You all get out of your cars. You are alone in yours, and there are three teenagers in theirs, an older Camaro in new condition. The accident was your fault, and you walk over to tell them this.
Walking over to their car, which you have ruined, it occurs to you that if the three teenagers are angry teenagers, this encounter could be very unpleasant. You pulled into an intersection, obstructing them, and their car hit yours. They have every right to be upset, or livid, or even violence-contemplating.
As you approach, you see that their driver's side door won't open. The driver pushes against it, and you are reminded of scenes where drivers are stuck in submerged cars. Soon they all exit through the passenger side door and walk around the Camaro, inspecting the damage. None of them is hurt, but the car is wrecked. "Just bought this today," the driver says. He is 18, blond, average in all ways. "Today?" you ask.
You are a bad person, you think. You also think: what a dorky car for a teenager to buy in 2005. "Yeah, today," he says, then sighs. You tell him that you are sorry. That you are so, so sorry. That it was your fault and that you will cover all costs.
You exchange insurance information, and you find yourself, minute by minute, ever more thankful that none of these teenagers has punched you, or even made a remark about your being drunk, which you are not, or being stupid, which you are, often. You become more friendly with all of them, and you realise that you are much more connected to them, particularly to the driver, than possible in perhaps any other way.
You have done him and his friends harm, in a way, and you jeopardised their health, and now you are so close you feel like you share a heart. He knows your name and you know his, and you almost killed him and, because you got so close to doing so but didn't, you want to fall on him, weeping, because you are so lonely, so lonely always, and all contact is contact, and all contact makes us so grateful we want to cry and dance and cry and cry.
In a moment of clarity, you finally understand why boxers, who want so badly to hurt each other, can rest their heads on the shoulders of their opponents, can lean against one another like tired lovers, so thankful for a moment of peace.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
For the love of butter
His grandmother was obsessed with butter, no one knew why; it had something to do with cows. When she wasn’t eating butter she was hoarding butter. When she was neither eating nor hoarding butter she was warning everyone in shouting distance (and she had quite the pair of lungs, so this really meant something) to lay off her butter. His grandmother was nuts everyone knew that.
Every morning his grandfather left the house. He’d retired, years ago, from the plant, so no one knew where he went. Finally, one day he stopped, he had to, he was dead.
Then his father died. It could have been an overdose.
Then, it was just his grandmother, her butter, and he. One night, over the empty table his grandmother said, “You know, they never listened. Did I not warn them? I told them to lay off my butter.”
The grandson asked, “How do you feel about salt?”
“Salt’s fine. Live it up. Just lay off the butter and we’ll get along fine.”
He did, and things were, in fact, fine until one day, unthinkingly, he brought home some olive oil.
It was a blood bath.
Every morning his grandfather left the house. He’d retired, years ago, from the plant, so no one knew where he went. Finally, one day he stopped, he had to, he was dead.
Then his father died. It could have been an overdose.
Then, it was just his grandmother, her butter, and he. One night, over the empty table his grandmother said, “You know, they never listened. Did I not warn them? I told them to lay off my butter.”
The grandson asked, “How do you feel about salt?”
“Salt’s fine. Live it up. Just lay off the butter and we’ll get along fine.”
He did, and things were, in fact, fine until one day, unthinkingly, he brought home some olive oil.
It was a blood bath.
Last Slice...
It must be depressing being the last piece of bread in a sliced loaf. I imagine it’s almost as bad as being the first tiny slice—a thin sliver of tan dough that tastes and looks like spongy leather. Only the last piece is worse. For while the first piece might feel self-conscious by its size or color—further exacerbated when someone finally unwraps the loaf and tries to skip the first slice in favor of the second, or if they’re especially picky the third—the last piece suffers alone. It suffers the fate of watching everyone else get picked in a timely manner and then being abandoned.
At first, I imagine, the last slice tries to come up with logical excuses for its abandonment or lack of being chosen, reasoning that maybe someone wanted to make a sandwich but they couldn’t with just the last slice. Or maybe, someone had called dibs on the last slice but then forgot—prohibiting anyone else from eating it for the sake of decency, inadvertently keeping the last slice in solitude.
But eventually, I guess, the last slice realizes this must not be the case. After the initial curious peeks into its yellow wrappings and then brusque tosses back into the fridge; after getting pushed further and further back, losing its honorary placement of front row middle shelf within hand’s reach, to being bent and squished in a dark corner where the small light bulb can’t reach, next to a crusty mustard case that’s probably passed its expiration date; after all that, it must realize it’s been rejected.
From there I think there are two plausible circumstances. The last slice might accept its fate as a loner and calmly accept the mold that arrives on its once pristine edges—viewing it as age spots with the belief that they act as proof of its existence, its resilience—with open pores. It does this while waiting patiently for the day when it will go to the tiny place in the sky where little French breads and little rye breads can join together to form a single loaf, where bread slices aren’t judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their yeast.
But, in the back of my mind, I think the last slice is probably more pessimistic. It has, after all, been slighted twice by the hands of fate. Well, by the hands of machines most likely as it was unlucky enough to be one of the two awkwardly cut end pieces in the beginning of its creation as uncooked dough. Then, in its early adolescence it’s slighted again by being placed in the bag first, forcing on it the title of last slice forevermore. This resentment probably leads to a spiral of depression for the last slice once its all alone. The crawling of the mold onto its skin later on only increases its dejection and acts as yet another confirmation that it is unworthy. To be even more dramatic, I picture its mortification to be complete with the arrival of a brand new loaf of bread in the refrigerator, a replacement added before the last slice is removed.
I hold the last slice in my palm, deeply sympathizing with the hand it’s been dealt in life, and with the gentlest caresses I’ve ever given garbage, I lightly place it in the trash.
At first, I imagine, the last slice tries to come up with logical excuses for its abandonment or lack of being chosen, reasoning that maybe someone wanted to make a sandwich but they couldn’t with just the last slice. Or maybe, someone had called dibs on the last slice but then forgot—prohibiting anyone else from eating it for the sake of decency, inadvertently keeping the last slice in solitude.
But eventually, I guess, the last slice realizes this must not be the case. After the initial curious peeks into its yellow wrappings and then brusque tosses back into the fridge; after getting pushed further and further back, losing its honorary placement of front row middle shelf within hand’s reach, to being bent and squished in a dark corner where the small light bulb can’t reach, next to a crusty mustard case that’s probably passed its expiration date; after all that, it must realize it’s been rejected.
From there I think there are two plausible circumstances. The last slice might accept its fate as a loner and calmly accept the mold that arrives on its once pristine edges—viewing it as age spots with the belief that they act as proof of its existence, its resilience—with open pores. It does this while waiting patiently for the day when it will go to the tiny place in the sky where little French breads and little rye breads can join together to form a single loaf, where bread slices aren’t judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their yeast.
But, in the back of my mind, I think the last slice is probably more pessimistic. It has, after all, been slighted twice by the hands of fate. Well, by the hands of machines most likely as it was unlucky enough to be one of the two awkwardly cut end pieces in the beginning of its creation as uncooked dough. Then, in its early adolescence it’s slighted again by being placed in the bag first, forcing on it the title of last slice forevermore. This resentment probably leads to a spiral of depression for the last slice once its all alone. The crawling of the mold onto its skin later on only increases its dejection and acts as yet another confirmation that it is unworthy. To be even more dramatic, I picture its mortification to be complete with the arrival of a brand new loaf of bread in the refrigerator, a replacement added before the last slice is removed.
I hold the last slice in my palm, deeply sympathizing with the hand it’s been dealt in life, and with the gentlest caresses I’ve ever given garbage, I lightly place it in the trash.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Really bad ads...
The beer ad<<<<<<<
Text: get the courage to do anything...Because you don't have the balls without it...BEER is good!!!
Subtext: it is like you won't have guts to do anything without the beer...and there's a name card of a woman called Rebecca and the number is on it, so there's something deeper meaning than it actually shows...
The Gel pen ad<<<<<<<
Text: Helping students cheat since 1945... New softgel pens make cheating even more comfortable...the student is cheating in class with the tiny notes on his hand...
Subtext: If you use their pen, you can cheat easily on the test...it is good for student to cheat...even the adults courage student to cheat...
Levi's ad<<<<<
Text: Two guys are standing on the rock and looking toward something that seems like they are very intelligent...but the women is seating on the rock (right below the man), and wearing bikinni in the winter, that is abasing women... Subtext: If the guys wear Levi's clothes, they can be on top of women, and you can look smart.....Also, the women will come to you and smile at you...= =
Early Teen Pregnancy Test ad<<<<<
Text: The teenage girl is holding a pregnancy test stick....Like, something you just, like, gotta know!....the girl is smiling like she did the right thing....
Subtext: All the girls are gonna need such things... Encouraging the teenagers to do so....
Response: Maybe it's just because different culture, in the Western culture, it might be ok for the teenagers to be pregnant, but in Eastern culture, it is definetly not ok to be early-pregnant...
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Tolerance...
Tolerance, ignorance or sufferance? Wise men chose the first two. Do not tell me to suffer to love everyone, like Jesus, because I am not.
If you don't like someone, bear with it, not murder them. If someone did something that bugs you, ignore it, don't suffer yourself and dont' smack them in their face. If ever once that you are sick of the entire world, tolerate it, and that's the only thing that you can do, unless you have the power to destroy the world like Handcock. Love and peace filled up our world, because of tolerance. If you have love, you will have hate; If you have tolerance, you have both.
Why do people got mentally ill sometimes? Because they suffer in the society. All they need to learn is tolerance.
Bear for a second or two, they sky will be clear.
Ode To Tolerance
Watching the homeless child
crap on the sidewalk
Watching the old couple
beg for spare change
Watch as they cry
because of gang violence
Watch as they're jailed
Watch from a far range
crap on the sidewalk
Watching the old couple
beg for spare change
Watch as they cry
because of gang violence
Watch as they're jailed
Watch from a far range
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
No Pain No Gain
What is Pain? To me, Pain is gain. No matter for what purpose, you get pain, you must gain something.
For culture or tradition in a certain region, like in Africa, they like to pierce holes on their body, that represent beauty and the highest pride. YES! That is painful, but to them, they get the dignity. Also in ancient China, foot binding was popular back in the days. It is very painful, but the men thought that was very delicate and represent beauty too.
Or sometimes, when people suffer in burden, they become suicidal. They might carve their skin(mental pain) in order to find a way to relief themselves. But once when they stand up from pain, they will understand the expense of life.
Pain is everywhere, and exist in different ways. They are not always bad because you can learn from the pain and gain something valuable(hopefully).
No Pain No Gain......
Monday, November 24, 2008
A letter to Mr. Kristof
Dear Mr. Kristof,
Hello, I'm a big fan of your open letter that published on November 14,2008. The title of the letter is "Obama and the War on Brains". It was a joyful piece of writing, which is kind of bias but I can totally make connection to it. For me, Obama is so far a great pigmentary leader that is not as fake as the previous president that likes to camouflage himself. But for one point, I don't agree with you, it is when you said: "Thoughtfulness is portrayed as wimpishness, and careful deliberation is for sisses." Actually, it is up side down to me. I think that thoughtfulness and careful deliberation are essential for a successful leader.
Also, as you claim that Obama and Emperor Nero is comparable, which you claim that smart people don't have a great record in power, that is your own opinion, because Obama needs time to show his own talent. We shouldn't judge people in their first apperence.
It is very nice to connect with you, hope to interview you face to face.
Great day!
Best Rg.
Stephanie
Hello, I'm a big fan of your open letter that published on November 14,2008. The title of the letter is "Obama and the War on Brains". It was a joyful piece of writing, which is kind of bias but I can totally make connection to it. For me, Obama is so far a great pigmentary leader that is not as fake as the previous president that likes to camouflage himself. But for one point, I don't agree with you, it is when you said: "Thoughtfulness is portrayed as wimpishness, and careful deliberation is for sisses." Actually, it is up side down to me. I think that thoughtfulness and careful deliberation are essential for a successful leader.
Also, as you claim that Obama and Emperor Nero is comparable, which you claim that smart people don't have a great record in power, that is your own opinion, because Obama needs time to show his own talent. We shouldn't judge people in their first apperence.
It is very nice to connect with you, hope to interview you face to face.
Great day!
Best Rg.
Stephanie
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)