Losing Sleep

In my eyes, there is a layer as fine as brick dust, an opaque chalk that separates one person from another. But, in the same way brick dust is made up of a million particles, so is this layer. No one truly penetrates it. It bends and folds and stretches and waves eternally. We are continually adding to it. We are continually strengthening it.

In a way, it's sad that we refuse to be closer to people.

But, I don't think we can control this. It's something we're born with. Although, I do know of instances where the fog has cleared and I've felt closer to another human being than ever before. It's nice, not to be alien all the time. That is why I listen to music, why I read. Well crafted art makes you vulnerable.

I want to be a writer because people make me happy. All different people. I want to have that mutual weakening of the boundary.

Why People Have Alter Egos (Myself Included)

Her name is Scarlet.

For a long time, basically since I watched Chicago and found that I identify with Velma Kelly more than makes me feel comfortable, I decided that all the things that I want to say or do that aren't socially acceptable could be attributed to this persona. I think of her as a beautiful man hater with money to burn and a fat cigar in her perfectly rouged lips. She wears flapper dresses and three inch heels. She downs shots in bar rooms dark enough to make a person feel alive and dead at the same time.

Then, there is Elysia. Modest, fun loving, nervous, cautious, etc.

Sometimes, I (Elysia) find that Scarlet bubbles up through the cracks in my personality like magma in a fault line. But, she doesn't embarrass me, like most may think. In fact, even though people--especially my mother--have the tendency to drop their mouths in tiny "O"s of shock when I say or do something out of the ordinary, I feel a surge of pride whenever Scarlet makes an appearance. And, although her wit parallels something closer to a faux pas in civilized society, I think of it as more of an edge to my usual softness.

We all know I am pretty bizarre at times, and for those of you who don't know me that well, this little tidbit may add another layer to the cake that is my cracked personality. But, I am not the only one with a selective split psyche.

-Miley Cyrus *Hannah Montana

-Beyonce *Sasha Fierce

-Garth Brooks *Chris Gains

-David Bowie *Ziggy Stardust

Look at writer's who have pen names, actors and actresses who play characters over and over again (Sacha Baron Cohen for example). To me, it seems that everyone needs the storage space that is an 'alter ego.' These personas have the potential to be vehicles for our desires and whims, those that are perhaps too odd for our friends and families to handle. For others, these personas are like experiments, a fake person for them to attempt something on or with, before they attribute their own fragile name to their exploits. Either way, I think everyone should keep an open mind to alter egos--even if you just keep a journal of what you'd like to do through that person. An alter ego is like an outlet. If you don't choose this route, choose another.

It's only human (and healthy) to have some form of creative expression.

Coolness Personified

Why, in the name of all things holy, are writer's so effing cool?

That less than revolutionary thought occurred to me today as I was sitting in a cramped room in the Letterman building listening to published authors read their works. The room was overstuffed with vegan, bracelet wearing, non-conformists in Chuck Taylors. The smell of narcissism polluted the air. I imagine it to be quite similar to the ambiguous scent of broccoli, because after all we are all too high-brow to actually manufacture sweat. Is this an image we, as writer's or artists, try to project? Or, are we simply, by our own standards this bad ass?

I like to think of it as a combination of both.

How the hell do you picture a writer? Hunched over a Mac in a Starbucks, hammering letters into flurries of life changing words? Maybe writers are defined by the genre they prefer--like the ever glamorous world of smut romance (or as my grandmother once said, "the books with those women that look like they could use half my sense, and the pannies I wore today.")? I like to think of these women as scorned housewives writing by the light of their clunking dryers. Regardless, writers have to be a bit off kilter. It's kind of like a selling point for them. If you're a perfectly sane person with an average life, who wants to hear what you have to say?

But really. I mean REALLY? It's not at all like there are guidelines to acting like a writer. You know,
Step 1: buy clothes at good will.
Step 2: eat things that never had a mother.
Step 3: listen to bands that are "tortured," or anything from the sixties (or the sexties...once again, thanks grandma).
Step 4: enjoy Kafka.
Step 5: drink soy milk and espresso...never together of course.

This is the biggest load of crap I have ever heard. That is why I really respect people who are genuinely screwed up. That probably sounds a lot more terrible to you than I meant but here comes the explanation...I love writers who can admit to their narcissism. I love writers that appreciate the English language so much that they give it a break and use words like cool and dick. I love writers that smell like Trader Joe's (even though I scorn vegans and vegetarians). I love writers that are lazy and disorganized. I love writers that actually have to shop at Good Will because they are "honing their craft." And the list goes on.

Writing is similar to the art of going to the bathroom...you work at it, you grunt a little and then you really have something. I couldn't imagine my life any other way, and even though I poke fun at them, I truly love every struggling writer in battered sneakers as much as the ones that wear space boots.

We are all on a journey together whether we know it or not. In the end, the road may lead to fame and fortune (fingers crossed), but it could also lead to self discovery. Which, I think is infinitely more important.

P.S. To all those who are brave enough to not eat animals or their by-products: I respect you more than you know. In fact, barring a discussion with the psychiatrist I don't have but desperately need, let's call my "scorn" a facade for despairing envy.

Satisfied.

I have spent a large portion of the past two days learning about Vietnam. In fact, I will spend a large portion of this semester learning about Vietnam. It's not that I mind it...actually, I am really enjoying this study. It is an opportunity to delve into a world so very different from my own; full of people and ideas that I have never even considered.

Everyone in the US over the age of ten, knows about Vietnam--even if it's just the fact that we fought a war there. However, do they know anything about the smattering of identities that the people of Indo-China have been wading through all of their existence? Do they know that Vietnamese society functions like a large family, stemming from actual family life to the way political structure is facilitated? If they do, then good for them.

I guess, I am just amazed at all the things I am beginning to understand about cultural relativism (a great part of being an Anthropology major, is I get to throw around words like "cultural relativism," "ethnocentrism," and "enculturation"). For example, today in one of my literature classes, I connected the idea of schema to a debate about theory and opinion. Basically, a schema is a figurative map that anthropologists use to understand a culture. They take a specific event and then through observation and discussion with the people of that culture, they rank the connotative definitions of that event on this "map." In essence, it's alot like getting into the heads of the natives concerning things like family life and subsistence. Anyways, I figured that a theory must be culturally relative for it to have significance.

i.e: The theory that women would make good voters is a conquered subject. Beating a dead "cultural" horse gets us nowhere in the advancement of society through theory.

So, these epiphanies, if you will, are really reaffirming my choice in a double major. Even if I don't keep the Anth...I am still excited for the potential!

Also, today, I decided that I'd like to try to work abroad this summer. I am thinking about a job as an Au Pair, or something in Sweden with my friend Jenny. I am very ecstatic!

P.S. The next post I make will be about a woman. And readers...if you're out there in the void of cyberspace, feel free to make suggestions!

Stop. Hammer Time.------- Just kidding.

Ok. Breathe.

To my multitudinous mass of multicultural, card carrying aficionados...or my three followers, what have you, I want to warn you that this post will be a bit different than anything else I have attempted. You see, while I feel that my last five posts were examples of "decent" writing, I do not think that they impressed much meaning to those of you who read religiously...aka Dad. Yes, I stuck to my original goal--describing the aspirations of women that long before I, or even my grandmother, stepped foot on this Earth, managed to prove that women were and are worthy of competing and challenging men. However, I think that I could be a bit more creative. I mean, if you want to learn about Belle Boyd, you could go to Wikapedia just as easily as my site.

Look, what I want to say is, I want you reading my blog because you're interested in what I have to say...my perspectives and how I articulate them. I don't want you reading simply because you're curious who Joan of Arc is...grab an encyclopedia if that is the case. Don't waste your time here.

Whew...glad I got that off my chest...as cliche as that sounds.

Now, on to bigger brighter things...in a sense.

~

The thing weighing on my mind right now is the vulnerability of family, and really our whole outlook on what certain abstract emotions are--like loyalty or even love. I was sitting at my desk earlier and I was eating chocolate (of a certain brand that rhymes with above). This particular brand has an outer foil wrapper that has the brand name on the outside and a cutesy, make-you-want-to-vomit-confetti-and-pink-balloons saying on the inside. After I really noticed these sayings (I must have ripped through 15 pieces before I saw the writing), I made it a game to try to find one that made sense and actually had worth.

So, eventually, I was sick to my stomach and I had read everything from "Too much of a good thing is wonderful," to "Think of everyday as Sunday." Now clearly these two statements are misleading. Too much of a good thing...aka chocolate...gives you a stomach ache; or too much of my mother...sometimes the same response. And, what about the other? If we treated every day like a Sunday, nothing would get done. Who would build roads and buildings? Who would teach children? We might as well be pious Neanderthals.

Out of stupidity or perhaps a degraded sense of will power weakened by massive amounts of sugar, I opened one more. This one I ripped. After pushing the two pieces back together, I saw that it had said, "The most enjoyable experiences are often free." Now this, these seven words are so achingly true that I became enraged at my own lack of self control. Why had I ripped this stupid foil? Was it because I had given up...relinquished the thought that "Above" chocolate could come up with something meaningful?

Honestly, I am not sure. I could have drawn numerous deep, intellectual conclusions from that fatal mistake of my flawed, human fingers, but I didn't. Instead I thought about family.

Why is it that our families are so seemingly two faced? Like those chocolates, they are one thing for a long time and then you finally find the meaning. As children, we are so self-centered. We view the world from eyes that have only seen our mother's sweet face and our father's briefcase. To us, the world is made up of the same family dynamic we grew up with. Then, we become fledgelings...we leave and we return with new feathers and new sensibilities. This is when things change.

One thing I learned from those chocolates is that I can't be too eager, but I can't be passive aggressive. When the time comes that I can finally understand these differences between the family I knew and the pod of people seen by the outside, I must be diligent and careful. I cannot tear this new identity so the world is able to slip it's filthy, unconstrained hands into my life. I am both the outsider and the insider. I can change and make change.

It is my duty from each perspective.

P.S. I will still include some posts about women and their acheivements. I am a quasi-feminist afterall!