Fleshly Things

As a rule, I try not to watch PETA videos. Although I'm sure many would disagree with me, I feel that I do not need to see the violence and torture that animals undergo in order to empathize with them or understand that it is wrong to do such things, or to support those that do. Images of violence do not have a good affect on me. I may, according to some kind of logic, as a human, deserve to have to witness the suffering that my methods of consumption are associated with, but I am not the kind of person that doesn't believe in something until she sees it -- I can very well believe something, or even believe in the possibility of something without witnessing it. If this suggests that I am weak, well then, okay. I still think that I can pretty much put it together that if the material worked with is made of fur or skin, an animal was raised in captivity and then, at some point, skinned for its pelt. I don't like this -- especially the fur part. There is no need for fur. I do not need to see the torture that animals go through in the name of fur.

Leather is not as easy for me to dismiss. I love leather. I have an unholy attachment to shoes and bags and furniture. But we will get to cows later.

I have been thinking about this for some time, and I want to become mostly vegetarian. When I eat steak, chicken, and pork, I can't help but marvel at the fact that I have no idea where this dead animal is from, how long it has been dead, what conditions it was raised and slaughtered under, and how much energy was used in the process. I have seen breakdowns that claim bovine ranching and dairy production to be the most detrimental to the environment, followed, I think, by pig and then chicken farming.

It may sound strange, but I can reasonably cut out chicken flesh from my diet. I don't really like chicken. Once in a while barbecued chicken comes into my life and I marvel at its juicy and tender texture, but I can gross out on chicken pretty quickly. Unfortunately, chicken farming is the least of my worries when it comes to ethics. I mean, I wouldn't agree with or be down with any unethical treatment of animals. For me, this includes feeding them anything other than what they naturally eat, confining them to areas they would not normally restrict themselves to, painful death, or any negligence regarding their health. I always buy organic, free range, and hormone-free chicken and eggs. Yet, I don't really adore chicken. I'm adding to animal suffering by choosing according to convenience instead of maintaining awareness.

I love steak, and some pork dishes are simply delicious -- but don't I owe it to myself to curb my cravings in order to take a stand against inhumane practices?

Yet -- yet -- I really don't want to be one of those people who simply can't eat anything, or go out, or who make veganism their religion and non-vegans their sinful counterparts. I definitely want to simplify. This may mean that I don't shop like I used to, or that I don't eat like I normally do. I just can't continue to eat and wear animals as I have in the past. I don't want to be as associated with killing and consuming as I have been.

You may wonder how I suddenly became so passionate about this. Actually, my concern has been growing incrementally. I don't eat veal or fois gras. As I already mentioned, I don't buy meat that isn't organic and hormone-free. I don't buy fur. But I have asked myself -- is it enough? Can't I do more? I don't ever want to be "done" attempting to simplify my life. I cannot throw it all up into the air at once, though. I mean, that would be traumatic. Of course my dream would be to live in tent I wove myself from cotton I farmed organically...but I have been dealt a hand that I feel I must play respectfully. The bottom line is that I love animals, and I love this planet.

The most recent National Geographic magazine had a article on the eating of endangered monkeys in Africa. The reporter remarked that one baboon that was being roasted looked disturbingly like his three year-old son. I suppose that article struck a chord with me, for I think the element of animal consumption that bothers me the most is how close it seems we come to eating eachother.

Everything is Math, or How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love Syntax

Long ago, my mom sighed and declared, "Everything is math." I was just a squeak then, and knew nothing of binary code or geometry, or grammar, also known as syntax. I simply knew things. I knew that I liked things, or to be more precise, I knew that I preferred things. I preferred reading to counting. I preferred words to pictures, but I still liked pictures. I definitely preferred words and pictures to numbers, even if those numbers were presented alongside words and pictures. Numbers were for memorizing; words were for comprehending. I do not truly believe that someone "taught" me this (way of comprehending). This, I assert, I knew.

I also assert that before I was ever taught syntax, I knew how to write. This is very clear now, as I'm struggling in syntax class, yet can still write, some might say, beautifully. Once the sentences are broken down into parts, and assigned symbols, language, this thing that I knew, disappears and becomes math, this thing that I do not know. The feeling, the spiritual connection that I have with language, becomes numb. Slowly, when things are explained carefully, I do begin to understand. But it is painful, as that part of my brain has fallen asleep, and the pricks of comprehension sort of tickle and torture my mind.


It is true -- everything is math. Everything is quantifiable. Once, a pseudo-scholar, quite like myself, and I both agreed (with little to no research or evidence) that free will is not quantifiable, therefore God exists in the presence of free will. I don't claim this statement to be true -- but it sounded intelligent at the time (self-comforting rubbish, I'm sure). Whatever its validity, it sort of communicates the feeling I have about math -- its like, I know you math, I know you're here, there, everywhere, but you aren't in my feelings, my spirit(uality), my words. I have a narcissistic relationship with language. I see myself in it, and I feel it reflects me. I think math also has a narcissistic relationship with language. It sees itself through language. Therefore, I also have a narcissistic relationship with math, except that I see math as my shadow side, a reflection of that which I identify with in a positive sense, a negative to the positive reflection. A binary representation of free-floating abstraction. The rigid to my obscene. Why the bit about God? I think it's because it's a tie to the knowing. There are things that I simply knew, without being taught. Is God quantifiable? I'm not really a good scientist. God is both the hardest and easiest thing for me to know.

As the title of this post suggests, I am learning to love syntax, and therefore, math. There are things that make me who I am that I don't like. My shadow side. Math is in there, though it's not as apparent as, say, intolerance, or hypocrisy. I think I have mistrusted math due to its rigidity, it's precise nature. I have always been more attached to Lewis Carroll's idea that a word means exactly what I want it to mean. Oh, there is a science, but there is also poetry. There is choice. There is a place for the abstraction that has no word. There is a look. There is no text where there is a text. I want to imagine that there is a place where there is no math for a word. I imagine this place to be God. I know I create it. I know.

Perhaps the most hopeful thing I can muster is that for something to be both -- the shadow and the material -- it is divine. It is a bond that we can take shelter in. Perhaps the key that unlocks the great mystery of the collective unconscious. Certainly, certainly, it is special. For me, it is home.

The Cold Ripoff, or How I Know I'm Old

I'm old and grumpy. I became aware of this sometime last night, as I, along with hundreds of others, was herded along attending a Coldplay concert.

Coldplay are a very well liked group of musicians. They resonate with people of all ages, and both sexes seem to like them with an equal fervor. The band acts as an equalizer in that way; oh, you like Coldplay? I like them too, etc. Liking them is an American pandemic. So I wasn't surprised to find out they were playing an arena show at the Forum, in Inglewood. I wasn't planning on going anyway, as I have already seen them perform twice, and I don't even have the new album.

My brother, however, loves them. (I must add at this point that it was I, back in 2000, who bade my brother listen to this incredible new album from these English lads, and it was he who replied upon hearing, "Oh.") He and I had already seen them at the Hollywood Bowl, and then again at the Coors Light Amphitheater, when he surprised me with tickets.

I wasn't going to turn him down, even though I was less than enthusiastic about going due to these facts:

It fell on a Tuesday night.

The Forum is less than comfortable.

I don't have the new album.

But, I reasoned:

They do put on a good show.

I love live music.

It's nice to get out during this grueling summer schedule, and I'm not too deep into the second session yet.

I have decided to recount my evening, because at this point I just don't know if I'll ever go to another large venue concert.

Getting from the 405 freeway to the Forum was a nightmarish gridlock with cutting and butting in, and collisions nearly missed, all the while flanked on the sides by aggressive panhandlers, scalpers, and T-shirt sellers. I swore it was the L.A. version of the border line in Tijuana. After that mess, where it took half an hour to go .9 miles, I was directed to drive all the way around the full-to-bursting stadium parking lot, and then to pull into an overflow lot, across the street, then into the lot for the Hollywood Park, two blocks away from the forum. I paid $20 to park two blocks away. MInd you, I was already sore from the extreme fitness routine I'm doing four days a week -- and I was not pleased to get to stretch my legs in this way. For $20 (parking in the Forum lot was $22).

I finally arrived at the stadium, and entered with my brother. Beers were $13, this for a Pacifico, which I believe goes for about $7 for a six-pack. Upon entering the arena, I was overwhelmed by two things -- heat, and marijuana smoke. That is one pungent herb. I don't smoke and being that it was an enclosed, stuffy, and hot place, I wasn't thrilled to be breathing everyone's resinous exhalations -- it's unsanitary. I thought to myself, it's the beginning of the show, I better use the restroom now before things really get going. This is the part of the story that I begin to feel really underappreciated by the folks who are ripping the money out of my wallet faster than I can say, one pretzel, please. There are two bathrooms for a ten thousand+ arena. I would say there were twelve stalls in the bathroom I, eventually, went into, and I imagine that the situation is the same on the other side of the area. 10,000+ people...hmm even if only 5,000 were female (this was an equally female crowd as it was a male crowd) that would mean that there was one stall for 208 women. I considered bribing someone, anyone, to let me use any bathroom, immediately. But, I did have some luck in that when I was just getting to the breaking (water) point, a very popular song came one that sent dozens of line denizens heading for their seats to listen in discomfort. That made things a little easier. A little.

Did I mention it was hot in there? I was in a tank top and capris, and I was standing still, and sweat was rolling down my face.

Did I mention the screaming? I love music. I even love my favorite bands. But the screaming. I don't think I even like raucous screaming anymore. I don't think anything is worth it, really. You're paying $80 to have severely limited access to a toilet, sweat like an athlete, and you're screaming like you've just been cured of cancer? I'm troubled by this. Didn't people pay what I paid? Don't they value the experience, and not just scream their heads off in glee because the band showed up? I mean we paid for this experience, and I'm glad the band showed up too, but I don't think I even got close to having the experience I paid for.

$130 dollars could have got me chorizo-stuffed dates wrapped in bacon, and wine, and unparalleled conversation with loved ones. No sweat, no smoke, no toilet lines, no screaming, no songs I don't know, and no gridlock, and no paying to walk two Inglewood blocks.

It's funny, Coldplay has always had a political agenda, and I've always liked that about them, especially their concerns about fair trade and the Iraq war. I wonder, though, if they care about their fans. I mean, I'm not that picky -- I'll see a show in a dive with NO toilet -- for a $10 ticket and $2 beer. The price does not indicate the experience. There has to be some quality control. I love music -- and I'm considering not going to these events anymore. It becomes insulting.

Summer's Already Half Over -- Or Half Full?

I got my final grades for the two classes I took this summer; I got an A in The Power of Masks, and a B in The History of Western Civilization. I'm pleased as punch with both. Of course I take great pleasure in the A I earned in Masks, because I worked very hard on the M. Butterfly paper. I did some fantastic research on tranvestism, but ultimately decided not to analyze the presentation of tranvestism in the play. Maybe some other time. The instructor apparently didn't find me hard to read (yuk yuk), and gave me such lovely comments as "excellent analysis," and "this is clearly your voice here," and even "great." I got full points -- the second time ever, for a paper.

The B? Well, that's okay. How much can a girl memorize in four weeks, anyway? Plus, when I'm studying fascinating works by brilliant playwrights like Hwang, it's pretty hard to stay interested in things like the Carolingian rule and how the Holy Roman Emperors in Germany were always messing around with the Northern Italian economy. I like to have an overview of history, but to be perfectly honest -- all it does it help me form arguments about literature. I mean, the world is a text, after all. And I'm sure something from that class will help next semester when I'm wading through medieval English Literature. None will compare to Jeanne, but I do hope who ever teaches that class makes it interesting; if not, it's a snoozer. Actually, no, that's not right at all. I'm taking Modern English Lit this Fall, and Shakespeare, African American Poetry and Drama, and Cultural Pluralism (I think I chose the African Diaspora), and a class on Natural Disasters. Well, whatever the case, I'm sure have a small knowledge of the mighty bloodshed that has occurred in France and Germany and Spain and Portugal and Italy and Greece and Turkey and Russia and Israel and Persia...Well -- I'm sure that will come in handy someway, somehow. But seriously, people, the Children's Crusade? They say that it's where the myth of the Pied Piper comes from. So whatever happens, don't follow the man with the flute.

Theater Teachers are Hard to Read

The professor who taught the Power of Masks humanities class that I took this past summer session was very difficult to read. I couldn't tell if he appreciated the work I did in the class or if he was somehow dissatisfied with me. I'm sure by now all who read this on-line journal of mine are aware of how much I like to interact with the instructor of any class I may take, so it may not come as some suprise that it was somewhat alarming to me when I couldn't tell positive feedback from negative feedback. Of course, I'm doing well in the class -- I think at this point I'm only four points shy of the total points possible, so I imagine that means I'm doing fine, and Blythe kind of reassured me when she asked me to remember who my competition is.

Today I gave a speech that was based on the final paper I wrote, which was an argument that the mask in Hwang's M. Butterfly is a composite of several images in the text, and that the mask is only powerful when Gallimard believes in it. For the speech I brought out the fact that we had only read the text in class, and not seen a performance of the play. Hence, from the text you could imagine the mask of "Butterfly" as combining components of Peking Opera costumes, the original impact of Puccini's Madame Butterfly (that of a Western woman in "yellow face"), the traditional dress of Chinese women, and the antithesis of the "Butterfly" mask, that of the image of Anna Mae Wong, an Asian in Western dress. I tried to underscore the idea that Song is not the "Butterfly" mask, that when he appears nude at the end of the play Song has totally lost his power as the mask lays to the side. "Butterfly" realizes its fullest potential as a mask when Gallimard puts it on, because he is the creator of the mask, and it is only the mask he is in love with. The narcissistic nature of the mask is in full force as Gallimard commits suicide as the mask's final "act."

Sometimes I get nervous when I speak, so I hope the progression of my ideas didn't get too jumbled in what probably was a too-fast delivery. I still don't know what the class thought. When the instructor asked the class to give feedback, only a couple of people offered comments -- one said that they liked the way I showed that the mask was narcissitic, and another said that it was a good analysis. Nothing was said of my speaking capabilities, so I figure I must have been too tied to my notes or lacked gestures, or something.

For the next summer session I will be taking a syntax class -- so here's to hoping my grammar will improve. I'm also taking a step-aerobics class four days a week -- maybe my physique will improve as well. After the aerobics class I will be free to apply the scholarship to my current Fall semester (and Spring, I think). Also, there's graduate school to apply for. I'm getting a little burned out -- but I can't look back. Starting in Fall, it's five English classes again -- three of which are British Lit. I made the Dean's List last semester -- let's see if I can do it again. Somehow I doubt it.