As promised, on the first day of classes at UCR, I would retire this blog. I'm not deleting it, but I won't be posting as the Academic Masochist anymore. You see. I'm no longer in graduate school (although that might change within a few months). I no longer feel like I am the pained graduate student that I once was. Now--I have journeys ahead of me.
So I will be posting here. My new blog is on Wordpress. It's called "Narrative Misdirection." Other than matching my initials, it's pretty much who I am. I tell stories. Not always in the most direct way, nor truthfully.
But it's a story.
I'm still setting it up. But it is going to be my new home while I try to find my new place in life.
Hope to see you all there.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
Poetry Tuesday (and a mission statement)
Here's a poem that I read recently. I'd like to know what you think about it. Even if you don't read poetry on a regular basis or "get" poetry.
Burmese Girls Sold into Prostitution in Thailand
by Terry Blackhawk
In order that her parents not go deeper into debt
she does not kill herself, she is
the bargain, the chip, she evens
the odds even though she cannot speak
the language, Thai, it misaligns her tongue, sounds
oily to her ears, the tongues of men, the forcing
of them, hundreds, thousands, how many
places can they find on her, the body has only
so many openings and she loses value
quickly once twice maybe three
times she can be passed off
as a virgin even as she faints, even as she
counts the bricks in the windowless
walls, corridors where she never sees
the sun unless--to settle the madam's score--she is
arrested, hauled out from the underground
cells--then only the quiet ones are not
redeemed, the ones who do not
know how to smile at men, but she is
ransomed back to the metal
bed, the cement floor, the men again and
again, especially the drunks
frighten her, so she feels nothing, nothing
when the child moves inside her, nothing
when the poison she takes flattens
her belly so that another girl will never
be born to turn eleven or twelve into nothing
of value but the stories she makes even when
the fatigue claims her and she is coated with sores and sent
back to her village where she is
whispered about, no friends, nothing
mascaraed eyes, this fringed
cloth embroidered with the tales of luxury rides
bringing the city to the village in a voice
hardened to the waste the man in her dreams
who appears dressed in red brings--
until fevers overtake her and her
mouth runs dry and she is
so thin the wind blows through her until she is
parched, barely bones and so little flesh
left for the pyre, but they burn her body anyway, let
flames arise around her, the heel the strongest
burning coal, a searing eye staring back at
them a long time as they burn all all that is
hers, the city clothes, the plastic shoes, the drinking cup.
Here's my take. I like this poem for the sheer brutality of it. I found it heartbreaking, but beautiful. The world is an ugly place, yes. But this does inspire me to find and write about the beauty in the world. There are things that I think are interesting. In terms of mechanics, the entire poem is a single run on sentence. There's a lot of ambiguity contrasted with tons of concrete details. I don't know if the line shifts are going to come through because every other line is indented a little bit, but I can't seem to do that here in Blogger. It helps create a visual text of a river flowing down and then--stop.
But that's my take. What do you think?
Burmese Girls Sold into Prostitution in Thailand
by Terry Blackhawk
In order that her parents not go deeper into debt
she does not kill herself, she is
the bargain, the chip, she evens
the odds even though she cannot speak
the language, Thai, it misaligns her tongue, sounds
oily to her ears, the tongues of men, the forcing
of them, hundreds, thousands, how many
places can they find on her, the body has only
so many openings and she loses value
quickly once twice maybe three
times she can be passed off
as a virgin even as she faints, even as she
counts the bricks in the windowless
walls, corridors where she never sees
the sun unless--to settle the madam's score--she is
arrested, hauled out from the underground
cells--then only the quiet ones are not
redeemed, the ones who do not
know how to smile at men, but she is
ransomed back to the metal
bed, the cement floor, the men again and
again, especially the drunks
frighten her, so she feels nothing, nothing
when the child moves inside her, nothing
when the poison she takes flattens
her belly so that another girl will never
be born to turn eleven or twelve into nothing
of value but the stories she makes even when
the fatigue claims her and she is coated with sores and sent
back to her village where she is
whispered about, no friends, nothing
mascaraed eyes, this fringed
cloth embroidered with the tales of luxury rides
bringing the city to the village in a voice
hardened to the waste the man in her dreams
who appears dressed in red brings--
until fevers overtake her and her
mouth runs dry and she is
so thin the wind blows through her until she is
parched, barely bones and so little flesh
left for the pyre, but they burn her body anyway, let
flames arise around her, the heel the strongest
burning coal, a searing eye staring back at
them a long time as they burn all all that is
hers, the city clothes, the plastic shoes, the drinking cup.
Here's my take. I like this poem for the sheer brutality of it. I found it heartbreaking, but beautiful. The world is an ugly place, yes. But this does inspire me to find and write about the beauty in the world. There are things that I think are interesting. In terms of mechanics, the entire poem is a single run on sentence. There's a lot of ambiguity contrasted with tons of concrete details. I don't know if the line shifts are going to come through because every other line is indented a little bit, but I can't seem to do that here in Blogger. It helps create a visual text of a river flowing down and then--stop.
But that's my take. What do you think?
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
This is what a feminist looks like.
If you think that feminism is:
1. Outdated
2. Unnecessary
3. A bunch of women with hairy legs sitting around hating men,
then please stop reading now.
I am a feminist. I believe women should earn the same wages and pay a man does. I believe women are capable of serving front line combat. I also believe that women are a lot stronger and more capable than what most men (and even surprisingly many women) think.
I grew up in a household with strong women. Not physically strong (although my childhood best friend Jessie, even up to her death would pick fights with guys and win. But then again, she was an aggressive girl who loved martial arts and boxing), but mentally and emotionally strong. The concept of the "weak woman" was something I didn't get exposed to until school.
Mostly, I was the one asking my sister to open a stuck jar lid for me.
Maybe it has influenced my way of thinking. In video games, I tend to pick female characters--especially in fighting games. This is because the tend to be quicker. They're less physically strong, but with speed--I feel it makes up for it.
I believe in a woman to choose whatever she chooses. My mom is pro-choice. She chose to have my sister and I. My sister is pro-choice. She chose to have my niece and nephew, even though she got a lot of crap for having them out of wedlock.
I believe in and admire the women in my life because they are in my life. Before people tell me about "absent father" issues or lack of a male role model--I went to an all boy school. My dad was around when growing up. My dad raised me. He raised me to respect and treat women as equals. That means not throwing matches in games, just because I'm playing against a girl--even though playing Tennis against my cousin was a pain because she'd always win, even when "going easy" on me. Or playing one-on-one basketball against my sister. Grr.
Someone called me a hypocrite for holding a door open for a woman. He told me I couldn't be a feminist because I was coddling her. He didn't comment on the fact that I was holding the door open for him as well. I believe in being kind. Polite. I believe that people are a lot more than outdated gender roles and expectations.
Maybe I'm not so much a feminist as I am a humanist.
1. Outdated
2. Unnecessary
3. A bunch of women with hairy legs sitting around hating men,
then please stop reading now.
I am a feminist. I believe women should earn the same wages and pay a man does. I believe women are capable of serving front line combat. I also believe that women are a lot stronger and more capable than what most men (and even surprisingly many women) think.
I grew up in a household with strong women. Not physically strong (although my childhood best friend Jessie, even up to her death would pick fights with guys and win. But then again, she was an aggressive girl who loved martial arts and boxing), but mentally and emotionally strong. The concept of the "weak woman" was something I didn't get exposed to until school.
Mostly, I was the one asking my sister to open a stuck jar lid for me.
Maybe it has influenced my way of thinking. In video games, I tend to pick female characters--especially in fighting games. This is because the tend to be quicker. They're less physically strong, but with speed--I feel it makes up for it.
I believe in a woman to choose whatever she chooses. My mom is pro-choice. She chose to have my sister and I. My sister is pro-choice. She chose to have my niece and nephew, even though she got a lot of crap for having them out of wedlock.
I believe in and admire the women in my life because they are in my life. Before people tell me about "absent father" issues or lack of a male role model--I went to an all boy school. My dad was around when growing up. My dad raised me. He raised me to respect and treat women as equals. That means not throwing matches in games, just because I'm playing against a girl--even though playing Tennis against my cousin was a pain because she'd always win, even when "going easy" on me. Or playing one-on-one basketball against my sister. Grr.
Someone called me a hypocrite for holding a door open for a woman. He told me I couldn't be a feminist because I was coddling her. He didn't comment on the fact that I was holding the door open for him as well. I believe in being kind. Polite. I believe that people are a lot more than outdated gender roles and expectations.
Maybe I'm not so much a feminist as I am a humanist.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
!!!!
I just ate some Chocolate Mix Skittles. It's like concentrated evil. In my mouth. Like rimming....BLEGH. It tastes so nasty that I can't even come up with anything perverted or dirty to talk about how hideous it tastes. it's wrong on so many levels from even being tactile. To. BLEGH. I'd vomit them out if I weren't so scared they'd taste worse coming back up.
BLEGH. JUST SAY NO.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
I dreamt I couldn't sleep tonight
I keep having dreams where I'm either being shot at, bleeding, chased, diagnosed with terminal illnesses, or dying. I take solace in my dream dictionary at times like this. The book tells me that I am not dying or going to die soon. I am on the verge of a major change. I need to stop being so aggressive. Cherish my friends and family more. Or I might be dying after all.
Such vague wishy-washy language. It could almost be a religion in itself.
Someone told me a few days ago that I'm a bad writer. I couldn't disagree. I feel ineffectual. Weak. My writing is little more than self-indulgent complaining, angst and longing for the unreasonable. My writing is a reflection of myself. Maybe it's not so much that I am a bad writer as I am a bad person.
I've tried to surround myself with books instead of people. Blamed others for my own shortcomings. Maybe it's time for me to take control for my own life. Maybe that way I can get a good night's sleep.
On less unsettled & angsty news:
-Circumlocution is going to be out by the end of the month. Reading over all the submissions again and re-reading them, we might soon start contacting some of the authors with our suggestions for edits. Without consciously looking for a theme, one popped up throughout the work. It's surprising and pretty cool.
-I am going to be retiring this blog after all. I do have my new one set up. But I'm still setting it up. Breaking it in, if you will. My set date for retiring this blog and releasing the address of the new one? The first day of classes at UC Riverside. It's a little symbolic for me. You see, after all the years of being there as a student, I'm finally gone. So this identity I had for the last few years will be gone. I think it fits.
-Lately I've been listening to a lot of Motown and Do-Wop music. The oldies station here is playing less of it and been playing more 60s and 70s along with Motown and Do-Wop. So I'm enjoying it. But I want to know what music from that era you'd suggest. I have this strange nostalgia for this era. Despite the fact that it wasn't the squeaky clean "Leave it to Beaver" life that modern media is familiar with showing, there's that wholesomeness that I can't help but want. Maybe it's just wanting security.
-And finally: if you'd like to read some of my work, I'm featured at Connotation Press. While I am honored to be apart of this modern artifact, I can't help but feel my word doesn't speak to the best of my abilities anymore. My project has moved on from what I talked about in the "Q&A" section.
Oh well, It's 2:30AM now. I have a job interview in about 8 hours. Good night world.
Such vague wishy-washy language. It could almost be a religion in itself.
Someone told me a few days ago that I'm a bad writer. I couldn't disagree. I feel ineffectual. Weak. My writing is little more than self-indulgent complaining, angst and longing for the unreasonable. My writing is a reflection of myself. Maybe it's not so much that I am a bad writer as I am a bad person.
I've tried to surround myself with books instead of people. Blamed others for my own shortcomings. Maybe it's time for me to take control for my own life. Maybe that way I can get a good night's sleep.
On less unsettled & angsty news:
-Circumlocution is going to be out by the end of the month. Reading over all the submissions again and re-reading them, we might soon start contacting some of the authors with our suggestions for edits. Without consciously looking for a theme, one popped up throughout the work. It's surprising and pretty cool.
-I am going to be retiring this blog after all. I do have my new one set up. But I'm still setting it up. Breaking it in, if you will. My set date for retiring this blog and releasing the address of the new one? The first day of classes at UC Riverside. It's a little symbolic for me. You see, after all the years of being there as a student, I'm finally gone. So this identity I had for the last few years will be gone. I think it fits.
-Lately I've been listening to a lot of Motown and Do-Wop music. The oldies station here is playing less of it and been playing more 60s and 70s along with Motown and Do-Wop. So I'm enjoying it. But I want to know what music from that era you'd suggest. I have this strange nostalgia for this era. Despite the fact that it wasn't the squeaky clean "Leave it to Beaver" life that modern media is familiar with showing, there's that wholesomeness that I can't help but want. Maybe it's just wanting security.
-And finally: if you'd like to read some of my work, I'm featured at Connotation Press. While I am honored to be apart of this modern artifact, I can't help but feel my word doesn't speak to the best of my abilities anymore. My project has moved on from what I talked about in the "Q&A" section.
Oh well, It's 2:30AM now. I have a job interview in about 8 hours. Good night world.
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