georginasand | Entries tagged with old guard- treatise

" We'll all grow up someday, Meg. We may as well know as know what we want"~Amy in Little Women

I listen.
I listen over tea, or dinner, or homework, or the invariable ten minute walk to class, or Meeting, or rehearsal.
I listen and I proofread papers, run lines, and take up sleeves. I give hugs and some advice. I am proud and "disappointed" (never,of course, angry. Just disappointed).
I laugh, and I laugh, and I "knock, breathe,shine, and seek to mend,"
and I listen.

As Anne Edwards says in The Sparrow "I've turned into the semi-mom of an odd bunch of children." And I love it.

When i imagine anything about my life in ten years it involves a kitchen table

This ability to listen is, I know, a talent and a gift for which I am very grateful. I don't think there is a production or a grade in my entire life that I am more proud of then the listening that I have done and the ways I have been able to help my friends.

But there (as there always is) a catch. I know more about most of my friends than I think a lot of people do. And as a result I know more about their friends (some of whom I am also friends with) than they know I do. When a close friend starting dating The Boy Scout, he joked that I must be on some sort of committee created to analyze his behavior. And I can take confidence keeping to Olympic championship levels.

But I don't give confidence. I rarely talk about myself and when I do I regret it. I either regret it during and waste a lot of breathe apologizing profusely. Or I regret it after and end up feeling like I have shared too much about myself.

Same goes for helping. I will read papers, take up sleeves, fix jackets, listen for hours at all hours of the day or night, make and keep promise with joy. I love it; it genuinely makes me happy. But I get plagued with guilt if I ask the same of anyone else. Like clearly The Roommate, with whom I am very close (would trust with my live, soul, and light designs) is going to think I am lazy if I ask to borrow her bike when she isn't using it because she is slaving away in that chem lab of hers.

So what gives.

I don't want to end up bitter because I give so much of what I want but can't (for what ever silly reason) receive. And I love, more than even I have words to express, this aspect of my life. It is, without a doubt, the most salient aspect of my life, the part that makes me feel real, regardless of whatever else I am doing. I assures me that I am real and good and loved. But this thing, this catch, it nags.

So what gives.

I remain,
Georgie

“We are most true to ourselves when we are inconsistent" ~Oscar Wilde

Shockingly, enough people are weird. And more than that they are human, fallible, and fragile, I just think the world ought to know that. Or know that I know that.

I am mediating by nature. I really hate to see people upset with each other, especially when it is clearly a misunderstanding. I have been striking friendly peace-treaties between friends since about third grade. Apparently, I also listen well. It's weird, and I don't know where it comes from, but there it is. As a result, I've been put in the middle of what would be, were it not for my knowledge of the statement I opened my post with, incredibly awkward. But they weren't and it made me realize things about human nature that I feel are worth writing about (also, did I mention that I haven't posted since august? I don't know how it got to be November, really).

I have a very interesting relationship with Christianity; think theology is very interesting so I have been attending a discussion group one of my friends runs called "Christian Faith and Doubt." More often the Token-Catholic (who is the co-leader of the group) and I (The Funky-Protestant-Turned Jew-Turned Quaker-Turned who really knows anymore) are diversity among six or seven main-line Protestant, Youth Group raised, but also very perceptive, very intelligent girls. This week's topic was about what it means to be a Christian.

Let's just say this is a divisive topic, way more than I expected. I came to the discussion hoping for answers, rather than with something to contribute. I am revisiting Christianity (it went out the window with my childhood church and my belief in a simple theology in about sixth grade) more than I ever expected, and I am trying to figure out if Christian is something I want to call myself or can reasonably call myself.

(I am in the awkward position of really liking a lot about liberal Christianity, except that divinity of Christ part, which is a whole other post. In some ways I am a messianic Jew in reverse: they want Christ without the Christianity, and I want Christianity without Christ. This is a problem. I can't ask the Christians that I have been hanging out with (and by hanging out with I mean going to Taize services with) to be anything less than they are, which is fully Christian. But I also can't ask myself to be any more than I am which is not Christian.)

So the discussion moved towards the difference between someone who IS Christian and someone who IS NOT Christian, and there was, as could be expected differences about what is the tipping point between what is and what is not: The Trinity? So much for the Mormons, Rest on Sundays: So much for the Seventh-Day Adventists, The Golden Rule: Well, that's pretty universal. The particulars of the discussion are unimportant, but things were said and they heard as exclusionary, even if they weren't meant that way.

So at about 8:30 my mediating "C'mon guys this isn't worth killing each other over" instinct sent in and no one really intended to hurt anyone's feelings, so we got through it. But more than anything, the leaders of the group felt like they had behaved badly, and they had put me in a funny place by having to mediate (they don't know much of the theological stuff) and made it clear that they were apologetic.

Maybe the leaders did behave badly, I don't think they did, but maybe they did. And maybe I should have been uncomfortable with the fact that I had to mediate a little, but I wasn't. And I really didn't mind being in the position I was, it was natural and normal and instinctual. The discussion is clearly a fraught one, but I don't think we should shy away from it because of that, or even more so for fear of making people uncomfortable. That's how we learn and grow, by being uncomfortable, by getting upset, by letting each other know that we are upset and dealing with it. By accidentally upsetting people, taking it with good graces, and dealing with that. And by letting ourselves be the fallible, fragile, weird people we are.

I remain,
Georgie

"The American Revolution was a beginning, not a consummation. ~Woodrow Wilson

No, incidentally, it's not the fourth. But I am working at a summer camp in the middle of the Appalachian Mountains and haven't had time to write as much as I would like. And it's still July, so I don't consider myself obscenely tardy.

I have probably already mentioned this, but I am working as a sailing counselor at a summer camp for two months. I went to this camp for seven years, and my mother was a camper for many many years, so campfire smoke and rhododendron are in my blood. This camp, as evidenced by out song book, must have been little-hippie central in the sixties and seventies. If there is an anti-war protest song it is in our song book. And after an only slightly painful rendition of”The Star-Spangled Banner," we sang every one of them on the Fourth of July.

And on that note, I'd like to point something out: The signing of the Declaration of Independence was the beginning of a war, not the end of one. It was the beginning, in fact, of a very long, very bloody, and at time both very cold and very hot. It was an awful, albeit arguably necessary, war that was incredibly expensive in both lives and funds for, not two, but four countries. There is not a song by Peter, Paul and Mary that can begin to describe it. And if we wanted a holiday that celebrated peace, love and unending happiness, there are a lot to choose from: October 19 the day Cornwallis surrendered at Yorktown or even September 3 the day the Treaty of Paris was signed. January 14, November 25 are all dates associated with the end of the war, the beginning of the United States of American with the added bonus of being events Simon and Garfunkle would be willing to celebrate?

But they aren't the days we celebrate, and I think that is very significant.

It means that Independence was real for us (or for the US) before it was real abroad. We had convinced and united ourselves and that's what made independence real. There is no doubt that there was a war to fight; that we had to prove our Independence, but it also means that this "United We Stand/Divided We Fall" jazz has more gravity that just bumper sticker fodder. We celebrate Washington and Hancock and Jefferson on the 4th because they are obvious heroes. But without John Dickinson's (delegate from Pennsylvania, Quaker and wouldn't vote for action that would cause a war) absence or New York’s (had not yet received orders from the colonial legislature to vote aye) abstention there is nothing in the wide world Hancock, Adams, and Jefferson could have done towards a unanimous vote short of homicide (we may see murder, yet.) And by celebrating our Independence on the 4th of July rather than the 19th of October or the 3rd of September, we celebrate their actions to Independence, if not for it. (Note: John Dickinson will fight in the Continental Army and then write the Pennsylvania plan for the Constitutional Convention).

I think was our ability of ours to recognize Independence within ourselves, whether we supported it or not, that saved us much of the trouble that Latin America and Africa are seeing as they fight ongoing wars of independence. Although the war was bloody, costly, and one we were largely not prepared for, we were united, had a hierarchy and government in place. We "hung together" and were prepared for a victory. Independence already existed and that independence we celebrate on the Fourth.

However, it ought to be noted in the midst of the pomp and parade of the 4tht of July, that a war, several depending on who you asked, were fought to prove that Independence. And the plethora of dates I listed earlier indicates that Independence is not instantaneous. Benjamin Rush, who is consistently one of my favorite Founding Fathers in the history of fathers founding things, wrote of independence as "The Republican experiment". Declaring Independence did not equate with Independence existing, which did not guarantee the survival of the union (as Jefferson Davis was so kind to demonstrate). And the survival of the nation thus far (233 years) does not guarantee our existence tomorrow or for eternity. (What have we got that the Mayans and the Romans didn't?)

The experiment is still playing out; every decade is a new trial with new variables and we are continually declaring our Independence.

I remain,
Georgie

Current Mood: Patriotic
Current Location: Old North Church

"'Tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings...to which supply admit me Chorus to this history, who Prologue-like your humble patience prays..." ~Shakespeare, Henry V

It wasn't a perfect dress rehearsal, but they were the imperfections one hopes for in final dress, the ones that will ensure a smooth opening: droped lines, droped entrances, dropped scenes (I'm not sure if we ever found 1.11, but I think it turned up in the second act somewhere). None the less, I'd like to think the Bard would have been proud of us. It rained today, so the final dress rehearsal of our outdoor production of As You Like It happened on a bare stage, under fluorescent lights in a round theater. So much was it like the Globe, I was half expecting the ghost of Richard Burbage to appear and give us the Prologue to Henry V. I could have done a lot with a Muse of Fire that night. Granted I am a Shakespeare dork, but it was so cool to see the play as it was supposed to be: just people and words, words, words.

This week I have had approximately twenty pages to write and that show that I am stage managing. As a result I have been tired and grumpy and cynical and short. (I am, not usually like this. I am usually optimistic, have had at least 7 hours of sleep, and am 5'8", or at the very least can pretend) Living in the close sort of community I do, people are bound to notice this, and living in the wonderfully close sort of community I do, people are bound to comment on it with concern. So I am trying to figure out how to explain why I put myself through this, and by this I mean theater show weeks.

But people get bewildered when you say "yes, I am stressed and miserable but it is worth it." i am perfectly willing to own that this week has been more or less miserable. I've been tired, and frustrated, and borderline sick. The theatrical process is so unbelievably screwed up. It involves late nights last minute changes and being 85% sure the show is good and 15% in a state of sheer panic. Even the best director or stage manager who plans like crazy can't avoid the disasters that are bound to occur. It's inherent in the process. And what is a bit hard to explain in casual conversation is how much I love this process, and "love alters not when alterations finds." I have tried, believe me, to fight the process. I make checklists, I color code, and triple check pre-set lists and props plots. But I am still in the costume shop at 11pm hemming pants or up at 8am running lines with a panicky actor.

The finished product of a theatrical performance is a fragile, beautiful, and miraculous thing and I love that. I love it, "when the story is good, and the audience is listening." But really I am in it for the panic attacks at 5 minutes to places, and the hours of rehearsals in this case in wind and Minnesota afternoon sun. I like watching the play form and take place and even more than that, I love getting to shape it. And yes, it is worth a week on five hours of sleep and a B- in sociology, and it will always be worth it.

I remain,
Georgie

Current Mood: sleepy
Current Location: backstage
Current Music: "There's No Buisness Like Show Buisness" Annie Get Your Gun

"Enthusiasm: a distemper of youth curable by small doses of repentance in connection with outward applications of experience"~ Ambrose Bierce

A bulletin today caught my eye today, because it presented an issue of activism that, I think, is rarely considered, especially by students.

I go to a small American liberal arts university, and they aren't hiding the fact that we are being trained to save the world. Convocation addresses fall in to two much related categories: either "the human race is destroying the earth" and/or "you are going to save the world." And a lot of people have embraced that spirit. Thank goodness, because someone has to do it, and I doubt it is going to be me.

But this poster raised an important question: "Does student activism actually do any good (read: do senators actually read/ consider the letters written by nineteen year olds), or are we just rationalizing to make ourselves feel better?"

It is my humble opinion that although we are teenagers (or very recently teenagers) we are still human; we rationalize. And that is not necessarily a bad thing. The genocide in Darfur, or issues of sexual violence in the Congo are issues on a scale that we can not even imagine, never mind solve, but we have been raised to believe "that to those much is given much is expected." We know we've had life handed to us on a silver platter, and we want to do something in return. Even if letter to the Minnesota legislature will do nothing for rape victims in central Africa, it is a worthy spirit to foster.

It should not be discounted that many major revolutions (and Woodstock) in recent history have been driven by students. We have a unique perspective fostered by unquenchable optimism and homework to procrastinate (I should be studying for a French preposition test, as we speak) are capable of getting things done. If three students can get thirty-five couples to waltz spontaneously in a dinning hall because they sat down late one Sunday night, and propelled by a musing, said "wouldn't it be cool if...", imagine what they could do with a that same spirit, a little more direction, and some grant money. We are of an age, and live in a time, in which "ifs" can become "thens" more readily than we expect.

But we also we are young. Many of us have seen more of the world than our grandparents at this same age, and as a result understand an incredible amount of international complexity. But we ought to be cautious before we impose on the world those ideals held with a force known only to twenty-something; the world is ours to shape but that does not exempt the possibility of screwing the whole thing up. The world is not our chemistry kit to experiment on with acknowledging the consequences on those we aim to aid. But we should not deprive the world of our vision and enthusiasm, when perhaps it needs it most, for fear of collapsing the international infrastructure or apocalypse.

I remain,
Georgie

Current Mood: enthousiastic

“Anyone who has never made a mistake has never tried anything new.” ~Albert Einstein

In rehearsal today I read and walk through the part of an absent actor with sketchy blocking notes (I know, Cappy, you taught me better, but it wasn’t my book) and little acting ability. After I apologized to Hephzibah for the umpteenth time for screwing up she said, “Don’t worry about it, you’re learning,” and meant it. I almost burst into tears. At dance I nearly ripped off the Flying Dutchman’s arm (granted he was trying to do a death dip), and after, again profuse apologies, I was reminded that it was a new dip and I’m “still learning.” I continually stand on the sides of social dance, terrified to ask people I do not know to dance because I fear they will lead a step I don’t know, but knowing full well that is the only way to learn those steps.

I refuse to believe that my expectations for myself are too high. I am capable to of nothing short of them, and know that sometimes “it’s not enough to do your best, you must do what is required of you” (Churchill). But I have lost the ability to attempt things I can not reach the first time, and as I result have lost the ability to learn the things I need to.

I remain,

Georgie

"Simply having children does not make mothers." ~John A. Shedd

I have spoken before of the fact that true families are those with whom we have life, not necessarily blood, in common, but never really expounded on the subject. It is a vast one.

The average age of a college population is about 20.5, not including professors, so parental units are a bit hard to come by. That is not say they don't exist, you just have to look a little harder for them, and be willing to let them be when they appear.

They are the ballet teachers who, although they see you no more than three hours a week, seem to know when your midterms are (...and remind you to study), your boyfriend situations (and remind you about Valentines Day), remind you to "be careful" over the weekend (including significant eyebrow raising). I'm in a ballet class this term with those who have never taken a ballet class before, and it has been "often enjoyable and always interesting" to watch them wrap their minds around not only the technique, but the culture of a ballet class. Since I was little I had ballet teachers interested in my life. You life outside of a studio affects how they dance so they make it their business to understand both. Deanna knew what IB subject exams I had on which days, so I was not at all surprised when our ballet teacher wished Katie (names changed to protect the innocent... or not) good luck on her psychology midterm. Katie didn't remember telling her it was coming up.

They are the costumes wardrobe supervisors who inform you, that”you are allowed to swear" when the button holer won't function. (I swear, that thing was possessed), who establish a five o'clock Chocolate break, because "that is usually the time of day that you need a little chocolate." And that don't laugh at you when you sew (and press, and hang on a hanger, Gd know how) a sleeve upside down. This is more than I can say about my real mother.

They are the directors who remind you to drink water (note to self: drink water), take vitamins (note to self: take vitamins), and not, under any circumstances get sick (not to self: don't get sick), and give the necessary disapproving look when someone starts the "mother pheasant plucker" (say that ten times fast) tongue twister. They tell you that you are important and useful and ruthlessly competent, and that you're other parents, biological or theatrical, trained you well and they you do them proud.

They are the other three girls, young as you, foolish as you, and as full of it as you are, that try to be mothers to the lawless and wonderful boys that call themselves your children. Who will squeal with you when "your boys" dressed in their Mid-Winter Ball finery, remind you of your fathers. Looking equal parts dignified, mature (The Fuzzy Syrian in a suit coat puts his hands in his pockets exactly like my father), and awkward as D in a tuxedo.

I remain,
Georgie

Current Mood: Filial
Current Music: No Child of Mine- Marianne Faithful

“You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you might find, you get what you need" ~The Rolling Stones

I started this journal at the suggestion, nay dare, of a very good friend (Merry, I'm looking at you). She was leaving the country soon (by which I may or may not have meant months and months in the future at the time of the journal's inception, but it seemed all too soon. Still does, actually) and this would be a good way to keep in touch. I had no idea what that journal was going to do, besides somehow bridge a eight time zone, two continent, and one large ocean sized gap.

Maybe I thought I'd start writing fiction again. This girl's been foisting x-files fanfic off on me since maybe the second day I'd known her, and more often then not they came in the form of links to livejournals. I'd always sort of wanted to be a fiction writer, I've made up stories in my head for when real life wasn't interesting enough since I was very little, probably since before I was old enough to realize the stories, real or otherwise, were all in my head. But fiction never really took, I never got the hang of “show, don’t tell.”

But despite the fact that fiction was, until recently, really the only way I understood non-academic writing, I keep accidentally telling people I am a writer, and it's because of this blooming' journal. (Merry? I'm still looking at you) I can tell people that I’m a history geek and once I rattle off enough random facts about the Founding Fathers they understand what I mean. I can tell people I am a ballet dancer, show them my feet, and they understand what I mean. I can tell people I am a thespian and after a detailed description and a “no, no, thespian…with a‘t’” they understand what I mean. But I tell them I’m a writer who doesn’t write stories and we are both a little lost.

Merry got it first, said it first, gave it a real name or at least a name more real than "someone who blathers about her life in hopes of saying something intelligent," in one of her early comments. And she called me an essayist.

But what exactly does it mean to be an essayist. The essay as we know was introduced by Michel de Montaigne in the 1500's. His work, published in a massive volume entitled Essaies, was characterized by a discursive style, a lively conversational tone, and the use of numerous quotations. Let’s see: discursive style? Check. Lively conversational style? Conversational, yes. I can't always promise lively. Use of numerous quotations? Check. Yep, definitely got that covered. He called his publication, and consequently his art, Essaies. From the French verb essayer, to try. An essay is a trying, an attempt, to explain something, to prove something, to make sense out of the world in which the essayist live.

Papers are what I write for school, essays are what I write here. It is astonishing how much these letters have helped me try to solidify and articulate how I see the world. It isn’t necessarily what I thought I wanted when I started this journal, but it’s what I needed.

I remain,

Georgie

Current Mood: content
Current Music: the Rolling Stones

"Humor is also a way of saying something serious" ~ T.S. Eliot

Recently Barack Obama and John McCain spoke at the Alfred E. Smith Memorial dinner. It's an annual white tie affair at the Waldof-Astoria hotel in New York to raise money for Catholic Charities, and it is all ways a stop on the campaign trail. (See requisite West Wing episode of the same title.) Although Mr. Smith showed support for candidates of both parties, he was a Democrat himself but supported Landon over Roosevelt because of the New Deal, the dinner has not always been a cheerful place for politics. This is where Democrats and Catholics have come to blows over whatever issues they are coming to blows over these days, and where George W. Bush began his career of cringe worthy quotes with the infamous "some people call you the elite, I call you my base" comment about the attendees of that years gala. And let's face it, he may have had a point, it's a white tie gala for rich New Yorkers at the Waldorf Hotel.

But this year, in the midst of an election at an intensity level not seen since "Jefferson and Burr, supporting terrorism since 1801," the air was a little less tense. Both Obama and McCain made eloquent, insightful speeches that involved poking fun at themselves, each other, and the campaign process as a whole. Statements included “My only fault is that sometimes I am just too awesome” from Obama, and “Oprah Winfrey called him ‘the One’ I just call him ‘that one’” from McCain. The audience laughed, they both laughed, Hilary Clinton looked a lot less tired, they played off each other’s jokes, there were no short tempers or hurt feelings.

This is peace for our time. My roommate just commented that the polls open in less than 48 hours. So go, vote, vote for whom ever you want, vote for Nadar or Donald Duck, exercise your democratic rights and responsibilities. “To those whom much is given, much is expected” and as a nation we’ve been given a lot.

So here is what I expect. This country is in danger like it hasn’t been in since the Civil War. When the polls close on Tuesday half the country will be overjoyed and half will be beside themselves, and there will be very few in the middle. Whoever wins has a task of Herculean proportions ahead of them. Which is not to say it cannot be done, as other president has pulled us out of trouble like this before. But for the sake of whoever wins can we please, for just a few weeks, months come together behind who ever it is who wins. We complain that candidates are never who they really are on the campaign trail, and as harmful that dishonesty, can’t we perhaps hope that they can be better in reality than campaigning, can’t we give them the chance to prove that they can uphold their oath to “preserve, protect, defend” the Constitution before we go fanatical on them.

I am all for dissent, the 1^st Amendment, as frequently as it is misinvoked, is among the dearest. And I have no objection to abandoning a president who can’t do the will of the people. But we cannot expect our President to run a country that will not even try to support him.

So come Tuesday, vote, watch the returns, participate in a political discussion that is unprecedented in scope and intensity, and thank Gd that you can. Remember that no matter who wins we stand on the brink of history, and all in all have a lot to be proud of. But also listen to how others are reacting and remember that who ever wins we’re stuck with him for the next four years (Really, it could be worse, we could have a president for life). It is really hard to run more than one country at once, the least we can do it give him one country to run, one people to govern.

I remain,

Georgie

Current Mood: pensive
Current Location: Philadelphia
Current Music: Fanfare for the Common Man- Copland

"Past tense means you used to be nervous" ~ Anonymous (Once I read a quote credited to Anon and spent ten minutes on wikipedia trying to figure out who he was)

The boys on my floor, particularly the Flying Dutchmen, have made a habit of trying to scare the living daylights out of me, would probably scare the dead daylights out of me too, but they aren't that ambitious. This is a habit that they practice at any moment since they learned that I am a bit on the jumpy side. Stepping through the steam of a recently put out fire to appearing horizontally around my door frame, if it will make me scream or dissolve into a fit of giggles they will do it. This of course embarrasses me to no end, because...well I like to think of myself as a strong and brave person, which I am in some cases, but this is not one of them.

I am jumpy because I am a ridiculously tense person. Merry is the only person I know who is more tense, and only because her body is on crusade to drive her up a wall. That and she watches more sci-fi than I do, so he brain rushes to worst case scenarios only slightly faster. Part of why I am so tense is physcological. I am terrified of people, I don't know why... so hands off Freud, and it is the natural tendancy to tense up around things that scare you. Let's face it, I spend a lot of time around people. I associate relaxing with letting my guard down. It has only been of late that I can handle hugs, thanks to several really touchy friends and their sheer persistance, but before I couldn't tell the difference between a hug and an outright attack. The other half is physical, muscle memory. I have going on ten years of ballet teaching teaching me not to be relaxed. And yes, I understand the irony that you have to be relaxed to dance and that I dance to blow off steam, but as much as is about art and asthetics, ballet is about pain, and stretching, and fighting to make your body do something that it shouldn't be able to do,but you're a dancer so by sheer force of will and a little bit of theatrical magic, you'll do it. So on top of the fact that my muscles have largely forgotten how to relax, I equate relaxing with giving up.

Being uptight is how I get things done. My former co-costume crew-chief has asked me innumerable times (read: at least once) to "go smoke some weed and mellow out." She was kidding, but she wasn't. I don't get stressed, but I get focused (that is to say, zen damnit) and then I am a not so relaxed force to be reckoned with.

So as the Flying Dutchman has started this crusade to get me to relax, I've thought a lot about why I do or do not relax. On the one hand I know that being able to relax would make me a better dancer, a much better actor (and I quote the Actor's Neutral Expert of the TAWT acting workshop: Everyone holds tension in somewhere, Georgie just holds it everywhere), a more personable person, and generally less nervous. But at the same time, it's like the previously mentioned thorns, being uptight is so much a part of who I am I don't know if
I could bear to part with it.

I remain,
Georgie

Current Mood: relaxed (or not)
Current Music: Death Cab for Cutie - Cath...

"He knows nothing and thinks he knows everything. That clearly points to a career in politics" ~George Bernard Shaw

Here's an apology to the Turkish Patriot: for not putting up the rest of my notes from the Conventions or the 1st debates, and for not taking notes on the Vice Presidential debates. School is starting to get in the way of real life.

College is like a pressure cooker in many ways, you take a whole bunch of emotionally and hormonally charged teenagers from different regions, cultures, religions, dump a whole load of school work on them, and then push them off the cliff of childhood into real life. And in the fall of every fourth year, you add politics and lightly simmer until November.

So politics has come up in conversations on floors, in classes, with that random guy waiting next to you in the ridiculous line for sandwiches (seriously, does everyone have to want to eat lunch at 12:20), and I keep having to try to explain my political leanings. Which don't really exist yet. I'm mean I know how I want the world to look, and know that I'd like a good education: "57 men risked their necks to sign the Declaration of Indepence and I'd like to see us (or US) do right by them." And that keeping democracy would be nice.

But the scary part is I vote in this election. I...push the button...and then a 7:00 the polls close and CNN tells us who the president is...and I had some part of that decision. I realize that the Electoral College is supposed to help balance things out, but zomg , I'm supposed to choose the person who runs the country. What if I pick the wrong person or worse a thousand people pick the wrong person and this whole thing goes under.

Also, I have two problems with the vice presidential debates:

1) The register: what happened to "with all do respect" and "my esteemed colleague" ? If Palin says um one more time, or Biden refers to Dick Luger by his first name one more time, heads will roll.

2) Palin quoted Ronald Reagan as saying that the United States will be a "shining city on the hill." You know who else said that...~~William Bradford...~~ John Winthrop...in freaking ~~1620~~ 1630. Please, Please, give credit where credit is due.

I remain,
Georgie

Current Mood: scared
Current Location: the shining city on the hill
Current Music: 1776

“‘Nothing’ said Piglet, talking Pooh's paw, 'I just wanted to be sure of you.' “~A.A. Milne the House at Pooh Corner

Big week, more details of which will probably end up on the pride thread, but some of the events (and their effects) are worth mentioning.

I have never been in a romantic relationship, not even the third grade sit-together-at-lunch-and-hold-hands-at-recess kind, and no one not related by blood has ever kissed me. Even in forth grade, boys (like fish) were friends not food (do NOT let your mind go there; I wanted to made a joke). In the best circumstances this has let me be independent and self sufficient, but in the worst circumstances has made me a tad desperate and a little jumpy around Y-chromosomes (that last part I'll usually (read: always) deny, but it's true nonetheless.

Some, but not most, of this changed on Monday. Now before you panic or Merry falls off her chair there, in reality it was nothing major: a very nice goodbye hug and a kiss on the forehead by a good (and decidedly male) friend. But as you can imagine from the previously described situation, that in the moment my head just about exploded. This was complicated by the fact that I was leaving for college in the morning and that this was a very complicated boy (three guess Merry, the first two don't count). And there were more minor explosions between the moment I fled the scene so he wouldn't see me cry, and like 48 hours later when I managed to wrap my head around it.

The point is not that there is something there, because there isn't, and even if there is it is going to have to go away because at the moment we are half a country away from each other and theoretically pursing educations. That and the fact that despite our friendship, I could happily remove his entrails and roast them on a spit because of things he's done to my friends.

The point is what I've realized about my friends. I finally, after 48 hours, including 6 spent driving through Iowa and thinking of very little else, and a gentle push from another friend who understands these things better than I, categorized it as a protective gesture, almost a blessing, from a very good friend. A blessing that I carried with me through the first days of college almost as a talisman (what me blowing things totally out of proportion...you must be kidding) as a reminder that he, and a whole heck of a lot of other people who I miss and love very much, care about me and think not only that I am not going to fail at this college business, but also that I am worth caring about. I'm not sure why this was such a shock, but I guess it was.

Since then I've only had one "I don't want new friends, I want my old friends back" moment, which is a miracle. Because even though I have clicked beautifully with the kids on my floor and my roommates, I keep wondering if they will be as good as my friends now. I keep looking, not to replace the friends that I adore so much, but to find equivalents for the time I am away. I keep looking, trying to guess who will squee over x-files with me (one x-files fan found, but he's not really the squeeing type, also there's a guy who looks like David Tenet, same nose), who will eat lunch with me and let me rant about school without telling me that I'm over reacting. I wonder who will help me with French homework when the plus-que-parfait just won't make sense (okay, hopefully the Senegalese roommate will take that job) or who will agree with me that that last ballet combination was too fast, too difficult, and why yes, it feels does like gravity tripled. Will there be people to make fun of me because I can't spell and remind me that the stage is still black and the show will go on, when it feels like it won't.

Most people won't read this, actually only one, maybe two (Hi Gryff, you know I just realized I've always spelled your name wrong, and I'm really sorry), but it's true and I wanted to say it. I truly love you all, and indeed it is hard to say goodbye, when you feel like you haven't said hello enough.

I remain,
Georgie

Current Mood: contemplative
Current Location: Northfield, MN
Current Music: The Wreck of the Day- Anna Nalick

"There is a special place in hell for women who don't help other women" ~ Madeleine Albright

I'm big on betrayal. I hated Sirius Black, of Harry Potter fame, not because he was innocent or guilty, but because there was even the slightest chance he had betrayed his friends. I am loyal to a fault, so nothing makes me quite as mad as being betrayed. And my little crusade for the past year of so (hi partners in crime!) has been strong women, so it shouldn't be surprising when I say...

...that frankly I think that every person with two x chromosomes* in this country has been betrayed by the equality that we've been fighting for for so long. Sarah Palin was McCain's pick for a running mate. While we should probably be rejoicing at the number of women in the government these days, Jeannette Rankin is rolling her grave, and I am on the verge of proverbial tears.

This is not meant as a personal attack on Ms. Palin, she's been asked by her party to take the position of her dreams. More power to her, and I wish her the best of luck. But there is reality to the fact that her record does not adequately explain why she was chosen. She has been governor of Alaska for a year, before that she was mayor of a town of 9,000 my college is more than twice as big), before that she was a runner-up for Miss Alaska. Honestly, there is nothing wrong with her record, she's young (...okay, so Catherine Howard was young, but we've stopped beheading people for that), she has her whole career ahead of her; none of this is about her in particular. But why does the oldest man running for office (i.e. the one mostly likely to die in office), pick a young women from a working class family in Alaska. I'm not a political analyst, but my guess is because McCain knows that the votes of the young, some women, and a whole lot of working class families, are the ones he's not getting. Fair enough, that's good politics. As the unfortunate James Norrington might say, "Business as usual." But would it also have anything to do with the voters who so wholly supported Clinton that they swore they would vote for McCain before they saw Obama elected. Would it suggest that 50% of this population is so obsessed with seeing one of their own in heaven (and perhaps avoiding Madeleine Albright's special hell for women who don't help other women), that they (and consequently he) would put their countries interests, security and existence (and not because she's a Republican... I am NOT going for that... but because she is inexperienced), at stake to see one less Y chromosome in the capital. There are some people who would do that, but for McCain to make such a broad gesture as his running mate is insulting. It's insulting to me and my friends as women voting in a national election, it's insulting to the women who are staid Republicans, who frankly deserve better from their candidate male or female, and in it insulting to the women who have fought their way to the top of the government and the Republican party, not because they are a pretty face and ovaries, but because they are intelligent, strong, and good at what they do, regardless of their gender.

That entire paragraph could be miss read because, at least for this election, I am very much a Democrat, but I'm not finish.

I am not a fan of Hilary Clinton. I was at one point; however I am not thrilled with how she has run her campaign. But when my friends and I started our list of strong women (previously mentioned, I think) we agreed early on that strength had nothing to do with good vs. evil, right vs. wrong, or even success vs. failure, but involved filling a void outside yourself and that being a women was merely a fact of biology and culture, rather than an accomplishment in itself. We haven't yet decided to put Clinton on the list, but she certainly has many of those qualities. Qualities that have been suitably lauded at the Democratic Convention, but they have always stipulated her womanhood. They have said that it is remarkable for her, as a woman, to be making the speech she made last week about her campaign (but less remarkable for her, as a human, to be making the speech about a very hard campaign for anyone?) They have said that she is an inspiration to our daughters (but not to our sons?). She is not an innocent victim, entirely, her speech invoked her womanhood as its own qualification entirely too much. But what gets to me is that after all the worry about how race was going to play out in this election, Obama has played the race card hardly once for every 20 times the woman card is played by Clinton or on her behalf. That is not to say that women should not be proud of the things that they do, and it must be acknowledged that the road to those accomplishments has been a little harder than it might have been had it not been for the original sin and all of that jazz, but while it is insulting for women's accomplishments to be praised by men as "remarkable for a woman" and an "inspiration to our daughters" it is almost inexcusable for us to do it to ourselves.

It is one thing to be betrayed, it is quite another to betray yourself, and more than women not helping women, that is what should get you in the special hell.

I remain,
Georgie

Current Mood: Betrayed
Current Location: Seneca Falls
Current Music: She Moves in Her Own Way- the kooks

" I like the dreams of the future better than the histories of the past" ~ Thomas Jefferson

For the Turkish Expatriate, to bring a little of the Convention to Istanbul:

I feel like it's been an election year for the past eighteen months. But here we are at the Democratic Convention in Denver. Well, I'm not in Denver. I'm sitting in my living room in Kansas City (that's Kansas City, not St. Louis, Mr. Obama) watching Denver on T.V. But I have a commonplace book and I'm not afraid to use it, so here are my notes from day two of the Convention. Some of them are notes, like you'd take notes on a lecture, some of them are notes on the speaking styles of the speakers (because I can use words like diction and syntax).

Also, I apologize for the lack of proofreading, these were typed up rather late at night, so there are too many pronouns, run on sentences, and lots of passive voice.

Apparently Kathleen Sebelious' speech doesn't get aired on Kansas City television (gee, I don't know why in the world we'd want to hear our governor speak at a national convention), so I got to listen to the commentators for a good fifteen minutes.
According to them: Mark Warner's (former Governor of Virginia --> they air the former Governor of Virginia in KC, but not Our Governor...sorry, I'm not bitter) role as the keynote speaker is traditionally, and I quote: "to peel the skin off the other candidate." However, because Warner is a more centrist kind of guy they expect him to focus on balancing the already rather leftist convention, by ...well... letting McCain keep his skin. Apparently he made millions in the early cell phone industry which is beneficial because economy has never been the Democrats strong point. (One of the commentators made a self-deprecating crack about there having never been a democrat with a strong economic policy... I wonder if he's ever heard of the New Deal.) They disagreed about whether this more centrist keynote speaker will benefit the campaign. Some commentators thought that the Democrats need a centrist to pull in independent voters and that Clinton will be able to any necessary skin peeling later in the evening, but others felt that the convention had so far lack a battle cry and a good partisan keynote speaker would had been able to give something to rally around. They did agree on the importance of the other main speaker tonight: Senator Bob Casey Jr. of Pennsylvania. His speech apparently will help Obama get two major swing blocks of voters: Pennsylvanians and Catholics (...and presumably Catholics from Pennsylvania, but I don't think polls ever get that specific). Also although he has been a exuberant yes-man for Obama, they disagree on abortion, so for Obama to have granted Casey this speaking slot is a huge show of goodwill and moderation (especially considering the same slot was denied to Casey's father in the previous convention because of the abortion disagreement). Finally the commentators noted that Obama is unique in the fact that he is among the few truly charismatic Democrats of late.

And now for something completely different.... actually politicians

( Sen. Bob Casey (Pennsylvania) )

Mark Warner (former Gov. of Virginia)

( Mark Warner (Gov. of Virginia) )

…And now the one we’ve all been waiting for…

( Sen. Hilary Rodham Clinton (New York) )

The commentators loved her, said she hit all the necessary points and “electrified the crowd.” I didn’t see it. She praised Obama only as a Democrat, not as a good potential president, and all but declared her candidacy for 2012. Regardless, it is something incredible that she was up there at all. I think my namesake would be proud, and if that's good enough for George Sand, it's good enough for me.

I remain,
Georgie

P.S. I'll try to get days three and four up tomorrow, but I am not promising anything

Current Mood: pleased
Current Location: Denver
Current Music: Stars and Stripes Forever

" Just remember, everything Fred Astaire did Ginger Rogers did backwards...and in high heels" ~Faith Wittlesey

Since spring of last year I have become enthralled with concept of strong women and how they manifest themselves in society. It started as a list compiled by myself and the previously mentioned soon-to-be-Turkish-expatriate (how's that for a snazzy title) in response to a rather sad presentation made by our TOK (read: IB-ized philosophy) on the same subjects. We thought his examples (Hilary Clinton, Brune Hilde, Scarlett O’Hara, and a painting of an unnamed dancer by...get this...a male artist) were rather weak so we complied a list (to date:166 women) of better choices. While the list itself was astounding the most interesting part was deciding on criteria:

( criteria )

But ever since then I have been on the look out for reference to strong women, to see how our criteria holds up to reality. On Saturday I saw a grad student play at UMKC about women in WWII (John Murrell's Waiting for the Parade). The play itself made a caricature of these women's stories but the dramaturgy notes made interesting points about how femininity and strength are not mutually exclusive.

( dramaturgy notes )

. . .

It puts things in a different light to the think that concealer and mascara are armor, rather than simply something to hide behind, especially considering that the pressure to uphold that ideal of feminine beauty (with whatever connotation you think it has) comes as much from each other as it does from men.

I remain,
Georgie

Postscript: This also explains why Queen Elizabeth had an inch of make-up on when she died. If anybody needed armor...
G.S

Current Mood: surprised
Current Location: Mytilene
Current Music: Woman King- Iron and Winet

"Life is short, but it's wide" ~Genevieve Whitman in The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya-Sisterhood

There were never supposed to be the 'I'm going to tell you about my day' sort of letters, but I have had the most marvelous day so I can't resist.

I went to the pool intent on swimming my laps and then going home. And I swam my laps, all 300 metres and than lay in the sun for an hour. Apparently I am turning into one of those girls; you know one of those girls who can lie at the pool without actually swimming for hours reading a trashy romance novel. I think my only saving grace was that I did swim, and that I was reading Lolita. (Which isn't really worth it. As far as I am concerned all Nabokov accomplished with that book was take a perfectly good name out of the baby books. You think I'm kidding, how many Lolita's do you know?) I also fell asleep for about 20 minutes and right before I woke up I could have sworn I was on the bow of a Flying Scot.

I went to the park, had a lovely picnic complete with a massive peanut butter and jelly sandwich (peanut butter on both pieces of bread so it doesn't soak through), carrots, and The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood.

I read all of the The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood which was amazing, and reminded me how much I love a) Theater people ('like I could forget) and b) Southerners (hi, Sarah) and that my mother really isn't all that bad.

I decided I wanted a popsicle, and just got up and left on an epic popsicle quest. You would not believe how difficult it is to find a popsicle. I went to three stores and ended up paying three bucks for it. I swear, in any other gas station in the country you can get a plain old orange popsicle for less than a dollar.

It's been a long time since I've been this spontaneous and it was lovely. I think the only thing that could possibly make it better would be a convertible and gas for $1.75 a gallon. ... or a boy, a boy would be nice. (fine, yes I will call him... don't give me that look Merry).

Now I am going to take a shower, make dinner (mmm... quesadillas with leftover pork chop) and go to a job that, despite its close resemblance to serfdom, I adore. I love vacation.

I remain,
Georgie

Current Mood: satisfied
Current Location: Paradise
Current Music: Summer in the City-- Regina Spektor

"Promise me you'll never forget me, because if I thought you would I'd never go" ~ A. A. Milne in Winnie the Pooh

Until now I have never really had to say good bye to anyone or anything. I've never left a friend I couldn't call or email, never left a place I couldn't return to, never made a change I couldn't undo just as easily. So the past few weeks have felt a bit like like the split second between jumping off a diving board and actually falling.

Now that I have graduated from high school, a lot of goodbyes, with varying permanence and pain, have been said. But through all of those goodbyes it hadn't hit me what all this growing up stuff means, until last night. Last night I said goodbye to one thing that has been very constant in my life since I was seven. I haven't always gotten on well with my mother, I haven't always enjoyed school, I haven't always believed in Gd, but I have always danced ballet. Always.

And although I may not have always worked as hard as I should, or always done the best, it has been something that I did for myself (I hate performing) that I am finding has, consequently, had great impact on my character. I've always held myself standards than other people hold me to, which in the best of times has served me well and in the worst of times created a guilt trip even my grandmother couldn't dream up. And those standards have applied to other people as well. I've looked at my family, my friends, even characters in a book and thought why aren't you doing better, working harder. Because that's what people have always said to me. Ballet has become so much more than a dance, it's become a mentality and an identity.

And now I'm leaving it. And that's weird.

I remain,
Georgie

Post Script (because another letter would be awkward):
At a wonderful party this evening I was reminded how insanely grateful I am for my friends, in all their wacky glory. And I may be falling for a goat.
G.S

Current Mood: nostalgic
Current Music: Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes

Things won are done; life's joy lies in doing
~William Shakespeare

Today is (allegedly) the birthday and (allegedly) the death day of William Shakespeare. Something about too many celebratory anchovies.

Unfortunately, sometimes he gets lost in the complaints of high school English students, and his true accomplishments are given short shrift.

So Happy Birthday to the man who tamed the shrew, told the winter’s tale, and dreamt the midsummer's night dream. Without whom we could not be green with envy or wear our hearts on our sleeves. Even when his plays were Greek to me, there was obviously method to the madness. He is every inch a king. Despite the allegations of his plagiary, he is more sinned against than sinning. That I know in my Heart of Hearts, and that I will defend, more in sadness than in anger, to the crack of doom. In the end tis neither here nor there, but to really understand Shakespeare the play's the thing.

In case you haven't figure it out. The bold reference Shakespeare's words which emerged out of thin air, and into the standard lexicon. I realize that the lady doth protest too much, and most of that was just obnoxious and written merely to see how many references I could include. But the Devil can quote scripture for his own purposes, and hopefully I have made some sort of point.

Parting is such sweet sorrow,
Georgie

Current Mood: pleased
Current Location: The Forest of Arden

"We've made carrying this grudge a cottage industry" ~Dearly Beloved
Re: Yesterday's post

This is most certainly NOT how it was supposed to go down. I'm not sure who messed it up, and frankly now is not the time to point fingers, (besides, they have all been dead for at least a thousand years) but now everyone still needs saving (what about a second coming doesn't scream "ha ha suckers, maybe next time") and after 2000 years we haven't really made much progress.

Through miscalculation and general "unalertness" I missed Purim which is my favorite holiday. It commemorates Ester saving the Jews from Haman (a crazy grand vizar with a three cornered hat). It's one of those "be happy or I will smite you" holidays, and needless to say I'm a fan. So to get through today and to makeup for missing Purim, I decided I would just move it up a couple of days and try and celebrate Purim today. I'm still celebrating someone not being dead, so it should work... in theory.

It was a good theory, and I spent most of a very painful Sunday school class thinking "Smile... no one's dead." Sometimes you have to start at the bottom for this gratitude thing to work. Unfortunately, as my Sunday school teacher is explaining all the gory details of the Crucifixion I realized this theory had a large hole. People are dead... lots of them. The Coliseum, the Crusades, the Inquisitions, the Holocaust, the Middle Eastern Disaster. Lots of people are dead and all because we screwed over the Messiah.

It's not his fault. If he really is the Son of Gd, I hope he understands the immense amount of respect I have for him. He had good ideas and he tried really really hard. But he said "Feed my sheep" not ”Divide up my sheep, turn them against each other and cause blood shed that will last for the next millennium." I like Peter too much to blame this all on him, but something got lost in translation.

So I don't know if that made any sense, but thank you for letting me rant (Assuming you hung on and read this far). My point is … actually, I’m not so sure what my point is, or even how I think things should have played out. But I am fairly certain Easter and Passover should have ended up as the same holiday, celebrated by the same people at the same time, not moving away from each other in occasionally overlapping circles.

Oh look it’s the first Sunday after the first full moon of the vernal equinox, same time next year, guys? I’m sorry, this is insanity and it has got to stop. We’re all the children of Abraham, and this family feud has been going on a tad too long.

I remain,
Georgie

Current Mood: disappointed

"It's a little bit funny, this feeling inside and I'm not one of those who can easily hide" ~Elton John

Easter hasn't come this early since 1913 and won't again for 152 years (2160). Most people will tell you that Easter comes forty days after Shrove Tuesday, but in reality Shrove Tuesday comes forty days before Easter. It's all a matter of counting backwards. Easter is the first Sunday after the first full moon after the vernal equinox, which keeps it from falling before the 21st of March, the 22nd is fair game, and Shrove Tuesday is 40 days earlier.

It’s not the only holiday doing freaky calendar things this year. Passover calculations are slightly less complicated (Passover falls on the 15th of the Hebrew month Nisan) until you figure in the part where the Hebrews calendar is lunar not solar. Therefore, the Hebrew calendar's year is longer by about 6 minutes and 25²⁵/₅₇ seconds, meaning that every 224 years, the Hebrew calendar will fall a full day behind the modern fixed solar year, and about every 231 years it will fall a full day behind the Gregorian calendar year. So how do we compensate... well, the western leap day was a good one but too subtle... how's a leap month sound? Every couple of years (wikipedia "Metonic Cycle" for more info, it puts Easter and Election Day calculations to shame) the last Hebrew month of Adar happens twice.

Most years Easter and Passover overlap, and it is believed they did the first time all this came around. (I am also fairly certain Luke looked up from editing the minutes of the Last Supper and said, "Wow, today is the first Sunday after the first full moon after the vernal equinox, same time next year guys?"). That always seemed to fit in my mind. They are two holidays centered around similar themes (sorry Mr. P, redemption is only one word), celebrated by people whose histories have been intertwined since "In the beginning." I've never put much stock in numerology, but the liturgical words: Pesach (Passover) and Paschal (Easter) are two letters away from being the same word, and Pascha is directly derived through Romance languages from Pesach.

But this year, because of calendrial kookiness, the two holidays are about as far apart as they get. I have had too many years of hardcore lit. analysis to not see the symbolism, or the irony. These two holidays, as connected as they seem in theme and orthography, are diametrically opposed to each other. And, unfortunately, their celebrations are mutually exclusive. You can't do both, I've tried. In the years that they overlapped, "doing both" means not eating hot crossed buns because they are chametz or eating them and screwing up the anti-leavening bit. In the years when they don't overlap it means realizing that Mr. Jesus of Nazareth is either your Lord and Savior, or not. There are no alternating Thursdays, only days ending in "y."

So I'll eat hot cross buns tomorrow and bitter herbs on the 20th of April and be grateful that the stars aligned in my favor. But I can't imagine that this is how it is supposed to go down.

I remain,
Georgie

Current Mood: contemplative

Profile

georginasand

September 2010

S	M	T	W	T	F	S
			1	2	3	4
5	6	7	8	9	10	11
12	13	14	15	16	17	18
19	20	21	22	23	24	25
26	27	28	29	30

Syndicate

Page Summary

Style Credit

Style: Cherry Blossoms for Practicality by timeasmymeasure

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags

Page generated Jun. 2nd, 2025 08:18 am

Letters of a Voyage

Art is not a study of positive reality, it is the seeking for ideal truth

Entries tagged with old guard- treatise

Becoming Anne Edwards

Speak Truth To Power and Fear No Evil

Is It the Fourth?

Explaination

Distemper of Youth

Forgetful Elephants

Or Perhaps Too Little in the Sun

Trying to Gather Moss

A Peculiar Institution

Zen D@$* It ?

Why isn't there a winner of a political debate?

Family For All Kinds of Orphans

Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here

Notes on the Democratic Convention 2008

Strong Women

Popsicles

I Could Have Danced All Night

Bonne Anniversaire Billy Wigglestick

It's only funny until someone gets hurt

It's a little bit funny

Profile

September 2010

Links

Syndicate

Most Popular Tags

Page Summary

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags