The War Between Us

I meant to write a post on this ages ago but never got around to it because... well, because of reasons. But I saw this Facebook post from my friend and former flute instructor [Mickie] and felt that I should definitely get around to writing this:

Let me give the back story on this: last year, [Mickie] lost her job at the local middle school she'd been working at since I'd first met her (and long before that too). Despite tenure, despite her obvious skill and talent, she lost her job along with my high school band teacher and choir directors. Aside from hating to see such talented people unfairly lose their jobs and having some of the strongest bonds to my hometown cut through, it was another warning sign of what's happening to music programs in the US. One hidden blessing from my failed audition to the School of Music at my university is that I don't have to worry about the difficulties of finding a job in that field, which are scarce and far between, even for people with a lot of experience.

But fortunately for [Mickie], she was able to find another job at a middle school in a nearby town. Sadly, she also lost this job this year due to, what else, budget issues and staff cutbacks. Because the fine arts are "expensive" and reap less benefits to a school district than, say, football, fine arts programs are the first to go.

Also, articles like this don't help. As if "determined by science" could mean anything here.

I hate it when people play the "art vs. science" card. They've been designed to be opposites for ages, even though they got together like peanut butter and Nutella (this is the best thing on the planet. Trust me). Art can't function without science and science can't function without art. Need proof of this? Take a look at your common household plant. Aesthetically, they've very pleasing; artists have been painting still lifes of flowers and plants for many a century. But plants are also scientifically brilliant, with their photosynthesis and fertilization structure. And did you know they can get fevers? (I learned that from a Snapple cap). Point is, there is no reason for anyone to argue that art and science don't work together.

But somewhere, somehow, the philosophy behind these two fields found themselves apposed and now we're in a war between the two of them, staking claims between what can be known and what can't, what is real and what isn't, what can be created and what can't. Really, I think it's all a communication issue. Because I mean, look at this:

http://education.ezinemark.com/most-amazing-science-images-of-2010-77369ad98736.html

This is the gene map of a plant called Arabidopsis. Sweet, right?


Okay, okay, so it's easy to find art in science. But what about science in art? Harder, admittedly, because certain kinds of science have tried to firmly drawn the line between what is actual science and what is... well, not. This was something my research methods class really shoved down our throats, which I think is fascinating considering my favorite parts of psychology are admittedly very unscientific. But look at any painting and you can see how visual perception and geometry and balance play vital roles. Music of course is highly based on physics. And acting... God, acting is a science of itself, doing a case study to figure out how another human being lives and become them on stage or screen.

http://nerdnirvana.org

I could meander on about the importance of arts but there's already this brilliant post on it. So read that, because it's really really good. It's a shame that things like subjects listed on Newsweek's Tumblr are thought of as useless because they were never useless to me. What surprises me are things like philosophy and architecture and history, for God's sake, and political science being useless. Really? Are you kidding me? When we have a million nurses and but no one understands how to communicate with each other or understand where we're coming from, don't say I didn't warn you. We need nurses, yes, but we also need them to understand bedside manner and the way people think and why, sometimes, you just need to sit back and think, "Jesus, a century ago we couldn't remove limbs without being terrified that the patient was going to die of gangrene and now we can do heart transplants. DUDE."

In order to really appreciate science, you need art. In order to really appreciate art, you need science. They aren't art war; they're two sides of the same coin. So stop making them fight - they belong together more than I think we'll ever completely understand. Give our artists and writers and thespians and historians a chance - you never know if they'll win a Nobel prize for physics or find the cure for cancer. And you never know if your med student is going to win a Pulitzer or and Grammy.

http://www.business-strategy-innovation.com/uploaded_images/Art-Science-773522.jpg

Sci-Fi/Fantasy

I have a confession to make. I am a total sci-fi fan.

Most of you probably already knew this. Or maybe you didn't. I did, I just never fully realized this until we watched Star Trek and Firefly in my television class. And I saw Thor with my parents (Oh. My. God. That movie was fantastic. Considering that Thor is the Avenger I know the least about, I was totally pleased and ecstatic about it).

http://www.comingsoon.net/

I think part of my lack of realization about this interest is that I was never really good at paying attention to genre. Did I care if there were spaceships and aliens intermingling with an interesting plot line? No, but it was certainly a nice perk. It has recently occurred to me that not everyone grew up watching Star Trek with their father and discussing how it capitulates the deeper philosophies of life. Not all kids read Tuck Everlasting 20 times in elementary school (this book is sci-fi/fantasy. A family that can live forever? Of course it is!) And a lot of people probably didn't read The Hobbit at age 10 and think it was fantastic but not actually understand what was going on until much later. Yes, I know that book is written more for children. Yes, I know that it shouldn't be that hard to understand. But I was terribly distracted by trying to fathom what a hobbit was because I'd never heard of them before. I was also ten and just because I had a good vocabulary didn't mean I was good at understanding plots (much to my dismay, my friend [X] read The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings ridiculously young and knows a ridiculous amount about anything Tolkein. I don't know how she know is all... probably because she read The Silmarillion ages ago and I'm just now getting to it. Regardless, it's a little hard to talk about it with her because it ends up sort of insulting to intelligence. Just because I've been a bit slow on the uptake).

http://www.startrek.com/

I admit that I'm not familiar with sci-fi/fantasy that isn't pretty mainstream. I haven't read Dune, I haven't read Mercedes Lackey (like my "real" fantasy literature-reading friends). I also fail to clearly articulate the differences between science fiction and graphic novels, as expressed by my inclusion of Thor in this discussion. But it came to my attention during discussions of sci-fi shows in my television class that some people don't even like the mainstream stuff. Aliens weird some people out. Hurtling through space and time makes them uncomfortable. Discussion of faeries interwoven into modern day city-life gets looks of confusion. For some reason, I know way too much about pookas. And then I begin to realize that I did not learn this stuff in school, I didn't even learn it on TV. I learned it from reading a very particular sub-genre of books. One not everyone encounters.

My initial reaction was this:

(Oh, no; I just had this great and terrible vision of the rest of my life being comprised of nothing but lines of dialogue from Sherlock.)

But then it struck me why so many people might shy away from sci-fi/fantasy. To be honest, sometimes I do as well. And that's because of the Sy Fy channel and B movies. They have a lot of badly made, awkward sci-fi. If all you know about science fiction was that, you'd shy away from it too. Fortunately for me, I never saw Sy Fy channel until I was a teenager, so I was saved the trauma of having that as my first experiences with the genre.

I can understand why sci-fi may not be everyone's cup of tea; it takes some suspension of belief and an acceptance that weird shit may and can happen. After reading Phillip K. Dick, I accept that I like this. That fact that I was enjoying Radio Free Albemuth and not totally confused out of my mind I think shows that I've just developed a different taste for things that other people may not necessarily have. On that note, I'm going to go geek out about the new Star Trek movie and enjoy reading people's bets on who the villain will be.

Reflections on Tea

[Львица] and I were watching American Psycho on Saturday night and, weirdly enough, one little dialogue bit about Sri Lanka gave me sudden deja vu.

I was suddenly reminded of a place called the Tea Room, in my old hometown of Columbus, Indiana. It was in the basement of this old hotel downtown that was either 1910 - 1920s or 1930 -1940s style that my girl scout troupe went to for one reason or another one sunny afternoon. I'd never had tea before and I was worried that I wouldn't like it because I expected it to be really bitter like coffee. But I really wanted to like it because I liked the whole idea of drinking tea - I'd had a plastic tea set that I played with a million times when I was six and seven (which probably helped influence my obsession with Britain). So I was hoping beyond hope that I would enjoy real tea - not just the milky water I'd made before.

science.howstuffworks.com/innovation/edible-innovations/tea

The tea was from Sri Lanka, I distinctly remember our host telling us this and showing us where on the map it's located (ever since, Sri Lanka has held a certain sort of charm with me). We were served raspberry tea in this elegant little tea pot along with little cookies (or do you call them biscuits? :D) and I think - I think - cucumber sandwiches.

The tea was the most fabulous thing I'd ever tasted on earth. I have tried to find a raspberry tea that tasted as good as what I had that day, but I've been unable to find anything that could compare. It wasn't too sweet or fruity or too bland or too... anything. It was absolutely perfect. I fell in love with tea that day - and the whole culture and art associated with tea drinking - and I've never looked back.

Another thing I learned that day was that I have an odd affinity for certain time periods - the Victorian Era, the 1910 through 1940s. There's just something about that style, the history, the clothes - EVERYTHING - that just draws me in. Even as a ten year old, I was wandering around that hotel, peering into one of the rooms they showed us, just wanting to live there, to become a part of it. Maybe this is why time travel interests me so much - because I have all these little qualities, all these little fascinations with other time periods built up in my mind, and seeing them brought to life in literature, in film, etc, utterly enchants me.

On a sadder note, while trying to find photos of the Tea Room, one website said that it is now closed :( Just like so many of the other things I loved about Columbus. Alas... Thankfully, there are many tea rooms around (especially one I long to go to in Glasgow, but didn't have the chance while I was there) and I can easily enjoy tea in my own kitchen (as I'm doing now). But it will never be as magical as that first taste, that first cup in the Tea Room.

To Myself, In the Future

Hello Future Me,

I certainly hope that, wherever you are in space in time, that it is not in a little apartment infested by centipedes and mice. Or some place worse. I have decided to write this little post because I feel suddenly struck by a fear of making mistakes that are not worth making - not the good sort. And I would like to try to provide you with a source of some perhaps helpful advice in lieu of the insanity that certainly lies ahead.

First off, I have no idea what you will be doing in general. Hopefully it will not involve being a hobo. Regardless, whatever it is, do it with passion. Don't give in to doing something safe just because you know you can do it. TRY NEW THINGS. The worse that can happen is that you will fail, and we both are plenty familiar with that.

I will never be this cool. But goddamn, I can try.

Of course, I'm going to bring up relationships. If you remember, I'm on the edge between being a full-blown romantic and a nihilistic hermit. So, I'm hoping things are a little more steady on your end. If you're queen of the Ryan Gosling Swagger (à la Crazy Stupid Love), kudos. If things suck, keep a stiff upper lip. Remember what it was like to not understand love, to not even have any experience with it. To wonder why you saw so few relationships work out, why everything seems so simple, until you become part of one. I know I sound down about it all but I'm just showing - you knew more than you thought you did. Don't sweat it; it'll work out. I believe it will.

If by some strike of fate you find yourself in a long-term relationship, don't take it for granted. Just don't. And if by some terrible, incredible miracle you have children, remember not to be too hard on them when they act up. Growing up is tough - it might seem long ago, but I remember it pretty well. It's brilliant and brutal. And whatever your kids do, you probably did once too. Don't blame them too much for their mistakes, economic troubles, mistakes you made. They'll listen... maybe too well.

Wherever you're living, I hope it feels like home. I know when you were younger, you likened yourself to a turtle - adaptable, movable, able to fit in anywhere. Know that I'm glad you had that adaptability but that you shouldn't be afraid to put down roots. No one belongs here more than you.

Fresh off a 21st birthday, I had some crummy feelings in the days shortly before. It got me worried, it got me thinking. I hope you're strong and confident - I hope that I'm establishing that now. I hope you still have a warm fuzzy feeling for sci-fi shows and Broadway plays, and a penchant for shortbread, Earl Grey tea and Nutella. But most of all, I hope you look back at all of this and don't regret a thing.

Live Life Longer with Science, Part II

Found this opinion article in the Minnesota Daily today: Age is a disease.

As my professor Robin always says, "I love it when life hands me exactly what I'm looking for." Indeed this was the case today.

Oh, college newspapers... you always have such interesting articles. Especially ones that take concepts expressed in Hollywood films and connects them to real life. I feel torn between this article. I mean, obviously, the writer makes an interesting point. But I just can't align myself to his way of thinking. Age just a disease? Maybe I'm being too fatalistic here, but I don't think you can avoid death. I'm not so sure you should.

Don't get me wrong - I'm as terrified of dying as the next person. But something in the back of my head clamors about Doctor Frankenstein and playing God and that maybe science can go too far. But other species die. All animals die. Why are we the ones to change it? I'm not saying there couldn't be an answer to this... but it just seems difficult to overcome.

I guess what fascinates me most about this article is that it deals with senescence ("the accumulation of damage to a person's body over time," the writer describes). Which, in my novel attempt, that's exactly what the people who become immortal have lost - their bodies no longer age and they remain where they are, "a fixed point in time and space," I believe are the words Doctor Who would use. It's an interesting, double-edged sword, both wonderful and terrible. Living forever would be great - or would it? The novel Tuck Everlasting shows other wise and Doctor Who and Torchwood certainly shows the downsides. And the writer of this article engages a debate with the movie In Time's approach to dealing with over-population. But could the solution to curing diseases like cancer and Alzheimer's really be found through such a route as dealing with senescence? Is that really the best path to take?


And thus the debate continues...

Live Life Longer with Science

Holy Crap... this blows my mind... Signs of Aging Halted in the Lab.

This is at the Mayo Clinic, not that far away from me. They've developed something that slows down aging in mice, which is pretty remarkable, to say the least. It's weird, and crazy and... wow. I didn't think anything like this would be... well, created in my life time. Yes, it's just in the lab... but still.

It's just... complicated. After immersing myself in ideas of life, death, immortality and all that jazz while writing my story about time travel, something like this could be the best thing and the most awful thing in the world. Something to keep an eye on, that's for sure.

Join Us at the Ghost Post

I had the weirdest of feelings today. I was walking around the medical part of campus, around Moos Tower and the area where all the hospitals and medical buildings are, near Washington Avenue where they're putting in the light rail. I was walking across this stone courtyard and out of nowhere, I thought I heard the dinging of the bell on the light rail when it departs from the station. Except that that was impossible. Because the light rail isn't there yet.

Oh my God, I thought to myself. I just heard the future. It was a weird, wibbly-wobbly time moment. Most likely it was a hallucination in my weird old brain. But who knows...

Speaking of the future, [Львица] and I decided that pans with regenerative Teflon would be something we'd like to see in the future. That way, when you burn something in it, the pan isn't screwed for life.

Today overall has been a rather odd day. I had no Italian class this morning, just an oral exam, so I did my homework and spent my time walking around the river, looking at the foliage and taking in the fall atmosphere. I don't know why, but today just feels... mysterious. Consciousness of the date aside, it really does just feel - spooky.

Perhaps in part because of the weird dream I had last night. I dreamed that I was on the Scotland trip, in Stirling, looking at "the Guy Fawkes house." One - Guy Fawkes has nothing to do with Scotland or Stirling. Two - I'm not so sure they'd have a house to commemorate him, even in York where he's from. Three - Stirling did not look like Stirling in my dream. Although the painting of Guy Fawkes that was there actually did look like him. And I seemed to remember that he's also known as Guido. Weird.

Also, I think I had a dream about [novel killer] and Desperate Housewives, but I don't remember any of it. Except that I got into some epic suburban housewife fight with her.

So there you go. This post has no point. Except for this - Happy Halloween!

Keanu Reeves... is a vampire?!

So somebody in my Italian class brought this up today (because we clearly weren't doing anything important, not without an instructor there):

Keanu Reeves is a vampire.

Thank God for Tumblr. I don't know what I did without it (had a lot harder time of finding photos and shit, that's what).

So all because of this painting of a French actor from the 1800s whose body was never found, Reeves has joined the ranks of time-traveling Travolta and undead Nicholas Cage. More celebrities looking like people who are supposed to be dead. Where did this phenomenon come from?!

I don't know... but I'm digging it. Gives me something bizarre to blog about right before Halloween. By the way, Keanu Reeves, if you really are a vampire, can you and vampire Nicholas Cage make Twilight stop? 'Kay, thanks.

As I Lay Dying

I finished reading Faulkner's As I Lay Dying yesterday, while sitting in this little study hall/ cafeteria that reminds me of my father's alma mater. I got this cool, intellectual feeling sitting there, letting Faulkner's prose flow over me, and began thinking about how much death has come up in my thoughts this month. I don't mean to be overly morbid, but it HAS been a common theme. For one, I'm writing a book about people who can't die. You can see how it would be a common musing. For another, it's the month of All Hallow's Eve and growing closer to Dìa de los Muertos - Day of the Dead. Again, a common theme. Also, people I admire keep dying. And it's terribly depressing.

First it was Steve Jobs (I think I'm still grieving about that, actually. Is that weird? Probably, yes...). And then this weekend during an Indy race, English driver Dan Wheldon died in an accident. This might surprised you that I am a racing fan (only the Indy Series; my parents and I watched NASCAR when I was younger because we used to live in Columbus, IN where Tony Stewart is from, but I don't like NASCAR much. For various reasons that aren't important right now). My fav driver in the series is Dario Franchitti, but I really like Wheldon too - he seemed like such nice, friendly guy. Something I love about the Indy Series over NASCAR is that they seem better able to keep their cool and less... I don't know, Hollywood. They seem more down to earth. And I really respect people like Wheldon who can drive a car like that and be really damn good at it. It's just so sad how he died - something about racing accidents just haunt me. Well, car accidents in general, but especially racing ones. I remember seeing Dale Earnheardt's fatal wreck on TV when I was 10 - it was one of the first NASCAR races I watched too. There's something scarring and terrible about seeing such a terrible wreck on TV with your own eyes, then finding out later that you witnessed a fatal accident. I can't imagine what it was like to actually be at the track... that sort of thing would haunt me for a long time.

And to continue this parade of macabre, my college band is playing a Bach piece titled, "Come Sweet Death." To really get us into the mood of the piece (I think I've got the mood down enough, thank you very much) our director had us rehearse it once with the light dimmed. It was totally eerie and chilling, even if we as a group didn't sound as good as this choir. It's just... grim. I mean, it's more about life after death than just death... but still,  it's a momento mori - a reminder of that death is inevitable.

And because I'm a freak, I get reminded of Captain Jack Harkness every time I play this song (okay, if you want to get to the real passion of a piece about seeking release from pain and looking for solace in the afterlife, but is still a really dark, angst-ridden, tormented song, what better way to illustrate this than our dear Torchwood leader who can't ever die. Even after being blown up - yeah, just saw that in season 3. Holy shit, dude. Holy shit). And to top it all off, I had NO IDEA that Owen and Tosh were going to die at the end of Season 2 and now I'm all pissed off about that and THEN Wikipedia ruined the end of season 3 for me by telling me that Ianto dies and now I just want to crawl in a hole because I freaking love Ianto AND WHAT THE HELL, TORCHWOOD WRITERS WHY ARE YOU KILLING EVERYONE?!

Look, I take my sci-fi TV very seriously, apparently (I got really into Buffy freshman year. I mean, I had a dream that [mind ninja] and I were killing vampires. It was terrifying) and I'm terribly saddened that Ianto is going to die within the next three episodes. And it's just another reminder of our eventual lack of control, that we can't help the fact that we die. And it is terribly, terribly hard to deal with. Nay, impossible.

Yet, somehow, Faulkner makes me feel better. Not that he is comforting - he's really not, with his gritty, complex, grim ideas. But he's honest. And I like that. He doesn't always make complete sense. But neither does life. He wonderfully captures the difficulties of living, of dying, of grieving. And somehow, he makes it sort of beautiful. The same way Bach does with his tragic piece. The way momento moris are - great and terrible and beautiful. I guess what I like about all these things is that they articulate the mystery - the unknown. The fact that we don't know why things happen the way they do, why death is a necessary part of life, why it is so hard to deal with, why we think about death while other creatures don't, why accidents happen, why people like Wheldon and Jobs die too soon. We just don't know. And there's something comforting to know that we as individuals are not the only ones who think about this; it's a sort of strange way of uniting us socially, to know that we worry about the same things, that we are not completely alone. Perhaps thinking about death is important, a way of reminding us that time is limited, that people are important in our lives. Maybe I'm not really being morbid. Maybe I'm just being human.

Hipster Time Traveler?

 So while trying to plan a Halloween costume and doing research for a writing project (*cough,* not school writing, fictional writing) I stumbled across this article: Time Traveler Caught in Museum Photo?

Here's the gist: apparently, a photo in a museum in British Columbia shows a guy at a bridge reopening in the 1940s who just... doesn't quite fit in.

Mr. Sunglasses there just kind of stands out once you see him.

However, the article does explain how his clothes aren't as anachronistic as we'd like to think. And that this could be a hoax. So all it really proves is that there were hipsters in the 1940s.

How about that.

However, there are apparently people out there who claim to be time travelers. Like this guy named Andrew Carlssin, who claimed to be from 2256. And a John Titor, who's name actually came up online amongst my searching (and whom I must find more about...) who's part of online forums discussing time travel. Which he claims he does.

Which leaves me two ideas:

1) Write about time traveling for my senior paper. Interview John Titor. Write a ground-breaking book about our fascination with the past and the future.

or...

2) Start blogging as a time traveler. Become famous. Write a ground-breaking book about our fascination with the past and the future.

Clearly I'm not going to do #2, as I just gave it away. And it would be dishonest. But regardless, this is something I'm going to have to look into more. I don't care if it's fake; it's a cultural phenomenon, and I'm intrigued. Besides, deep deep down we all know I just want to work for X Files or Doctor Who/ Torchwood or something. And this is as close as I'm going to get.

So, onwards! Time for me to dive into some interweb forums and start perusing the unexplainable. And finding weird shit. Lots and lots of weird shit.

Vampire Nicholas Cage, Time Traveling, and Other Stuff I Wish Was Real

My dad sent this to me sometime ago and I've been meaning to post this but kept forgetting: "Time-Traveler" cell phone likely a 1924 Hearing Aid. So apparently this can be easily debunked, but watch the video from the guy, claiming that a person who appears in extended footage from a Charlie Chaplin movie on DVD is a time traveler (it's in the CBS article but I'll post it here for convenience):

So maybe it actually is a hearing aid, but who knows... it kind of looks like an iPhone if you ask me... And people at that time would NOT be that comfortable around video cameras. But then again, I love this kind of shit. Random time traveler caught on video camera footage? Of COURSE I want to believe it's possible.

I thought of this because of what I came across today on Twitter: apparently, there's this photo going around of a guy from the 1800s who looks exactly like Nicholas Cage. A guy was trying to sell it on E-bay, claiming it proves Cage is a vampire. Decide for yourself.

It looks kind of photoshopped and as I was looking for it online, someone mentioned that it was already debunked. Dammit.  C'mon, would it not be super awesome if the star of Ghost Rider was a VAMPIRE?

Clearly I don't have a very good grip on reality. Actually, I think I just like considering the idea of reality to be very flexible. It doesn't help that last night I dreamed I was meeting up with a study group on campus and we got attacked by weevils and Torchwood showed up. And I got sprayed in the face with weevil repellant. Right. Moving on...

And to top it all off, apparently this photo makes John Travolta look like at time traveler.

What the hell, why not...

Let's Talk

Dear [X],

I know you don't read this blog, but if you by chance you do, let's just come clean here and now. You called me last night with the intentions of talking to me about some issues I won't discuss here (you asked me not to mention it to anyone; I'm trying not to but easier said than done, you must know). The only problem is: I caused those issues. I did. You SAID the things you don't remember saying, and I told the parties involved that you said them. Why? Because I thought you meant it. You seemed serious. But now you don't even recall saying it, ever, to anyone. Are you really that flippant about what you say about your friends? Are the conversations we had together really that forgettable?

I don't know why you call me to discuss these sorts of things. I really don't. Do you expect me to tell you that you're wrong, that you don't sound like a bitch sometimes and that people always misjudge you? I can't let you play the victim; I don't want to pity you. You put me in the middle of something that shouldn't have sides and it's very difficult for me to deal with. You expect me to agree with you on everything, but I don't. I never did. I don't know what you want from me. I DIDN'T cause these problems. And if you know that I told someone something that you didn't want repeated, how was I supposed to know it was secretive if you don't remember saying it in the first place? If you're trying to subliminally cause me to feel guilty, I refuse to. Yes, I do have a tremendous ability to blame myself for things I didn't do - don't use it against me.

This isn't even a problem with the people whom you've had issues with. This isn't because of [Львица] or [mind ninja] or even [the artist] or [shortage of perfect breasts]. This is because of you. I don't mean this as blame; I mean this because you're insecure with yourself, you're worried anytime anyone says something bad about you, you can't seem to understand that the things you say HURT people. I know that - I'm hurting you right now. But whenever anyone calls you out on something, you never stand by it. You never defend what you say. You just give in and get upset. Maybe you should explain WHY you think the things you do. Because if you can at least defend your ideas, people will be less likely to hold it against you; they'll see that they disagree. But when you just give in, you make yourself feel worse, you make them feel worse and you cause more misunderstanding. I've done it in the past, I KNOW how this plays out. That's why I'm trying to be honest with you now, even if it's only starting here, in a place you don't know exists. I have to be cruel to be kind.

Here is the sad, unfortunate, brutal truths of the world: people are going to dislike you. People are going to see the world differently than you and you may not like what they see. People are going to say hurtful things about you. Especially if you say things that can be taken badly first. Words can be beautiful and dangerous tools - we should know; we're writers.

I cannot help you any more than that. I don't know how to tell you that things have changed between us, that we aren't as close as we used to be, that I'm not the same person that I was four years ago. I don't know how to do this without pushing you away. It'd be easier if we'd both excepted the changes and just moved on. But if told you the truth, you'd just cling to the present, to all the great and terrible things I've said. It's an issue with time and opinion we've got here, but I have to make myself clear: I believe what I believe. If we disagree, we disagree. And we're going to have to accept that maybe our differences set us apart now. Maybe it's time to go.

This doesn't mean I think you are a bad person, or that I don't like you or that I don't in some way still consider you a friend. It just means that I don't know you anymore. I'm not really sure you know yourself. The girl I went to high school with would never have been called the things people said about her. So the fact that people are makes me doubt you as much as you seem to doubt people's recollections of events. I can't defend you if I don't know you. And I won't defend you anymore. I'm busy trying to defend myself from other events that have erupted in my life. You need to learn STRENGTH, dear [X]. It isn't easy, it isn't pleasant, but it's the only way. If you can't believe in yourself, what can you possibly believe?

I can't tell you how to do this, [X], anymore than I can tell you how to resolve the weirdness we're now facing. I've stated my opinion enough here. And now, it's time to hear yours. We're going to disagree, but it's the only way we can possibly find understanding, the only way to get through to each other.

But I can't make that decision. It's up to you now.

Friday Night Paint Fight

A NOTE TO [Львица]: Sorry that there's random shit in here I didn't tell you about as to why I was uncomfortable. It didn't hit me until I was thinking it out. I'm not trying to cover up stuff, I just didn't realize that THAT'S why something was bugging me.

Anyway, continuing for on for the rest of you...

So [Львица], [The Question] and I went to a "paint party" called Dayglo at a joint called Epic on Friday night. I really had no idea what to expect - I must confess, other than a little trip to the Gay 90s on an empty Thursday night last year, I've never been clubbing. At all.

I'd say this event totally made up for it. I spent half of Friday  trying to figure out what to wear. The dress code was supposed to be white shirt, all white if possible, but blue jeans were okay. It's incredible how little white I have in my wardrobe - I actually had to borrow a shirt from [Львица] as all of mine were dress shirts and thus not paintable. The club wasn't strict about the rule but everyone was mostly in white. This was to allow for the full affect of the paint to take hold. See, what happens is everyone gathers on the dance floor and the DJ plays music and, after like an hour and a half of being in the club, you get paint squirted at you, in this weird meshing of several different art forms. It's pretty cool and it was a major life tile experience. Except for one, little tiny problem...

See how dedicated I am? Blogging while still covered in paint :D

Okay, two. Or three. I'm such a schmuck, making something as epic as this sounds grounded in my reality. But you want my take? Here it is. I like dancing - I'm not the best at it, but I do like it. However, I'm not a fan of how in clubs, you never have room to move without being on the edges and then it's just awkward. This was that to the extreme. At the beginning it was totally fine, we had lots of room. Then, as more people came in and pushed forward, we were slowly being squeezed in a vice-like fashion to the front. I escaped to the back for some fresh air, ran into [The Question] and regrouped with [Львица] Then it was back to the dance floor for the same process - more vice-like squeezing, this time with some guy trying to dance with me, which I was cool with at first. DISCLAIMER: I HAVE NEVER ACTUALLY DANCED WITH A GUY BEFORE. Unless you would count the uber gay guy who attacked me at a Halloween dance last year. And that was more dancing around each other.  I guess I should mention that little fact since I didn't realize it until just now. Well, another life experience made. And what follows is definitely an experience.

This guy starts dancing with me and I'm fine with it until all of the sudden he leans forwards, sniffs my hair or something, then licks the back of my neck. I realize now that, even if he'd been someone I knew, even if I'd know what he looked like, even if I HAD wanted him to do that, I probably still would have been freaked out. I just don't like people touching my neck - unless I really, REALLY trust them. God knows why; I tend to forget until people touch me my neck without asking and then I flip out (like a friend of mine from high school, [uber gay] used to pretend to strangle me - don't ask - and one day I just tweaked out). Great little imbedded phobia there. So, needless to say, having a random stranger repeatedly lick my neck was not cool. I started to push his hands away and then he grabbed on - hard - and tried to do the same thing again. So then I shoved his hands away and tried to flee, positioning myself near [Львица] and [The Question]. That worked at least. Until another guy came along later and aggressively tried to dance with me, but by this time I was sick of people touching me and I moved away. I realize that this is partly due to the fact that  "Aunt Flo is visiting" and any touching below the waist is totally unwanted. And I had a really unsettling dream the night before to put that sort of thing in a bad light (I won't make you suffer the details; it was creepy, moving on). But also, there is a difference between putting your hands on my waist and putting your hands on that area where my legs meet my torso (whatever the anatomical word might be). Yeah. So, my feeling that men are pig right now is not totally without reason (obviously not true, but I'm worn a bit thin, so bear with me).

Then the REALLY intense mosh pit began, where I fell and got pulled up by my some very kind girls, got my face squished between two bros' shoulder blades (dude, there were a lot of bros there. There were so many bros that they had to dance with each other, I swear) and lost an earring (the second one in a week. Damn it!) Then I got the weight of at least two quarterbacks forced on me as people swayed backwards and forwards in this... well, mob, basically. A big, sweaty, music-obsessed mob. A big sweaty mob that carried a man dressed as an alien in a plastic ball across the crowd (that was pretty incredible; the ball went right over my head). Then I got splattered with paint - which was SWEET - the wet, gluey-kindergardeny smell of the paint sweeping across my face in bold neon pinks and blues as music thundered in my ears and people cheered. Then I fell over and got crushed by people which was NOT SWEET as I had to scream at them until they got up off of me. But I did get the proud honor of walking through downtown Minneapolis with paint smeared across my face, watching the cops slug a guy who was harassing them, studying the long lines of people filing into clubs and seeing [Львица] get mistaken for Kate Winslet (by a possibly drunk man, but nonetheless, an easy mistake to be made :D). Go to paint parties - people will mistake you as someone famous. It can happen.

I fought aliens with Kate Winslet. Win!

Now my body is aching, I can feel the parts in my back that got twisted in weird directions and had weight forced upon them that I couldn't support. I still smell the faint scent of paint lingering in my nose. It wasn't an AWESOME party - it needed WAY MORE PAINT. And more space. Then it would have been fricken amazing. I did have fun and it was definitely and experience. I guess going to events like that just makes me feel like a freak, because I'm not really into clubbing, I'm not into huge parties. I'm not that sort of college kid, and I guess some people think I'm not really experiencing college if I don't go and do that shit. Well, I went and did it. But it's just not... ME. I totally support the people who can whip out on the dance floor and tear the place up. It isn't that I don't feel secure enough with my body to dance, it's that I don't feel RIGHT dancing there. It's like my body wasn't built for those sort of moves - I don't have super curves, my arms hate getting involved, I'm super short. I'm just stubbornly old school - I like swing, tango, waltz - ballroom dancing. I swear I got time warped out of the 1940s or something. I also don't know how to deal with guys like those at the club. I want guys to take the lead, but not to force their tongue on the back of my neck. At least I'm strong enough to push them away - but how someone could put up with that if they didn't want it is beyond me. It was DISGUSTING - and the dude totally needed to shave. In short, I guess I don't feel like myself there. Which makes me feel bad. [Львица] really likes clubbing and she doesn't know anyone who she'd feel comfortable going with. But I feel like I don't know anyone who doesn't want to go clubbing. That's the "college" thing to do - where girls meet guys, where you stay up on hip pop culture stuff. And by not going to that, I feel like I'm missing out on so much.

But college isn't the same for everyone. It's can't be. We were just talking about in my psychology class how we overestimate things, like how many of our peers drink or how many people do certain things. I suppose the people who go to clubs are just more talkative about it than the people who maybe go swing dancing or just go for a pint at the bar. Or maybe it just sounds more exciting and so the clubbing people are more apt to share it than the people who just had a night dancing to big band. I don't know. All I know is that I shouldn't feel like a freak for having these opinions, and yet I still kind of do. Alas, my own weirdness confounds me. But there were elements to clubbing that I liked - the feeling of the bass reverberating in the toes of my shoes, the synchronous movements as everyone on the dance floor moved in the same way, the appearance that I had just fought aliens as I walked home with paint smeared across my face. There are parts of it there that I like, but too much of it feels... not accessible or understandable to me. But that's culture - there's parts I'll understand, and parts I won't. And the parts that don't fascinate me in their own way.

CSI: Victorian London

I saw this story in my local paper: Is Scotland Yard guarding Jack the Ripper Secrets? Which I followed up with a story from the LA Times: The Cold, Cold Case of Jack the Ripper.

Ah, yes. The classic, creepy, uncertain story of Jack the Ripper is back in the headlines. I was hoping from some follow-up on BBC to, you know, explain why Scotland Yard might not want to release information. Something more than: "laying everything bare would violate its confidentiality pledge to informants, even those long dead, and undermine recruitment in the present-day fight against terrorism and organized crime. Naming names might even put the snitches' descendants at risk of revenge by the heirs of those who were informed on." Unless the murderer was Al-Qaeda or a mob, I'm not really understanding the terrorism part - some more explanation would be nice, guys. But the issue with the informants, putting their decendents at risk.... Hmm...

You know what this screams? Conspiracy theory time.

I won't lie - as a psychology major, mystery lover and quasi-CSI fan, the Jack the Ripper case has always been interesting to me, as grisly as it is. But most of the theories sounds sort of, well, weak. It was a mad butcher, it was a doctor, it was some German sailor? (that's the claim mentioned in the L.A. Times). But if we're talking that the heirs of the murderer have the ability to threaten the informants, that:

A) This makes it sound like Scotland Yard already knows who the murderer is

B) This makes the murderer sound like he (or she, I should stop assuming serial killers are always men, though the statistics are in that favor) was pretty high-off in society (by mentioning heirs, it almost sounds like we're talking about traceable family here. And the wealthy have better historical records than the poor). Not to mention revenge tends to takes time and the urge to keep ones name honorable.

C) It seems like Scotland Yard WANTS to release this information, but feels threatened in some way (especially if they think the heirs are capable of revenge). But maybe I'm reading too much into this.
 

I'm not clear-thinker on this case; I love hearing the wild theories that people come up with. My personal favorite happens to come from a movie (and a comic book, apparently) From Hell. The movie itself is kind of bizarrely done, but theory, I think, is fascinating. It basically theorizes that Prince Albert, Queen Victoria's grandson, had an illegitimate child with a Catholic shop girl. Because England is Protestant, having a child who would now be the heir to the throne and is also common born, illegitimate AND Catholic would be about as scandalous as you could get in the Victorian era. Fearing blackmail from the girl's friends and family, the Freemasons (I know, right? When in doubt, it's the Masons) get involved to cover-up the events. And one crazy member kills off all the girls (who happen to be prostitutes) who are friends of the shopgirl.

That's kind of a rough summary and probably not quite right (it's been a while since I've seen it) but the Prince Albert idea is interesting. Note: I AM NOT SAYING THE BRITISH ROYAL FAMILY IS INVOLVED WITH THE JACK THE RIPPER KILLINGS.  I am simply saying that it does seem rather curious and that it WOULD explain the threat of revenge, reasons for Scotland Yard to stay mum, threats to informants, etc. However, I have ZERO EVIDENCE.  I'm not a detective, I'm not a cop, I'm not even a historian with access to records to even give support to this idea. I'm just a blogger making wild speculations. And what wild speculations they are...

Better idea: let's start a TV series that sends CSI back in time. Better yet, they should do a Doctor Who/ Torchwood episode about Jack the Ripper. That's right up their alley, I wonder what they're take would be...

Alright, enough crazy conspiracy theories for the day. Time to start the weekend off right - with a paint party.

For a friend on the day of their major declaration

[Львица], this one's for you. Congratulations :D

Sleep, stupidity and other manipulatible variables

I had another one of those dreams again. The shitty ones. It's amazing how painful and vivid they can be when they're not even real.

I don't remember most of it, I just remember being at this dorm or hostel or garage sale - SOMEWHERE - and being upset because [No-Mr-Darcy] hadn't spoken to me in three months or something (actually, it has been three months. Nice job at doing math, subconscious). I was complaining to [X] I believe and then [No-Mr-Darcy] turned up  and had some valid excuse for not talking to me or something. Then he asked me out for coffee and I felt bad for ever doubting him.

Which is totally fictional. He's never even tried to contact me. So why do I keep having this stupid-ass dreams?

It's the sort that of dream that sticks with you throughout the day, that pops up at random times then suddenly disappears, only to come back at the end of the day when you're all relaxed and you can't remember why you were stressed out earlier. The sort you don't know if you want to talk about because it's so vague and airy but you feel tempted to do so anyway, just to get it off your chest.

I know I said I was going to stop talking about [No-Mr-Darcy] about a million times already. I mean, how do I have the right to be so beat up over someone I hardly know? And yet my subconscious won't give me a break. Every other week it's like this now. And I think I know why.

I keep debating whether I should ask [X] if she's talked to [No-Mr-Darcy] at all. If he's mentioned me, shown the slightest inkling in wondering if I still exist. But I'm afraid of what the answer might be. If he hasn't asked about me, it shows he doesn't care in the slightest. If he does ask about me, he probably thinks it's my fault that things didn't work out. And there's no easy way to bring this up in conversation with [X] (which is limited anyway) without sounding desperate or conniving or just plain weird. Or thinking that I still care for him.

Do I still care for him? I can't say yes, I can't say know. It's limbo all over again. Thus I haven't mentioned any of this to [X] at all. But now I think it's beginning to wear at me. I have to know, even if it tears me apart.
 
Really, what difference would it make if I knew? None. It's not like I really feel up to trying to work things out or anything. It's not like he probably does either. I guess I just want this little uncertainty erased, to see if I can regain any of my pride. To see if I'm owed any sympathy. I don't really know what I want. But it certainly wants something from me. Else my subconscious wouldn't be fixating on it so.

And yet, at the same time, I feel like I'm waiting for something - either the opportune time, for me to just get over it, or for something else to happen. Ah, time - how you baffle me. I've gotten no sense of the opportune time, and I certainly don't seem to be getting over it. Maybe it's time I take matters into my own hands. I can't force myself to forget. I can't force myself to let go. Maybe I should ask [X], maybe I should grow a pair and ask [No-Mr-Darcy] what the fuck happened.

But no decisions now. I always get melodramatic when it gets later at night. I'll sleep on it, and see how I feel tomorrow. If more of the same... well, maybe it's time to try something different. Maybe something I haven't even thought of yet. We'll see... time will tell. I hope.