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.
Friday, April 9, 2010
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
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.
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.
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