skills by making an impressive coconut cream cake and master the art of cupcakes.
c. Make concrete future plans and act on them.
d. Document life through photographs.
e. Take a pottery class.
f. Start tutoring again.
g. Continue art project by adding pages to memory book.
h. Go skydiving.
i. Take a road trip to Mexico.
j. Read at least one book a month.
In regards to j., I have made a detailed list of books I want to read/have been planning on reading for a long time. Currently, George Orwell's dystopian novel 1984 (or shall I say, Winston Smith) is teaching me the values of democracy.
I leave you with a quote I find astounding and it happens to be my gmail "signature": "The question is not what you look at, but what you see," -HDT.
Can't life be summed up entirely in the spaces between those words? Here, meaning is created.
love,
lcs
Yes, I am alive. I am glad you mentioned your understanding of my busy schedule, although of course you're right - I shouldn't neglect you. Please do not fret about a dwindling correspondence, I find little time to write to you as I'm spending my twenty-two year-old days & nights writing flowery poetry and eating chocolate frosting from a plastic container (actually I'm pounding my liver and have begun to frequent: restaurants that specialize in brunch, free! museums).
Yes, I realize it is now 2008; I am not without a daily (technological) calendar and have been forced to sign checks that detail all the months I've paid rent. I have made resolutions, although they are more for my personal growth and not worth sharing. Instead, I have made a list of things I would like to accomplish in 2008. Here:
a. Begin to write poetry again. Try writing form poetry, as it is challenging. Do not write about the familiar.
b. Hone baking skills by making an impressive coconut cream cake and master the art of cupcakes.
c. Make concrete future plans and act on them.
d. Document life through photographs.
e. Take a pottery class.
f. Start tutoring again.
g. Continue art project by adding pages to memory book.
h. Go skydiving.
i. Take a road trip to Mexico.
j. Read at least one book a month.
In regards to j., I have made a detailed list of books I want to read/have been planning on reading for a long time. Currently, George Orwell's dystopian novel 1984 (or shall I say, Winston Smith) is teaching me the values of democracy.
I leave you with a quote I find astounding and it happens to be my gmail "signature": "The question is not what you look at, but what you see," -HDT.
Can't life be summed up entirely in the spaces between those words? Here, meaning is created.
love,
lcs
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