"One must still have chaos in one's self...."

"...in order to give birth to dancing stars." F. Nietzsche.

The credits roll into an ambiguous ending...and for once I smile. For me, the film could not have ended any other way. It was an allegory of Artistic Ecstasy. I was committed and the embers were stoked to flame. And so the conversation began...

“I get the premise of dying for one's art, or the battle with one's self to rise to the next level...but this notion of not knowing what was the nightmare or the reality...this aspect, I don't quite see the point,” T.

“But that is the point. How do you completely transcend your/their expectations with your art, if you don't lose yourself to point that you no longer recognize your surroundings? How can you kill the voices, doubt, and fear – if you're not crawling out of your skin, and essentially loosing your mind,” me. (I'm not quoting T. and I verbatim – I meant to say the latter, and I paraphrased the former.)

The movie is Black Swan, but I am not here to offer a critique of the film or Natalie Portman's (brilliant) performance. The focus is on the thoughts and feelings thus inspired by the film...or the conversation if you will.

The strobe of scenes flickering between drug induced paranoia and foggy blurbs of reality were the foreshadowing moments leading up to the main character's tango with nirvana. To achieve an ecstatic frenzy that equivocates a shaman's divination of the spirit one has to go into the darkness and battle the demons of one's soul. When the fear and loathing are conquered one is ready to ascend. It is a manic cycle of soaring to the greatest of heights, only after crashing to the floor of the deepest abyss.

Ecstasy as defined is: (greek ~ ecstasis ~ a being put out of its place) A state of being overpowered by emotion, as by joy/grief/passion.

Under the seduction of the Muse one looses touch with the immediate world around them. Its falling in the rabbit hole, charging through the looking glass, or a technicolor dream coat. The senses are heightened and a metamorphosis is taking place. The world stays the same, but as you are changing, so does your perception of it. Thus everything and nothing is real. Its a Passion Play in the most basic sense. Rapture/Death/Resurrection and they engage you in a harmonious climax.

Enduring the rapture one experiences an abandoned gasp as it leaves the lips, a radiating gaze, and a fire that consumes one heart/soul/mind. There is a level of leaving one's body and soaring to another plane of cosmic consciousness that is at once both emboldening and utterly terrifying. But in order to reach such heights a piece of you must die, and a pound of flesh must be acquired in payment. This experience gives birth to the perfect word, note, or stroke.

The empty canvas becomes someone's Starry Night – the blank page A Tempest or a Moonlit Sonata – Strings are picked, stroked, plucked until the notes transport one All Along the Watch Tower to Europa.

Once one has has looked into the face of God there is no question that the world will never look the same again. Art is Divination. It gives the soul a voice. It is the reflection of the heart. It is the picture of a beautiful mind. To be bestowed with the gift of creative expression is to flit on the edge of madness. Some lose their footing and become lost in the free fall, while others remain giving birth to dancing stars.

Darren Aronofsky's Black Swan was less about ballerinas and Swan Lake, and more about the agony/ecstasy of letting go. The over the shoulder shots gave the viewer a first hand account of the plight of an artist. It was in a word – perfect.

A Little Purging to Take the Edge Off

Amber's Poem:

"As I struggle to comprehend, I lose my footing as I come around the bend.

Echoes and shimmers of a life passing me by, a fleeting pulse beyond the corner of my eye.

I miss the wide wonder featured on your face; its absence has left me lost and without faith. Overwhelmed with regret; I long for your dancing silhouette.

I’m holding on to your laughter as though it’s the only thing to save me from drowning. I try to recall the very pitch of every word you ever uttered, but all I can hear is silence resounding.

Each memory I have with you, a soft prism of light reflected in the morning dew. Any picture of you is a precious moment of time to hold on to.

Forever in my heart, and always on my mind, there you’ll stay and there you’ll be Amber Marie." ~NRD2006~

I've been doing my best to not let the upcoming "anniversary" get the better of me as it has in years past.....BUT, that is easier said than done.

What happens at this time of year is my brain starts to go into a rehashing mode, and the devil is in the details. I spend countless hours recalling where I was, what was happening, the sights, the sounds - all in an overwhelming web of timelines, should haves, and what ifs.

Most of what I am about to write has been told, and retold - my hope here is that by getting this all off my chest now, I can move forward and enjoy the small moments of this holiday season without becoming ensnared by grief.

December 22, 2005:

Am and I received an email from Lisa after 6 or 7 years of silence. We screamed, we laughed, we cried - Plans were made to see each other over New Years.

December 24, 2005:

Am gave me the greatest gift, and once again revealed how awesome a human being and friend she was. She let me use her vehicle over Xmas to see my mom in Ft Myers - and all I had to do was make sure she had gas in the Jimmy when she got it back.

January 1, 2006:

The best day ever. Lisa, Amber, and I were magically and fantastically reawakened as Trio we'd been in our youth. We'd grown, but our bound remained unbroken.

January 2, 2006:

The last time I saw Am alive. Her hair was pulled up in a twisted knot, and her eyes were puffy with sleep as she drove me to work in her flannel pajamas.

"Thanks for letting me deposit the rent in your account, and we have so much to talk about when I get back from my camping trip. We'll get groceries, dinner, and talk - how does that sound?"

"Great, thanks for the ride, I'll see you Wednesday. Have fun with John," I said.

She waved from her Jimmy as I walked toward the Transportation and Parking Complex at the University of Florida - that was it. I never saw her again. Its kind of poetic now that I think about it, her taillights fading as she drove away into the sunrise...

January 3-6, 2006:

These days were spent cataloging the contents of her room. I would stand in her doorway, ever respectful of her space, and look for any sign that she'd been home. The clothes basket was still on her bed, her papers were still strewn about her desk, the shades were closed, the bed was made. I found myself going so far as to look for extra creases in the bed - anything to give me proof of life, but all of this was to no avail. The 4th and the 5th were also two of the heaviest rainfalls we'd had in Gainesville/Ocala in awhile. (The 4th was the day Amber was murdered unbeknownst to everyone)

January 7, 2006:

One of the most gorgeous, sunny days I can ever remember. There were no clouds in the sky, and there was hardly a chill in the air. A perfect day for a hike in the Ocala National Forest. And this is what Davie, Dad Peck, and I did. A few of Dad Peck's friends from the RV park he was living in at the time joined us as well in our search for Amber. Davie had found coordinates and locked them in his GPS, and off we went. Dad Peck had found Amber's Jimmy the night before, so as we pulled up to where he'd found it only to see that it was empty - we became concerned. Dad P stayed behind with a walkie to wait for the Sheriff, and Davie and I forged ahead of everyone. We were on a mission - find Am - no more, no less. The trail was over grown and rugged, Davie couldn't help but smile when he thought of his little sister hiking this trail.

"It'd have been so much fun to have experienced this with her," he'd say. We were about 1/3 of the way in when Dad P called Davie and I back. There was something in his voice - something frantic...edgy...Davie and I looked at each other, and we ran back to the truck. We made it back in half the time, but our footsteps fell short when Dad P's Ford Truck came into view - it was no longer alone.

Davie sprinted to his father's side, and I slowed to a crawl as I took in the scene before me. There were 4 or 5 Patrol Units parked on either side of Dad's truck, as well as 2 or 3 unmarked Sedans. Yellow "Caution" tape had been hung across the south end of the dirt road, and was holding a news van at bay. Uniformed officers, and suits were scattered about the dirt and grass dodging around like ants under magnifying glass. Our gazes were avoided, and conversations stopped if Dad, Davie or I seemed too close for comfort - but bits and pieces were gathered.

"a male" "a female" "bullet casings" "blood" But no one spoke to us for hours. Through all of this I remained unflinchingly optimistic...Amber was hurt, that was all, I refused to believe otherwise.

I made my way to Dad's side, and his eyes (which never changed after this day) were almost my undoing. They were wet, and riddled with pain. We wrapped our arms around each other's waists, and again the magnitude of the moment encompassed me. He was a thin man, but a strong man. Dad Peck was stoic and impenetrable when his mind was made. But as I came into contact with his body, there was a tremble and a shake that coursed through his frame with every breath he took.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a woman in a deputy's jacket that was shadowing our every move. She was immediately out of place for me. Her boots were high heeled - dressy. She didn't belong on a rescue mission - she belonged behind a desk.

"David, and David - You're Amber's father and brother, correct? And you must be Nellie, her roommate." (Oh that phrase!!! That phrase which I came to loathe. The one that reduced me to a minuscule anecdote in Amber's life.) With our proper introductions and handshakes aside, we were asked to take a walk with Nancy.

"I am not a deputy, but I work with the Sheriff's Department," she said, "I mainly work with victims...I'm a grief counselor. And I know things have not been said to you about what's happening now...so let me begin with this. John Parker's(Amber's friend) remains have been identified...his father, sister, and cousin discovered him this morning...as they have never met Amber, they couldn't positively ID the young woman's remains." Nancy paused for a moment to let this information sink in. "Once the scene has been cleared, David," she said looking at Dad Peck, "we'll need you to identify the young woman, that we are positive is your missing Amber."

To say this moment changed my life, is an epic understatement. Her words caused a cellular breakdown within me. I was shot out of the rabbit hole like a cannonball, and shattered through the looking glass all at once. Nothing was the same, and absolutely nothing made sense.

"How could this possibly be? The sky is blue, the sun is a brilliant ball of light..." I couldn't believe that Am was dead, because there was no way the world could look that joyful when I was in that much pain. It was inconceivable.

I was switched off, I couldn't even say I was numb, because even that would have been a feeling. A dreadful weight burrowed its way to my chest, latched on to my heart and pissed on my soul. I couldn't breathe...and all I could think was, "how am I going to tell Amanda? How???" She and Amber had been friends since they were 5, and we were all 26. 21 years they were friends - sisters. Its impossible to explain how that felt - still feels - to have to give someone such gut wrenching, heart breaking news - it was more than a pound of flesh that was taken from me, it was rips and shreds of my soul. Those invisible pieces of myself were never returned, and in those months after I didn't care if I ever got them back. I became a waif, and a shallow empty husk - I had no use for spirit of any kind.

Present Day:

It will be five years that Am's been gone when January 4th rolls in. This year I don't feel the pressing heaviness I have in the past, but I find myself flitting along like a strobing stick figure in a flip book. No matter how I try to burst from the page, I can't seem to escape the sights and sounds that altered the course of my life forever. The phoenix fire has gotten tiresome - the cycle of flames to ash - for once I would like to remain whole long enough to get my bearings.

But such is life....

From Days Gone By

clove smoke rings

That jive sign, nickel and dime, always on my mind -

finger the keys, treat me like a melody-

for the want, this desperate plea, give me what I need -

a melancholy jaunt, amber haze, nicotine maze -

immersed in the strain, the trumpet's cry, evoking a sigh -

reminiscent of a kiss in the rain, lost in the play, watching my man walk away -

every night it’s the same, rattle of bourbon on the rocks, a single tear drops.

This delights the little devil in me

http://newsfeed.time.com/2010/12/03/kentucky-creates-900-new-jobs-by-building-noahs-ark/

Times are tough all over. Words like 'recession' and 'depression' roll off the tongue casually with disdain and quiet fear. Then, just when the world seems a grey as John Steinbeck's dust bowl, the governor of Kentucky steps in with all the flair and drama of "The Great and Powerful" Oz. His Technicolor creation of 900 jobs is pretty amazing....I would even go so far as to say confounding. And I love it.

An Ark? Really? I wonder, did Morgan Freeman put this bird in the governor's ear? How does one propose this idea without coming off a little bat-shit crazy? I would have loved to have taken that conference call.

"Hey, I have an idea to give this community 900 jobs....its a bit out there, but just hear me out. Let's build an Ark, you know, to scale like Evan and Noah."

*insert crickets chirping here*

"Hello, you there....Look, I get it. This sounds a bit melodramatic, but c'mon...what better way to serve both the hopes and fears of the public. Those whose cup is half empty will help build this Ark to ensure themselves a seat when the flood hits. Those whose cup is half full will help build this thing to instill a bit of glad tiding and cheer to the sullen masses. Wave your Louisville Sluggers folks, this is a home-run."

*insert gulp of The Fear here*

"And why stop with just an ark? Let's go all the way. A Biblical Theme Park, has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? If we build it, they will come, right?"

Kudos to him for pulling this off almost under everyone's radar. Think of how spectacular this could be.....

Surf the Tide as a 20 ft tall replica of Chuck Heston's Moses parts the Red Sea.

Dodge the smoldering hailstorm of fire and brimstone as we twist and turn through the corkscrew of a falling Tower of Babel.

Scream with orgasmic delight from our bungee cords as we free Fall From Grace on the appropriately named Lucifer's Drop.

Hunt the World's first Zombie with interactive gun-play(i.e. laser beamed AK-47's) in Lazarus's Tomb.

Seriously, I could do this all day....I for one, will be buying a ticket to ride come opening day.

Because I love it, and I like to share.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

********************MY TURN*****************************

No, I am not going to attempt to get my "poet" on - who could follow this. It's brilliant. The words breathe, and the breath is sweet.

"Do not go gentle into that good night."
Resist - Take up your shield and grab your sword.

"Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
Declare war - Live.

Dead Girl Walking

I am not going to lie. I love Zombies. I love the genre of films, comic books, and et. al. There is something to be said for seeing our species reduced to its most basic and primal form. Eat. Live or Die.

Upon reading the series "The Walking Dead," and now watching it on Sunday nights on AMC, the question becomes, "who are the real monsters, the zombies, or those left to survive in their wake?"

"What would I do?" "How far would I go to ensure my family's survival and safety?" "How much of my humanity and compassion am I willing to lose?"

The characters are living in our timeline....they were reliant upon their cellphones, video games, laptops, and the ease with which anything can be accessed. But then they awoke one morning to a world where the dead walks - and we are little more than blood bags that provide them with nourishment. The world is without power. Electricity and running water are no longer operating. There is no internet. There are no televisions. No instant communication.

In order to survive, one must be cunning, nomadic, alert, and willing to do things that were once thought impossible.

I am not talking about going to bathroom without a toilet or paper. Nor am I talking about having to bleed, gut, and quarter a deer. I am talking about stealing, cheating, killing, and pushing the very limits of what is humane in order to keep my family and myself safe.

Would I come into your dwelling place and take what supplies I needed without batting an eye? Even if it meant, your infant and aging mother went without?

Yes. I would take it. If I had to do this with force, I would do it.

Would I be willing to share?

Maybe. But there is the issue of trust...It's like Tyler Durden says, "On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero." Why waste time with constipated pleasantries and veiled violence? Eventually, it will come down to you and yours or me and mine...why prolong the inevitable?

If my family joined a group, it would only be because there was something to gain from the alliance. But what happens when food is scarce and moral is low? The group suffers. Or what if a member of the group is too high strung? What if this person after a matter of hours reveals they are more depraved and corrupt than you could possibly imagine?

Only the strong survive, and the weak are exploited. Fear is heady and powerful weapon, and when used to bend wills with an iron fist - no one gets out alive. Dictators are overthrown. There are heavy causalities on both sides, one group leaves with less and another with more. Long story short - Stay with those you know, love, and trust - F@*K everybody else.

It sounds awful, callous, and heartless - but its honest.

The subject seems silly and contrite - but it is fodder for my think cap. I like postulating what lengths I'd be willing to go for the ones I love. I would kill, steal, cheat and lose everything decent about myself, if that's what it took to keep them safe. To the depths of my bones I know that if put in this "kill or be killed" situation - I would be an unscrupulous version of myself, and there would be no limit to my tenaciousness.

"The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places." Ernest Hemingway.

Addendum:
Because I am the type of girl that is overly critical and a bit of a perfectionist - I felt that I hadn't quite gotten this right. Because were this really post-zombie-apocalypse I wouldn't be the only one with a gun and a crazed will to live.

Am I arrogant in my thinking that I would be a quicker draw than my opponent?
Abso-fricking-lutely.
Call it blind arrogance or cocksure confidence, but if put into this level of stress, if one is not insanely sure of their aptitude to win every battle, then they're ensuring their death. Was Doc Holiday the fastest draw, or was he merely more presumptuous than his rival?
*Wink* "Say when..."

If its apparent that everyone holding a gun are as equally high strung, and just crazy enough to think they'll survive any situation - its the element of surprise that wins this fight.
Hunter S. Thompson was a force to be reckoned with, but had he not roared in the face of the opposition - he'd have never gotten very far. His renowned swagger - mimicked by both Johnny Depp and Bill Murray - was the result of a back injury and was a source of constant pain. But you never knew it. This heavily exaggerated gate would have been mocked or exploited as weakness, and Hunter beat the bullies to the punch. He was vicious, barked louder, was aggressive, and dangled precariously on the edge of reason and madness.
It is this controlled lunacy that would prove to be most beneficial in any skirmish.
The man controlled the chaos simply by creating it in the first place. Furious imagination is a lethal cocktail and more valuable than bullets.

To be honest, I could speak for years on this topic - It goes back to my need to constantly re-evaluate. I do not ever want to find myself in a situation where someone is getting the drop on me, which is why I generally prepare myself for the most ludicrous scenarios. This way I never fall victim to the element of surprise.

Life is funny sometimes....

Something extraordinary has happened...is happening.

When Amber was murdered, I lost more of myself than I ever cared to admit. Before I was impulsive, the first to find humor in any situation, carefree with occasional moments of melancholy....to be honest I was an overall joy to be around. And then my life and resolve was shattered with the crack of an Ak-47.

It's been close to five years now, and for four of those years I was a shell of my former self.

My smiles were false. I didn't want to leave the safe sanctity of my bed. The world was dark and full of dread. All the lighthearted optimism had disappeared from my spirit, and I never thought I'd live to experience the warmth of the sun on my skin again. Even with weekly therapy sessions since the murder occurred, I wasn't able to keep from sinking into a dismal abyss of depression and grief.

Then my therapist suggested I try painting. I never believed that splashing around on a blank canvas would move me, but it has. In the past year I have finished 7 paintings, and with that magical number I have begun to recognize the face that greets me in the mirror every morning.

The painting featured on this blog accomplished amazing feats regarding my psyche, my spirit, and my heart. It began with canary yellow, representing joy/light/me. Then I added fuchsia and orange to give the appearance of a sunrise or sunset. Before it was completely dry, I brushed lavender hearts in various sizes that were open ended - for no other reason other than at this point I was the Tin Man asking the wizard to replace the one I'd lost. From here I splashed black and crimson as representatives of blood/murder/grief - all of which were literal and figurative. In the literal sense, it was Amber's blood, her murder my grief. Figuratively, I was murdered, the blood of my heart and soul had been shed, and I was grieving the loss of myself as much as my friend. Through the darkness came the light of the yellows, fuchsia, pink, turquoise battling/struggling to bring peace to the canvas -at which point something with in me burst.

I was the canvas and it was me. The dance, the rush, the cosmic pull of the divine - the ecstasy of release/creation was an experience unlike anything I'd ever known. Tears fell from my eyes, and laughter leapt from my lips. The painting was finished, and I had reawakened my soul. The phoenix had risen from the ashes, and the flower had once again bloomed. I had returned to my body, and this left me awe struck.

After the initial shock had left my system, and I was alone in my bed I did something I hadn't truly done in years - I prayed.

I spoke to God, and lay my freshly restored soul at His feet. As I uttered the words, "I love those I hate," the chains were stripped from my heart and I could breathe again. Those words were not just said, they were felt and they were true. The rage and the fury that had been holding me hostage disappeared with a gasp of breath.

That night I was moved, and I have been running free ever since.

Moments Lost in Time

Gone are the afternoons spent rocking with you on the old, creaking porch swing beside the shore of Higgins Lake.

But the porcelain sails are set, it is time to embark on this journey through memories of you and our special place.

As the gull calls from the turquoise sky, I can hear your laughter ringing through the trees.

Twinkling, the lake dances with the morning sun; I am spurred on by your boundless glee.

The soft caress of a northern breeze - the tender touch of your hand.

The scent of pine wafting through the air – your sweetest perfume, so simple and so grand.

Twinkling, fireflies swirl and twirl with intermittent blips of light; their presence announcing that the evening is nigh.

As the moon begins to rise over the lake in an amethyst hue, I remember our farewell and goodbye.

But here I sit, and here I’ll stay with memories that will never fade way.

Gone, gone, gone are you, on the banks of Higgins Lake my heart does lay.

Rise up this morning, smile with the rising sun...

It's not that I don't love hanging out with my niece, Amber, but doing so comes with a heavy load. I am beyond blessed to be a part of her life, and even more so when she says, "Hold me Noolie." The love I have for this little girl is boundless, but when we part I am always saddened. Not because I'm not sure when I will see her again - No, it's because as soon as I am alone with my thoughts they turn to Lil Amber's namesake.

I'm only Aunt Nellie, because Auntie Am is no longer with us. And when I think of the joy and adoration Big Am would have had for this precious little girl, it breaks my heart. No one would have been filled with more wonder than Auntie Am. She was the biggest kid I ever met, and it's why she is still so beloved. Her excitement and passion for living would have been a beautiful sight to see as she shared it with Amanda's little girl. No one would have loved her more.

Whenever Lil Am giggles, or gazes at me with her twinkling almond eyes there is a clear picture in my mind as to how Big Am would have glowed in response. My niece is her mother's and father's child in every way - it is her impish sparkle though, that keeps her namesake very much alive in our hearts.

And it is that cherished life that I miss so dearly when I dote upon the precious little one.

Portraits from an Artist as Young Woman

On May 4th I had some ink done. I'd been nervous about the concept, and wasn't sure I'd actually go through with it. But I am glad I did.

I don't think I will ever be able to ever tell the tattoo artist just what his brilliant work means to me. These girls are obviously not my children, so this was not a "happy occasion" portrait. It is a memorial.

I'm not one for emotional outpourings in public, or in private for that matter. So as I was getting this tattoo done, I purposely steered the conversation from talking about why I chose to have two girls tattooed to my forearm. I wanted the experience to be lighthearted and fun, and I didn't want to weep until I was alone. I knew if I began speaking about their tragic ends, it would have altered the mood, and there fore would have altered the stunning artistry from the man who is sure to become a master of his craft.

(Amber - upper right. Lisa - bottom left.)

In January of 2006, Amber was shot in the head with an AK-47. Then in August of 2007, Lisa took her life in a very violent fashion similar to Amber's death. I'm blunt about their deaths, because I need it to be understood that these horrific images haunt my mind constantly in a very Quentin Tarantino and Stanley Kubrick Fashion. I've seen the Hollywood version of their deaths everyday since they have occurred. And now, if/when I am plagued by the violence, I have the perfect weapon for a counter-attack - A permanent picture of the greatest friends I have ever known smiling at me.

The man who inked my arm captured the essence and carefree spirit of my friends perfectly, and he'll more than likely never know how deeply moved I am by this. He created a beautiful representation of probably the most magical time of my life. Amber and Lisa are forever caught in a moment when we were at our best, and when our friendship was all that mattered to the three of us.

I could never thank him enough for the gift he has given me. In by etching on my arm two friends that will remain young forever, I too, will remain forever young with them.

Ethnography Project Lebowski Style

Achievers
The Introduction

In 1998 a Coen Brothers’ film was released to little or no acclaim. It was the follow up to the Oscar winning, Fargo, and the brothers had thought they had another hit. But it wasn’t until this movie was released to video that it found its audience. The movie of which I speak, is the Big Lebowski. Like a slow-burn, fans of this movie began to spread far and wide. It was watched it religiously, and quoted fervently for anyone to hear. Mid-night viewings began to occur nationwide to a cult fan base. Then, in 2002 the First Annual Lebowski Fest was held in Kentucky, and festivals have been held coast-to-coast ever since that fateful night. The founders of Lebowski Fest have even knighted the die-hard and obsessive fans “Achievers,” and it is a banner that is proudly flown.

While t-shirts, bumper-stickers, and posters announce fellow members boisterously – the following still operates as an almost secret society. Clandestine meetings are held in random cities, and only those that have been added to a mailing list are told of the where-a-bouts. It is true that the website and movie are open to the public, but not just anyone dons the label, Achiever. No, it is a special breed of unique that takes their love of the movie to the next level. And it is amongst this sub-culture that my ethnography takes place.


Section I

For this study I held formal interviews with four people. The first informant is a friend of a friend. We conducted our interview via email, and our contact was brief and to the point. He is an older gentleman by the name of Dan Kauppi, and he lives in Northern Michigan. Over Christmas he held a Big Lebowski themed bowling party that myself and my friend were unable to attend, and it is for this reason I wanted to interview him. My next informant is John Daft. He is a 50+ GM Retiree, and he is also my father. Growing up he shared his love of irreverent humor with me and my sister, and if it weren’t for him I wouldn’t know or appreciate the Coen Brothers today. Upon my first viewing of the movie, the Big Lebowski, my cousin (who had watched it with me) turned to me and said, “Hey Nell, your dad is the Dude.” And a truer statement has never been said. Traci Wightman, an administrator of policy for the State of Michigan, is my next informant. She is currently working full time for the State, as well as, working full time on her Masters Degree from Western Michigan. Her introduction to the Big Lebowski came in March of 2008, when she attended a Lebowski Fest held in Chicago with me. From that pivotal night she has been hooked ever since, and considers herself an avid fan. My last informant chose to remain anonymous. They are currently working part-time and enrolled in college full time. This informant is an Achiever, and has deep abiding love for all things Lebowski.

Time and Place

Interviews:

1. Dan Kauppi – conducted via email February 20, 2010.

2. John Daft – conducted at Geeks to Go, LLC (office) March 24, 2010.

3. Traci Wightman – conducted at Traci’s home on April 1, 2010.

4. Anonymous “Maude” – conducted at Geeks to Go, LLC April 19, 2010.

Ceremonies/Rituals:

Lebowski Fest 2008 – attended opening night of festivities held on March 7 in Chicago IL, at the Portage Theater.

Lebowski Characters:

1. Jeffery “The Dude” Lebowski – The movie’s protagonist. He loves bowling, Bob Dylan, Creedence Clearwater Revival, the occasional acid flashback, and his rug.

2. Walter Sobchak – The yin to the Dude’s yang. He loves bowling, heavy artillery, Judaism, and connecting every aspect of his life back to his fallen buddies in Vietnam.

3. Donny – The Dude and Walter’s sidekick. An avid bowler and surfer who never truly grasps what is happening around him.

4. The Stranger – The movie’s narrator.

5. Maude Lebowski – The Dude’s lady friend, and the daughter of the other Jeffery Lebowski, the millionaire.

6. Caucasian – The term the Dude uses in place of White Russian, which is his drink of choice.

Summation

On March 7th 2008, my friend Traci and I headed to Chicago to attend the Lebowski Fest. This was a red letter year, as it was the 10th anniversary of the release of the movie. We were only going to the opening night, which includes performances from a few local bands, libations, and finally the movie itself. Opening night is held at a local theater with limited seating. It is also a venue where alcohol can be served. The following night the festival is held at a local bowling alley. Once again alcohol is huge part of the evening’s festivities, and generally speaking, every one that attends is in character. There are contests and prizes for best costume, most “Dude” like, most creative, etc. Also, trivia contests and bowling contests are a big part of the night. Depending on the amount of people that attend the 2 nights of the festival, the founders may hold another bowling party over the course of the weekend to keep every one happy and pleased.

Any time alcohol plays a huge role in a gathering of over a hundred conflicts usually arise. But in all that I’ve read, and what I have witnessed this rule does not apply to the Achievers. Everyone that is present is joyful, and there is an apparent camaraderie between all attendees. They have a shared commonality – they love the movie, and what it represents – Friendship. Fast friends are made while waiting line for the bathroom. People from all walks of life and dress discuss where they’re from, when they became a fan of the movie, and whether or not they’ve attended a festival before. Those people that are in costume/character never seem to be annoyed by quotes shouted their way, or the constant photo opps with random strangers. All of this interaction occurs without a drama or delay with Caucasian or Heineken in hand. Everyone in attendance is a fan, and is there out a profound adoration for this movie. This also includes the bands.

In doing research about this sub-culture, I found that many bands and sports teams like to have this movie on rotation on their tour buses. Drinking games are played, quotes are randomly shouted by all, and once again the camaraderie is boundless. Band/Team mates are in close proximity at all hours of the day, and their success depends on how they interact as a unified whole. This movie bonds people with its humor, and the close-nit ties between the movie’s central characters. When the bands are asked to attend/play at the festivals, the founders are hardly ever turned away. The bands show up in costume, and play most of the songs from the movie’s soundtrack. And because they love the movie, the Achievers love them.

There were two bands that played at the festival I attended. The opening act was has a local following in Chicago, but found fans nationwide after appearing on stage in costume. Because they played songs from the soundtrack, their set was more like an interactive sing-a-long. The main act, however, found itself in a unique position. They were another local band, but the difference between the two groups was that they were a cover band. Meaning, they made a name for themselves as mimicking a particular group, and only played that group’s work. A band like this would never be the main act for any other venue except for the Lebowski Fest. The Dude’s favorite band in the movie is Creedence Clearwater Revival, and this was the band’s shtick. As soon as they took the stage one would have thought the Beatles or Elvis had just arrived in the building with roaring applause they received. Then after the bands have left the stage, and the curtain once again rises, a hush falls over the crowd.

It’s at this time the movie begins, and this is the reason everyone is there. This is why there is so much love in the room – for this silly, simple movie about a man, a rug that really tied the room together, and his friends. During the course of my interviews, Traci made a comparison to the Rocky Horror Picture Show. While I have not attended one of the mid-night viewings of this cult classic, I have watched the DVD special with the fan participation track. And I have to say Traci’s observation was correct, both fans have a certain way of watching the film. Quotes are shouted along, and certain characters have a particular phrase roared at them. Wu, the carpet pisser, for instance is “Whoooed” when ever he appears on screen. Some songs are sung loudly and proudly as they appear in the film. And when the Dude has a dance number in one of his dream sequences, some people dance along with him in the aisle.

As I stated earlier, I was only in attendance for the opening ceremony, so any commentary on the goings on for the bowling party would only be hearsay. But I can only assume that the rest of the festivities are as joyful and bonding as opening night. Some months after the Lebowski Fest, I was in Remus, MI for the Wheatland Music Festival, and met up with a fellow Achiever. I was wearing my “Achiever” shirt, when a woman noticed me, and with a point and giggle she walked over. “Oh my God, I love that movie! And my husband and I were just at the Lebowski Fest in Chicago!” Normally, I hate small talk with people I’ve never met before, and I avoid it all costs. But because of this movie, and the obvious connection with this woman, we talked for almost a half hour. As it turns out, I had my picture taken with her husband who was dressed like the Dude.

This chance meeting culminates the spirit of the film – It is the humor and adventure that bonds the characters of the film, and it is the love of those characters that bonds the fans. What I deduced from my interviews is that while the central focus of the film is the relationship between the Dude and Walter, it is also their uniqueness that resonates so strongly with people. Every character in the film is an unprecedented individual, and it is that individuality that the fans strive for and love. Each informant had a specific view of the film, but where they all co-mingled was in their distinctive eccentricities. Their brand of humor and the way in which they communicated their opinions played out like the Coen Brothers’ ingenious script. Dan Kauppi had a rigid idiosyncrasy, in that he will never say anything but an original statement. He’s not a fan of the quotes, and finds it sad that some people use another’s talent to appear clever. John Daft, for intents and purposes, is The Dude. Traci Wightman revels in the exclusiveness that comes with being a fan of this film. And the same can be said of my informant that chose to remain anonymous.

Achievers - whether Blue Collar or White Collar - enjoy the spoils of belonging to an outlandish sub-culture. To be a fan of this movie is to be privy to an exclusive point of view. This view entails a dark and exotic brand of humor, the Kahlua, if you will. Next we add Vodka, or the clear celebration of one’s unique quirks. To top it off we stir in a dollop of Half and Half, which adds the enigmatic and creamy sensation of coming home. Here we have a White Russian, or Caucasian. This beverage is an acquired taste. And, like the movie, once one becomes a fan of the flavor there is no turning back. It’s the drink of choice, and the connoisseur finds camaraderie with those who share the same taste.

Interview with John “The Dude” Daft 3/24/10

Question One: Would you say that you a Coen Brothers fan, or a Big Lebowski Fan?

"Don’t you have to be both? I know I am, and that’s what makes sense."

Question Two: Have you ever referred to yourself as an “Achiever?” (an achiever is the name of the founders of Lebowski Fest attached to themselves and those people that attend the fests.)

"I am an Achiever as I have achieved my goal, I’ve retired. And now I hold down my lazy boy perfectly, which is my number one priority. You know I sit back with my Wally Ball Hanger (Harvey Wall Banger) or my Hawaiian High Ball, it’s always 5 o’clock somewhere. I am an Achiever."

Question Three: There is a company on Wall Street that hires or denies applicants on the basis of whether or not they recognize a Lebowskiism. Have you ever found yourself doing the same, using the movie as a way of separating/integrating yourself w/ one group or another?

"No, if they talk to me later, cool, if not whatever. That deer – in – the – head – light – look never hurt anyone."

Question Four: Do you sometimes find yourself inserting quotes into casual conversation? Is it kind of a bummer, when the quote is lost or wasted on the person(s) you’re talking to? And on the flip side, how is it if they respond with a quote of their own?

"I threw it, they caught it, great…it would be kind of scary though…some one on my wave length."

Question Five: What is it about this movie that you think resonates so strongly with people?

"The relatability to the characters, and the humor, and the story. And I can relate to the story, all of the above, it’s funny. I always watch it when it’s on."

Question Six: Do you have a favorite line/scene?

"When the Dude is in his tub chillaxing, and then these dudes in black unitards come in and beat the shit out of him (laughs) he can’t even take a bath. (laughs) His Calgon couldn’t even take him away. (laughs)"

Question Seven: Have you attended a Lebowski Fest, or started one of your own?

"No, however, it is a goal of mine. And my kid, you, did buy me a t-shirt from one. And that’s the closet I got, if any one but me finds the irony in that…"

Shattering the Bell Jar

I was in my early twenties when I began to hear rumblings about this poet -- this amazing spirit that I needed to read about, and so I purchased Sylvia Plath’s, The Bell Jar. Reading the novel was an effort in futility. Every sentence on the page seemed to be a flashback to my teens, when the only words my moody friend had say about life was that it “sucked.” This confidant of mine, from the moment that we met at the age of thirteen, was a thrill ride of ups and downs. One minute she was skipping with joy, and the next she was threatening to end her “tragic” life. Because of those memories, I had a hard time empathizing with the central character in Sylvia’s novel. In fact, I couldn’t relate to her style at all. Some years after I had read The Bell Jar, my previously mentioned friend succeeded in taking her life. Her larger than life personality and her thrill of adventure were no match for the dark shadow of manic depression. My friend’s death was violent and tragic, and it reaffirmed my enmity to those that feel that feel suicide is the only way to make a point. Sylvia was wrong; there is no art in dying.

Sylvia Plath. Mary Wollstonecraft. Virginia Woolf. Anne Sexton. What do these women have in common other than writing? They all took their own lives, and they were present during the infancy of feminism. During a time when it was socially unacceptable to break from society’s norms regarding a woman’s place within it, these women found surviving an impossible feat. In his article Suicide Among Artists, Steven Stack states, “Artists are at a greater risk of suicide, because of their higher prevalence to mental illness” (1). Women of their caliber were thought of as unstable, or mad. Their astute passion and creativity brought about their demise, and begged the question – If one is inspired and a woman, does this mean death and destruction?

Clarissa Pinkola Estes sheds some light on how passionate and creative women survive in her book, Women Who Run with the Wolves. She explains that when a woman is brilliantly talented and adherent to the image her culture expects her to uphold – she develops a dual nature as the woman is in constant conflict with her self. Where one side is hot, the other is cold. A by product of this characteristic is “sneaking.” A woman will sneak certain portions of her personality to appease the people or society surrounding her. Estes refers to this as a “shadow life.” A shadow life occurs when the writer stops writing, or the mother stops mothering. These can have both positive and negative connotations. If the mother/wife is in a bad marriage, and the sneaking leads to her liberation, then by all means she should pursue her freedom. But if the artist ceases to create because it’s what her husband or society expects of her, then she is not doing her soul justice. She will, in a sense, explode under the pressure of trying to be something she’s not (256).

Sylvia Plath is a case of a woman who exploded under the pressure of her double life. She was a mother/wife and poet/novelist. Nothing seemed to commingle within her; the artist and the wife/mother never reconciled. Like my friend, Sylvia suffered manic bouts of depression for much of her life. This is prevalent in her Collected Poems, most especially through, Lady Lazarus (244).


The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.


Her message and intent is clear. She wants to die, and by the poem’s finish Sylvia wants the reader to know that she knows that no one is going to do anything about it. This poem and others like it are cries for help. She was sending distress signals and flares for anyone to help save her life, and ultimately no one heeded that call. This woman was ill, not pontificating for the suffrage of women.

Long before Sylvia was a married mother and poet, she was a troubled and creative girl. Communicating her pain on the page was her coping mechanism. A “tortured artist” is just that – tortured in life and spirit. Sylvia had suffered most of her life for reasons unknown, and the same goes for my friend. She was labeled an “emotional” girl at the age of two. And for no apparent reason other than a genetic disposition, she spent the majority of her life pining to die. There aren’t any poems to chronicle my friend’s plight; her story merely parallels the life of the lady poet. It’s been 30 years since Sylvia’s suicide, and women are still throwing themselves against the sword. But none of this is to win an argument or prove a point. Whether poet or construction worker they are women to be pitied, not revered.

Women worth reverence are those women who battled and beat the odds. One such woman was Sarah Bernhardt. Mme. Bernhardt was vibrant and alive during the French and German war. As Paris was under siege, she nursed wounded soldiers and helped where ever she could. She was a sculptor, painter, and world renowned actress. Beloved as she was by her fellow Parisians, Sarah was also a beloved mother. Mme. Bernhardt loved, lived, and created passionately. This passion consumed her very being, but it didn’t destroy her. She suffered bouts of melancholy and depression, but instead of succumbing to the weight, Sarah fought and clawed her back from shadowy depths. “Life is short, even for those that live a long time. Nothing kills except death, and anyone who wishes to defend herself against calumny can do so just by living,” said Bernhardt in regard to the constant criticism of her lifestyle (356). Suicide was perhaps an option at one time or another, but she didn’t give up.

Another woman who never relinquished her hold on life was the Nicaraguan poet/novelist Gioconda Belli. Under constant pressure from a corrupt government, Gioconda used her prestigious poet status as the perfect cover for her Sandinista alter ego. She lost lovers to divorce, execution and exile, and all while raising four children. As the masses were soaking up her poetry and prose, she was risking her life to free her country from dictatorships and fraudulent regimes. In her memoir, The Country Under My Skin, Gioconda states, “I lead two different lives, in two very different worlds which coexist within myself” (367). Going back to Estes description of a shadow life, one can surmise that Gioconda was more than successful in raging against the odds and defying the expectation of her culture’s demand of feminine submission. Gioconda endured hardships and unimaginable heartache, but suicide was never an alternative to surviving.

Suicide, no matter the circumstance, is the greatest of selfish acts. It has been defined as a victimless crime, as it a crime that is “committed” against one’s self. And in the spirit of Romanticism, suicide can be the fashionable, or the “vogue” thing to do. Let’s go back to the victimless crime. When Sylvia Plath gassed herself with the kitchen stove, her children were in the apartment. She barricaded herself in the kitchen, and did her best to keep the gas from leaking. Growing up with the knowledge that their mother died while they were left unattended in the other room would have a profound affect on their psyche, would it not? Wouldn’t those children then be victims for the rest of their lives? A victim is one who suffers an injustice at the hand of another – Sylvia Plath’s children, from the moment of her death, joined the ranks of the wounded. As for entertaining the notion that suicide is a fad or a craze, there is nothing mystical or chic about it. A starlet’s naked body stretched gaunt and pale in a bath crimsoned by her life’s blood should not represent a romantic image, nor should it exist as the embodiment of a strong, feminine icon.

As a woman, I have only sentiments of pity for Sylvia Plath and those women who have pursued the avenue of killing one’s self. But my compassion stops when suicide is coupled with ideologies. Feminism is the radical notion that a woman is deserving of the same rights as men. Mary Wollstonecraft, Virginia Woolf, Anne Sexton, as well as Sylvia Plath were at the forefront of the movement. Their artistic works are hauntingly eloquent, but it is the manner with which they died that leaves their words empty and shallow. Suicide is a weak and selfish death, which contradicts the strength of their inscribed convictions. I don’t love my friend any less, but any respect I had for her as woman diminished when she pulled the trigger. There in lies the rub, how can I tender my respect when actions speak louder than words?

Works Cited
Belli, Gioconda. The Country Under My Skin. New York: Anchor Books, 2003. Print.
Bernhardt, Sarah. My Double Life. Trans. Victoria Tietze. Albany, NY: New York U, 1999. Print.
Estes, Clarissa Pinkola. Women Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype. New York: Ballatine Books, 1992. Print.
Plath, Sylvia. The Collected Poems. Ed. Ted Hughes. New York: HaperCollins, 1981. Print.
Stack, Steven. “Suicide Among Artists.” The Journal of Social Psychology. 137.n1 (1997): 129(2). Academic OneFile. Web. 20 Oct. 2009.

Climb Every Mountain

The air is tight and cold, making each breath a chore. Every muscle is screeching with pain as they work to keep up with the demands of my body and mind. I’ve begun my ascent from the depths of the black abyss. I can’t look ahead, nor can I look back. Poised on the steep and jagged rock face, I can only concentrate on the cracks and crevices before me. The fear of falling is monumental, but I mustn’t focus on it. My survival depends on my willpower to rise above it.
According to the U.S Army’s Survival Manual, the first rule of survival is the will to live (1). When faced with dire circumstances, the tenacious inability to give up is the most important item in a person’s survival gear. Loneliness, fatigue, hunger and thirst are the antithesis of a strong will, and every inch relinquished to them is a nail pounded into one’s coffin. To give into to these stressors is detrimental to the well-being of a climber, and to do so would be the choice between life and death. The same could be said for one who suffers from depression.

Webster’s definition of “depression,” can be characterized in one of two ways: One, a depression is the angular distance of a celestial object below the horizon. Two, depression is a state of feeling sad with moments of: inactivity, difficulty with thinking and sleeping, and an increased or decreased appetite (Depression). When looking at the first half of the definition, let’s think of the “celestial object” as a person’s soul. The force of gravity pushes it under the horizon, and into the physical depression. As a result, the celestial body is distressed. This hinders any focus for what lies ahead. When the atmosphere compresses, the soul sinks deeper into the depression. Air is not flowing, which stalls movement. Now the first section of the definition sounds almost identical to what a person with depression goes through. Being one that has climbed a mountain, and has suffered from depression since the sudden, traumatic deaths of my two best friends – I can attest that no matter how it’s defined, a depression is not a desired state to be in. It is a mental struggle that leaves physical stress on the spirit and body. This is no different than what is encountered by a mountain climber.

Muscle fatigue, shortness of breath, and disorientation, are experienced by climbers at high altitudes. The only difference with someone who is suffering from depression is their placement in regard to the Earth’s poles; the climber being north, and the depressed being south. Each is toiling to reach the summit of a higher peak. Both are doing their best work to clutch and pull their weight to the top. As the climber and the depressed continue upward, they are at the mercy of their environments. A climber is always threatened by the weather, an avalanche, animals, and malfunctions with their gear. Someone who is depressed is affected by the weather, their overwhelming emotional state, and holidays.
During the holidays a depressed person is more attuned to their dismal stagnation. Even when they’re surrounded by family and merriment, the despondency one suffers is as isolating as a mountain top. The first Christmas after the deaths of my two best friends was the worst holiday I’ve ever known. While watching TV, I became overwhelmed by a Hallmark commercial. Before the flashing images of a loving family sitting around an ornately decorated tree could fade out, I turned the television off. And then I cried. I wept and moaned into my pillow for those loved ones that had vanished from my life. As the sobs subsided, I was left weak and nauseous. It was as though I’d run my body through the gauntlet, but the tears were necessary. In those instances of sadness, one has to let go, or they’ll lose their grip.

To mislay ones grip while climbing is a matter of life and death. “Even as I curse the vain folly of bringing death so close, I long for the adventure, for the lightening flashes of self-possession…,” says R.R Reno in his article, A Descent in the Dark (8). From the moment they began their ascent, the depressed and climber have spurned death nearer to the pass. This is a quest like no other. Only one who has climbed to such heights knows the ecstatic joy that comes from defying the laws of gravity. Overcoming depression is akin to reaching the summit of the highest mountain under the darkness of night. And I know what it is to be in such a state. In those periods of time, all I crave is to remain curled in the fetal position. I pray for the world fall away, or to let me disappear. Then somewhere between my hopelessness and grief, the calls of greener pastures and happier meadows are too strong to ignore. Each sluggish step out of the dark is a personal triumph. Every increase in altitude is an awesome act of courage and faith in my abilities. To climb out of depression is an adventure in self-preservation, and the most masterful craft a person can hope to obtain.

Conquering depression is as rewarding as it is challenging, and is the greatest achievement one can strive for. When all hope seems lost, even the slightest amount of resolve will save an individual from the defeat of death. Rising from the ashes of murk and shadow, to soar with the sun, rouses a feeling unlike any other. It takes endurance. Strength of character is required, and stubborn determination is needed to succeed. One simply doesn’t wake up at the top of a mountain; a person has to fight to reach such great heights. At any moment the climb can be encumbered with an avalanche of negative emotion, or paralyzing fear. But it is the will to survive that casts these dangers to the psyche aside. As the last hoist is heaved and the final breathless step is taken, there is no greater reward than the sight of the world below.

A patch-work quilt of beige and kelly-green lay on the ground below the summit. The clouds meander about at the level of my eye, and the sun is close enough to touch. Assessing the horizon before me I know there is no way but down. The landscape is a winding maze of peaks and valleys, but this is not a troublesome revelation. I have scaled a mountain of melancholy, and armed with this knowledge I am poised to triumph over any crag that assaults my path.


Works Cited
“Depression.” Webster’s New College World Dictionary. 4th ed. 2002. Print.
Reno, R.R. “A Descent in the Dark. (mountain climbing).” Commentary 126.4 (Nov 2008): 24-33. General OneFile. Web. 29 Sept. 2009
United States. Department of Defense. US Army Survival Manual: FM 21-76. Washington: US Department of Defense, 2003. Print.

What's Up Doc?

The laughter is at once both obnoxious and mocking. What was to fill a room with jubilant exertion is now a charcoal grey object of condescension. The stationary rubber belt stutters with a disdainful snit at the push of a button. Another scornful snicker and this loathsome treadmill’s welcome will be worn thin.


It is a worn out welcome indeed. The desire to be thin and in shape has turned into a manic practice in the United States. One hears the words “obese” or “fat” and there is a mad dash to the nearest sporting goods store for the latest in weight loss equipment. The treadmill -- the most convenient and logical choice -- is purchased. Once it’s nestled in its new room, the games begin. It’s there to kick-start a body’s metabolism and boost moral within a person’s psyche. But for those that lose more interest than weight, the treadmill becomes a symbol of mockery and failure. The frantic battle of flub and chub versus svelte machine is reminiscent of the classic Warner Brother’s cartoons starring a rabbit and a hunter who speaks with a lisp.


Elmer Fudd is Warner Brother’s champion of failed endeavors and speech impediments. No matter how he tries, Elmer is continually outwitted and maliciously teased by Bugs Bunny. It is the nature of their existence to play against one another. Where Elmer is floppy and awkward, Bugs is quick and graceful. Elmer is the yin to Bug’s yang, and so it goes for me and my treadmill. Exercise is no longer an option. This has become a war. It is a battle of wits, not survival of the fittest.


At the sounding alarm of dawn, one must be ready for battle. Every morning it’s the same old routine; keep as quiet as a whisper and walk on tip-toes. “Shush, we’re avoiding treadmill,” is the thought as one peaks around the corner on their way to the basement to start the laundry. Each small step is taken as though crossing a room filled with landmines. Midway, there’s the sensation of no longer traveling alone. A glance to left, another to the right, and yet another over the shoulder; there’s nothing there. Just shrug it off, and keep going. Then there’s a tap on the shoulder, with a glance toward the tap, BAM! Foiled again! The treadmill, in the spirit of chomping carrots and “What’s up doc,” has planted itself in the line of fire once more. It can’t wink. The treadmill can’t kiss a person on the cheek any more than it can gaily skip away, but it feels like it did just that.
Of course the treadmill had never moved from its spot in the room, but I couldn’t escape the image of that silly rabbit hopping away with a good laugh. The very sight of that immobile machine filled my heart with humiliated shame. And, as the treadmill continued to taunt me from its corner of the room, the guilt of my avoidance was no more escapable than a Wascally Wabbit in the woods.
The guilt of owning a machine that collects more dust than it does lost pounds is unavoidable. No matter how a person might try to justify their inactivity to themselves, the recollection of a befuddled Fudd always comes to mind. Bugs Bunny never ceased to serve as Elmer’s irritating adversary, and a rarely used treadmill does the same. A person can’t relax in front of the TV because they know that in the other room the treadmill is there mocking them. Every bite of dinner comes with dash of judgment and a pinch of self-loathing if desert isn’t followed by a brisk walk on the machine.


Feeling inadequate and defeated is synonymous with lackadaisical exercise habits. I know that I would fair better if I just gave in and jumped on the treadmill. It’s as simple as that. All that needs to be done is to lace up my shoes and press “Start.” But just as Elmer never gave up on his quixotic pursuit of the rabbit, I can’t seem to give up on my diversion in laziness.
Typically one isn’t terminally lazy; they’re just focusing all their energy in the wrong place. The treadmill didn’t waltz into their life with the intention of their self-deprecation. It was purchased for the pursuit of a healthier lifestyle. But the mission for a leaner, healthier body is just as elusive and side-stepping as Bugs Bunny. Elmer never failed to miss when he had Bugs in his sights and this is always the case with me. I will find anything to distract me or shift my attention from exercising; this includes writing an analogy involving a treadmill and a cartoon.


Likening the treadmill to Bugs Bunny shifted my frustration with my lack of success in getting into shape toward the machine instead of me. It’s easier to look at the treadmill with distrust and animosity than it is to look in the mirror with the same expression. The business of weight loss is serious stuff, but every now and then a person has to lighten their load or they’re never going to move. Anger and self-loathing are not motivators for me; they are the equivalent of concrete blocks chained to my ankles. I needed to brighten the mood and laugh. So instead of yielding my fate to that of flat a punch-line, I chose to include myself in the body of the joke. Thus, the inanimate treadmill became a two dimensional bunny, and a nemesis was born.


In terms of a relationship, this unassuming machine has become the Bugs Bunny to my Elmer Fudd. It’s true they are sworn enemies, but the running theme between Elmer and Bugs is that they never give up on one another. I may always resent the treadmill’s presence, but I still take comfort that its there. Besides, if the treadmill didn’t challenge and annoy the dickens out of me, it wouldn’t really be doing its job. Would it?

Language and what have you

Sometimes it’s silent. There are a thousand words expressed with the folding of one’s arms, the slanted arch of the eyebrow, and the crossing of one’s legs. A smile, a tear, a gasp, a sigh, a wink, a stuttering blink – Language, it’s not always words spoken; it’s also the mannerisms and posture of those that are communicating. A cat, for instance, with a purr or a hiss announces its contentment or fear. Language is also constantly evolving. It is a global phenomenon that spans cultures and species, and as the world changes so does the way the world communicates.

Language isn’t exclusive to humans; it is expressed by all creatures great and small. Primates, for example, are capable of learning and using sign language. Dogs and horses learn commands through training. Parrots mimic spoken words, and my cousin’s parakeet was even taught to speak his name on command. These are all instances of animals understanding the human language, but they also have their own communication style. A dog will wag its tail in happiness and/or excitement, and they will growl or bark to incite fear. A horse will snort and shuffle from hoof to hoof when it’s nervous, or nay when they’re ready to move. Birds chirp and sing to attract mates, and so on and so on. Plants, as well as water molecules, also seem to have an understanding of language and the emotions within the spoken word. Amit Goswami, PH. D. appeared in the movie, “What the Bleep Do We Know,” and discussed an experiment done with water. Bottles of water were taped with the words: Love, hate, happiness, and sadness. What scientists discovered as the bottles were spoken to with the corresponding emotion was that the shape of the molecules changed according to how they were spoken to. Following this suit are the flora and fauna species of the world. Plants appear to flourish when kind words/tones are expressed towards them. All these instances of “speech” suggest that while it is the human language being spoken; it is also apparent that there is a “universal” language that is understood by all living things.

In the United States language has changed as technology continues to evolve at warp speed, and too, Pop Culture pervades everyday living/speech. The US is a melting pot of irreverent references and peoples. Music, Movies, Television, and the Internet seem to flood the horizon with a constantly moving ticker-tape of new slang. WTF, LOL, OMG – are examples of abbreviated speech. Instead of formulating sentences people now speak in code. An example of a television show changing how we speak is Matt Groening’s, “The Simpsons.” Merriam-Webster’s dictionary in 1993 added Homer’s catch phrase, “D’oh,” to its archives. A once nonsensical expression is now considered an interjection and is “used to express sudden recognition of a foolish blunder or an ironic turn of events.” As The Simpsons has broken every record for longest running show, it will continue to influence language in the States.

Another influencing factor that coincides with Pop Culture is the number of ethnicities living within the US borders. Hispanic phrases and the African Vernacular have inundated language due in part to the Rap and Hip-Hop music scene, and also films. Filmmakers such as Quentin Tarantino, John Singleton, Spike Lee, and Tyler Perry reveal to audiences of every color/race a way of speaking they may have never heard before. Hispanic filmmakers Pedro Almodovar, Robby Rodriguez, and Guillermo del Toro have done the same for the Spanish speaking communities. These directors as well as Kevin Costner, who directed Dances With Wolves. This film and the movie Windtalkers are celluloid illustrations of Native American languages. These filmmakers show that the US does encourage the use of minority languages within its borders.

The encouragement of using minority languages seems a bit obvious as the United States of America is a Nation of immigrants, founded by immigrants. This fact implies that there is no earthly reason to ever suggest to any minority to ignore their heritage or culture. If an Irish-American wants to continue to use Gaelic when they speak then so be it, and the same goes for a Portuguese speaking family from Brazil. Yes, the majority of Americans speak English, but this country prides it’s self on its freedom of speech. That being said, if a man/woman/child wants to speak their native tongue, no one in this country has the right to tell them that they can not do so. This is also the reason why English should never be implemented as this nation’s official language. An official language discourages freedom of speech. If one is being told what and how to speak, than that same person is now excluded from this country’s first inalienable right. And once one is a citizen of the US, whether they are a minority or majority, they are entitled to this right.

Silent, loud and proud, English, Spanish, or Primate – Language is a universal form of communication that excludes no one thing. It is an entity that matures and expands within and because of the culture it is a part of. Space, facial expressions, eye contact, raised hunches, canine hisses, a laugh, a tear, a hug, a warm “hello,” a harsh “good-bye” – not one species on the planet is without a form of language or communication. Language is a creator, and without it everything is nothing.

An Odyssey in Owl Creek

The guard stands watch as the condemned man dangles from the noose wound around his neck. He closes his eyes to shut out the world around him. The gallows, the soldiers – they are no longer his concern. The man thinks only of his wife. But as the sergeant steps aside, the man’s thoughts turn to desperate delusions of grandeur. In his mind he escapes the clutches of the hangman’s noose. Our anti-hero’s hands are bound and he is struggling to free himself as he floats downstream. He is fired upon, and survives. A canon ball is no match for him, and neither is whirl pool for that matter. Safe and sound on shore the man suffers an “uncanny revelation” (910). His home land is no longer welcoming, but is a wild forest that smolders with rubies and glows with emeralds. At last this wayfarer finds himself before his home. There his wife stands bathed in an iridescent, white light, and he is struck by her blinding beauty. Then, as he takes a step to embrace this loving and peaceful vision, the man suffocates and dies. Why would these sudden moments of inexplicable valor be important? Because for a soldier it is far better to die in the midst of triumph over their enemy, than it is to die a mislead fool.
In the short story, An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge, by Ambrose Bierce, Peyton Farquhar is the man described above. And though he was unable to join the “gallant service of the Confederate Army” (904), he was “a civilian who was at heart a solider” (904). It was by no accident that he found himself at the bridge commandeered by Union soldiers. Peyton was set-up. He was fed a line by a Yankee spy, and his need to serve his fellow countrymen got the better of him. Taking his erroneous information with him, Peyton left for the bridge intending to set it on fire. One may or may not agree with his choice of sides, and one may disagree with his cause. Yes, he was a slave owner fighting for his right to continue to rob a people of their civil rights, but first and foremost he was a man fighting for his home and his family. And after all, “all is fair in love and war” (906).
In love and war there is no greater tale than Homer’s Odyssey. Set in Ancient Greece just after the Trojan War, Odysseus is the star of the epic poem. He is the Achaean soldier who developed the Trojan Horse that brought about the defeat of Troy. Aside from his compatriot Achilles, he is one of the greatest heroes in literary history. And like Peyton, his journey begins with his desire to return home. Odysseus’s voyage also takes him to such places as the Underworld, and when Peyton arrives on the shore his passage through the dark prism of the forest could very well pose as his trek through Hell. While The Odyssey spans decades, and An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge lasts only seconds, the message is the same – Hope and courage will guide you home.
Under the threat of constant adversity both heroes could have given up and succumbed to despair, but neither relinquished their hold on the faith that they would once again be reunited with their loved ones. Penelope, Odysseus’s virtuous woman, is the beacon of hope driving him back to his native soil. Peyton’s nameless Southern Belle is the equivalent of Penelope, as explained in these quotes from the text, “His wife looking fresh, cool, and sweet […] an attitude of matchless grace and dignity” (911). She is a constant in his thoughts, “He closed his eyes in order to fix his thoughts upon his wife and children” (904). Her radiant and pure presence navigates Peyton toward his final destination. Peyton’s wife is also his triumph. Despite the gallows, noose around his neck, and the stoic sentinels keeping watch over him – Peyton’s eternal optimism doesn’t waver, because he has the love of woman, and that is something worth fighting for.
But unlike Odysseus’s Odyssey, Peyton’s battle and triumph were never a reality. His journey took place in the seconds before his death, and occurred only in his mind. Part III begins with the statement, “[...] he lost consciousness and was one already dead” (907). In those unconscious moments before his demise – Peyton’s mind, refusing to accept its fate, conjures an elaborate ruse to overshadow the actual event. And what makes this relevant is that throughout history, both figuratively and literally, it is the death of the warrior that fills one with pride. Peyton could have died as the fool that fell unknowingly into a Yankee trap, but in his last minutes he is redeemed with an epic mirage that offered him a happy ending. The ugliness of his hanging is shattered “with a smile of ineffable joy” (911), and that is all anyone can ask for – The honorable death of a triumphant warrior.

I have a confession...

...to make. While I was in Florida, visiting with Amber's Family, I looked at a file that many would find...disturbing to say the least.

But before I continue, let me give you a little back history about me. When it comes to death, I need evidential proof. I am a born and raised Irish Catholic, and as someone passes away there is a wake, followed by an open casket mass. In other words, there is a body, and I see it. However unsightly some mind find this, it's what I know, it's what I am used to.

Now, when Amber was murdered all I had to go on was Dad Peck's and the Detective's word. I do realize that neither person is likely to lie about a murder, but this never appeased my mind. For four years there has been a part of me that has still be waiting for Amber to show up at my door to go grocery shopping. It's irrational, and illogical, but alas, it is what has been tripping me up and leaving me in a constant cycle of, "what the hell is happening to me?"

So while I was in Florida, I asked Mom Peck if I could look at the file that I knew contained pictures of a very violent nature. She, of course, balked at the very idea of this. "Why would you want to do that Nellie, why would you want to put yourself through that?" My answer, "Because I need to. I know it sounds horrific and awful. But I can't continue to swim in circles any longer, I'm going to drown if I don't do something drastic." Mom Peck, "Aren't you afraid you're going to have nightmares?" Me, "They couldn't be any worse than what they are now."

My heart was racing, and the bile was burning in my throat as I opened the file to the crime scene photos. Tears were on the verge of spilling, and my hands were trembling, but I didn't look away. There she was in color, the girl I loved, my friend, my best friend. I won't describe what I saw, only that it wasn't as bad or terrifying as I thought it was going to be. But it did what it needed to do, I was no longer mourning a stranger in an article I read on line, I was mourning Amber. Seeing those photos also eased my mind about her killer. Not only is he a coward, but he is a liar. And that's all I have to say about that.

Since I have been home, I have been walking around with this secret. It has affected my sleep, meaning, I hardly get any now. I'm not suffering from nightmares -- I am going through what most everyone else did when they first heard of Amber's death. Every moment up until looking at those images has been a waking nightmare. None of it was real to me, but it is now. I can say that I am actively moving forward, instead of trotting on a treadmill, and getting no where.

Many may never understand my actions, but all I can say is I did what I had to do in order to survive.