"No free man shall ever be debarred the use of arms. The strongest reason for the people to retain the right to keep and bear arms is, as a last resort, to protect themselves against tyranny in government"
-- Thomas Jefferson, 1 Thomas Jefferson Papers, 334
The most foolish mistake we could possibly make would be to permit the conquered Eastern peoples to have arms. History teaches that all conquerors who have allowed their subject races to carry arms have prepared their own downfall by doing so.
-- Adolf Hitler, April 11 1942
Considered to be one of the most controversial Amendments of the Bill of Rights, the arguments on how to regulate and approach the second amendment have proved to be acutely polarized, yielding viewpoints that span from the minimization of gun regulation to absolute gun banishment. Those who support limited gun regulation often invoke the second amendment itself, which is essentially built up from the commonplace that “guns are a protectionist measure against violent or threatening forces.” This commonplace functions to (theoretically) induce reluctance in any evil interference such as, tyranny, murders, rapists or burglars, that have aims at obstructing liberty or individual well being. This commonplace stems from the founding fathers, who believed that power ought to remain within the people, and in order for the people to maintain this power, they must be afforded the right to bear arms. However, this commonplace connotes an even more basic commonplace that “violent defensive measures are resorted to when all other mediums of diplomacy (such as, protests, rhetorical discourse, pleading, or threats) have failed.” Here, this notion originates from the founding fathers’ experiences of unsuccessful diplomatic dealings with Great Britain, and their success of obtaining their diplomatic pleas through violent revolution. These experiences legitimatize the commonplaces of the second amendment, showing that the availability of firearms is an essential factor in maintaining liberty and individual well being.
‘‘When we got organized as a country and we wrote a fairly radical Constitution with a radical Bill of Rights, giving a radical amount of individual freedom to Americans ...... And so a lot of people say there's too much personal freedom. When personal freedom's being abused, you have to move to limit it. That's what we did in the announcement I made last weekend on the public housing projects, about how we're going to have weapon sweeps and more things like that to try to make people safer in their communities.’’
— Bill Clinton, 3-22-94
“They that can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety."
-- Benjamin Franklin, Historical Review of Pennsylvania, 1759.
Considered to be one of the most controversial Amendments of the Bill of Rights, the arguments on how to regulate and approach the second amendment have proved to be acutely polarized, yielding viewpoints that span from the minimization of gun regulation to absolute gun banishment. Those who support absolute gun banishment often invoke that loose firearm regulations increase crime rate, which is derived from the commonplace, “availability to firearms enables violence and crime.” This commonplace functions to simplify crime in society by reducing it to a gun-based phenomenon. The origins of this commonplace typically stem from far-left liberals who tend to favor sacrificing individual liberties for improvement of social welfare. My experiences as a gun owner, as well as crime rate statistics complicate this commonplace by showing that availability to firearms has little effect on crime rate.
Monday, September 28, 2009
free write, commonplace, (don't know where i was going with this :))
Government big enough to supply everything you need is big enough to take everything you have ... The course of history shows that as a government grows, liberty decreases. -Thomas Jefferson
I would rather be exposed to the inconveniences attending too much liberty than to those attending too small a degree of it. - Thomas Jefferson
Advocating maximum individual liberty and the minimization of state presence, Thomas Jefferson has yielded very influential political viewpoints to me. Deriving much of his influences from philosophers of the early enlightenment era, this Libertarian figure ultimately crystallized individualism and influenced/advocated the transcription of the greatest documents ever bestowed to man, the constitution and the bill of rights. But perhaps his greatest political/philosophical contribution was his weary suspicion of big government that constantly brooded over him. This suspicion eventually bored protectionist measures such as the second amendment, checks and balances, and judicial review.
Being libertarian, I want to unearth the commonplaces that comprise this ideology in order to have concrete faith in my political views.
After diminishing all ideologies into commonplaces,I found that probably the most foundational commonplace supporting libertarianism is that liberty is a “law of nature”.
John Locke, in his “Two Treatises of Government” first mentions this statement, in order to refute Filmer’s claim that submission to authority is “law of nature”. Here, Locke basis his argument on the notion that god created Adam so he could live freely (In response to Filmer’s claim that men are subservient to their fathers, the first father being Adam). To put into a more modernized perspective, men have an innate sense of freedom, derived from primordial human mentality, in which they used ambiguity and decision making as a means of survival.
The foundational commonplace of the enlightenment era, “reason is the primary source for authority and legitimacy” also contributes to his argument, justifying the importance of nature. Here, nature and reason are synonymous, since reason is determined by what is natural. With this in mind, one could conclude that liberty is the only rational way to exist. However, this (circular) argument may cause objection as to what the importance to reason is
I would rather be exposed to the inconveniences attending too much liberty than to those attending too small a degree of it. - Thomas Jefferson
Advocating maximum individual liberty and the minimization of state presence, Thomas Jefferson has yielded very influential political viewpoints to me. Deriving much of his influences from philosophers of the early enlightenment era, this Libertarian figure ultimately crystallized individualism and influenced/advocated the transcription of the greatest documents ever bestowed to man, the constitution and the bill of rights. But perhaps his greatest political/philosophical contribution was his weary suspicion of big government that constantly brooded over him. This suspicion eventually bored protectionist measures such as the second amendment, checks and balances, and judicial review.
Being libertarian, I want to unearth the commonplaces that comprise this ideology in order to have concrete faith in my political views.
After diminishing all ideologies into commonplaces,I found that probably the most foundational commonplace supporting libertarianism is that liberty is a “law of nature”.
John Locke, in his “Two Treatises of Government” first mentions this statement, in order to refute Filmer’s claim that submission to authority is “law of nature”. Here, Locke basis his argument on the notion that god created Adam so he could live freely (In response to Filmer’s claim that men are subservient to their fathers, the first father being Adam). To put into a more modernized perspective, men have an innate sense of freedom, derived from primordial human mentality, in which they used ambiguity and decision making as a means of survival.
The foundational commonplace of the enlightenment era, “reason is the primary source for authority and legitimacy” also contributes to his argument, justifying the importance of nature. Here, nature and reason are synonymous, since reason is determined by what is natural. With this in mind, one could conclude that liberty is the only rational way to exist. However, this (circular) argument may cause objection as to what the importance to reason is
Saturday, September 26, 2009
possible commonplace
I typically get my news from the Arizona Daily Star website, and am compelled to comment on stories I feel particularly emotionally or opinionated about. This is a comment I left today on an article reporting Iran’s nuclear capabilities.
I do not like Obama's domestic policies, but I believe he is handling the Iranian nuclear situation correctly. He has given Iran the option to either provide a transparent nuclear program, or to prepare for strict trade sanctions and/or a military invasion. I believe this ultimatum with eventually cause Iran to acquiesce.
#16; the comment regarding the Monroe doctrine.
Typically retaining a withdrawn foreign affairs policy is (would be) beneficial to our country. However, when a country (Israel) is threatened with nuclear obliteration, and we to have the means to prevent it, we should, without hesitation, do everything in our power to prevent it.
After I wrote this comment, I went on to read the Ancient Rhetoric chapter on commonplace. While I was reading the chapter (especially on American commonplaces), I thought about what I had written and realized that I had displayed two contradictory commonplaces of American ideology:
“If someone is in need, or is threatened, we should feel obligated to help them.”
“We should not interfere in others disputes”
Thesis: Excluding those who retain libertarian viewpoints, or those who closely follow the Monroe Doctrine, the commonplace “Aid those (countries) who are threatened or in need”, is embedded in American ideology in order to pacify moral standards. This commonplace appears to gain its roots from a biblical story, where a Good Samaritan sacrifices his time and resources to help a man in need, which ultimately spells out the moral “do unto others as they would do to you.” Despite the cost of war, and the sacrifice of human lives, this commonplace, which stems from the golden rule, can be invoked as a means of somehow justifying interventionist military conflicts. Although some instances of intervention such as, the liberation of Nazi concentration camps, and prevention of a nuclear war, may be justified, calculating the lives and cost of war may prove to refute this commonplace as a reason to go to war.
I do not like Obama's domestic policies, but I believe he is handling the Iranian nuclear situation correctly. He has given Iran the option to either provide a transparent nuclear program, or to prepare for strict trade sanctions and/or a military invasion. I believe this ultimatum with eventually cause Iran to acquiesce.
#16; the comment regarding the Monroe doctrine.
Typically retaining a withdrawn foreign affairs policy is (would be) beneficial to our country. However, when a country (Israel) is threatened with nuclear obliteration, and we to have the means to prevent it, we should, without hesitation, do everything in our power to prevent it.
After I wrote this comment, I went on to read the Ancient Rhetoric chapter on commonplace. While I was reading the chapter (especially on American commonplaces), I thought about what I had written and realized that I had displayed two contradictory commonplaces of American ideology:
“If someone is in need, or is threatened, we should feel obligated to help them.”
“We should not interfere in others disputes”
Thesis: Excluding those who retain libertarian viewpoints, or those who closely follow the Monroe Doctrine, the commonplace “Aid those (countries) who are threatened or in need”, is embedded in American ideology in order to pacify moral standards. This commonplace appears to gain its roots from a biblical story, where a Good Samaritan sacrifices his time and resources to help a man in need, which ultimately spells out the moral “do unto others as they would do to you.” Despite the cost of war, and the sacrifice of human lives, this commonplace, which stems from the golden rule, can be invoked as a means of somehow justifying interventionist military conflicts. Although some instances of intervention such as, the liberation of Nazi concentration camps, and prevention of a nuclear war, may be justified, calculating the lives and cost of war may prove to refute this commonplace as a reason to go to war.
Friday, September 25, 2009
persuasion
In modern times, community or social persuasion within the media is solely based upon a dichotic political basis; in other words, news correspondents (such as, news papers, televised news, or radio talk shows) tend to only report news from a strictly conservative viewpoint or from a strictly liberal viewpoint, never moderately or objective. Persuasion in this sense infuses political ideologies into Americans by means of journalists’ biases, rather than by logic, facts, or personal experience. This trend has caused Americans, especially those just starting to explore current affairs by means of the media, to, establish their political ideologies on the basis of these political biases.
Demonization is also prevalent within media persuasion. Various media sources often demonize their “opponents”(those who retain conflicting opinions on a certain issue) viewpoints, in order to portray alternative stances on an issue, to be irrational and misguided. This demonization has caused the audience of these sources to dismiss or reject any claim or ideal that does not conform to theirs, ultimately leading to ignorance and dogmatism.
However, there are different forms of persuasion within communities other than just the media; these include, families, schools, jobs, churches, etc. Here, persuasion is often conveyed by someone of authority or respect, expressing his or her ideals in conversation, either with someone who “opposes” them or by someone still establishing an opinion on a particular issue. This form of persuasion closely matches the ancients’ definition of argument in which ideals are exchanged, respectively, by language using rhetorical strategies.
Persuasion in society can be very diverse, often ranging from one extreme to the other. In order for one to grasp a full understanding of an issue at question or debate, they must explore all of these persuasive outlets, and ultimately make up their own mind about an issue or ideologies.
Demonization is also prevalent within media persuasion. Various media sources often demonize their “opponents”(those who retain conflicting opinions on a certain issue) viewpoints, in order to portray alternative stances on an issue, to be irrational and misguided. This demonization has caused the audience of these sources to dismiss or reject any claim or ideal that does not conform to theirs, ultimately leading to ignorance and dogmatism.
However, there are different forms of persuasion within communities other than just the media; these include, families, schools, jobs, churches, etc. Here, persuasion is often conveyed by someone of authority or respect, expressing his or her ideals in conversation, either with someone who “opposes” them or by someone still establishing an opinion on a particular issue. This form of persuasion closely matches the ancients’ definition of argument in which ideals are exchanged, respectively, by language using rhetorical strategies.
Persuasion in society can be very diverse, often ranging from one extreme to the other. In order for one to grasp a full understanding of an issue at question or debate, they must explore all of these persuasive outlets, and ultimately make up their own mind about an issue or ideologies.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
fable
There once lived a community of Hawks, flying freely above fields and meadows, always able to acquire ample food and water. Each hawk had a nest, some being sturdier, more spacious, and made of more precious materials than others’ nests. However, these nests were not common. Only the Hawks that worked the hardest were able live in these nests. The majority of the Hawks, who did not work did not work as hard as the other hawks, lived in poorly built nests that were often too small for them. Eventually, the Hawks who did not work hard began to feel outraged towards the Hawks living in the nice nests, and wanted to find a solution in which all Hawks could live in the same quality of nest. They then confided this notion to a Wolf and voted him their leader. The Wolf decided to outlaw the building of large, extravagant, nests made of precious and rare materials, and outlawed the living in poorly built, unfit nests. He then ordered a collective workforce for the Hawks to all build new mundane, mediocre houses. The lazy Hawks did not feel like working hard, and the usually motivated Hawks decided working hard would be futile since they would end up living in a mediocre nest no matter what. With all the hawks feeling unmotivated or lazy, the quality of the nests degenerated, ultimately leaving all the Hawks to live in the same poorly built nests. The Wolf, who had been observing this degeneration, took all the precious materials from the hardworking Hawks’ old nests and became very rich.
This fable displays how a collectivist form of community or society, does not eliminate class structure, but rather increases the range of inequality between the rich and poor. Moreover, hard work is depicted as the sole means of class divisibility, and when it is eliminated, society degenerates, leaving greed and power to develop in situ of hard work’s absence.
This fable displays how a collectivist form of community or society, does not eliminate class structure, but rather increases the range of inequality between the rich and poor. Moreover, hard work is depicted as the sole means of class divisibility, and when it is eliminated, society degenerates, leaving greed and power to develop in situ of hard work’s absence.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
death penalty
I was stooping over Micheals with my had on his shoulder."Tell me, God damnit Michaels! We know you were there. We have physical evidencelinking you to the murder. Just tell us where Jeff Putin’s body is."My face was about six inches away from Michaels’s, and I could see beads of sweat starting to form on his furrowed forehead. He was an ugly man, and not just because he had killed three people. He had ratty, slicked-backed hair, that shined of grease and dirt from lack of bathing. His facial hair was ungroomed, sprouting from beneath his sunburnt leathery skin, in sparse patches of various length.
"Get me a pack of cigarettes and some whiskey and I’ll talk." Micheals said, staring at me unrelenting and hollow. We sat in a stalemate for about ten or fifteen seconds. I was breathing just soft enough so as not to show any movement and I could see him practicing the same restraint. "Very well. No bullshit though Micheals. You understand?"
"Like I said, cigarettes and whiskey. Then I’ll be the biggest narc you want me to be." He leered out the side of his mouth, revealing his crooked, yellow teeth.
I took my hand off his shoulder, and stood above him cross-armed, debating whether or not I should give into his requests. He was slouched in his chair looking up at me as if I was in a pulpit, statically waiting for me to make my move. Then what seemed to me as an inconsequential act of mercy, I walked out of the interrogation room and asked a deputy to get me a pack of cigarettes and some whiskey, then handed him some money. About twenty minutes later he came back with them, and then I took them to Micheals’s interrogation room, and set them on the table in front of him. Without hesitation, he slowly opened the pack, and causually placed a cigarette inbetween his two lips. I threw him a book a matches, and once he had it lit he started up.
"Well me and Patrick Stevens had just got dropped off in Kingman, by some guy who picked us up in Boulder City. We were high on meth and needed a ride down to Bullhead City because that’s where Pat’s sister lived, and he figured she could help us out with some money. Well we started hitchhikin down the 68. Then after about 20 minutes, Fuck I don’t know. I was fucking high. It was some fucking time, we came across this long dirt driveway that led to a trailer about a quarter mile back from the highway. Eventually we got to the trailer and saw a truck parked out front and decided that we needed it, so we was gunna fuckin steal it. Kill the people. Whatever. We just wanted that truck. Then I knocked on the door and some guy, I’m guessing it’s that guy you callin Jeff Putin, answered the door. Well right when he answered I hit him in the face with a fucking cinder block that I found in front of his trailer. I didn’t think he died right away, so I kept beating his head with the cinder block till he was dead. Well as I was going to town this guy, Pat found that some kid was livin with him. I don’t really now what happened, but Pat had abutter knife and slit his throat from ear to ear, then stabbed him with it in the ear. Then I came over beat his head in with the cinder block, which was what finally killed him."
He then took a long puff of the cigarette, and then gradually exhaled it, looking me up and down, stubbornly waiting for me to respond.
"The body?" I asked queasily, nearly causing my voice to crack.
"I can show you it. We dumped it in the desert somewhere." He said, gradually exhaling the smoke he had just inhaled, and had now moved his head upward to observe the ceiling.
As I watched him, I realized that I had never met anyone so morally hollow and heinous in my entire twenty-one year career at Mojave Sheriffs Department.
"So can I do some sort of plea bargain?"
"God I hope not" I said staring him down, restraining every single muscle in my body that was so readily about spring up and put three gunshots in his head. "There aren’t any plea bargains in heaven."
"Where I’m going," he sneered, sitting back in his chair "The devil’s gunna let me sit in a cell with a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of whiskey."
"Get me a pack of cigarettes and some whiskey and I’ll talk." Micheals said, staring at me unrelenting and hollow. We sat in a stalemate for about ten or fifteen seconds. I was breathing just soft enough so as not to show any movement and I could see him practicing the same restraint. "Very well. No bullshit though Micheals. You understand?"
"Like I said, cigarettes and whiskey. Then I’ll be the biggest narc you want me to be." He leered out the side of his mouth, revealing his crooked, yellow teeth.
I took my hand off his shoulder, and stood above him cross-armed, debating whether or not I should give into his requests. He was slouched in his chair looking up at me as if I was in a pulpit, statically waiting for me to make my move. Then what seemed to me as an inconsequential act of mercy, I walked out of the interrogation room and asked a deputy to get me a pack of cigarettes and some whiskey, then handed him some money. About twenty minutes later he came back with them, and then I took them to Micheals’s interrogation room, and set them on the table in front of him. Without hesitation, he slowly opened the pack, and causually placed a cigarette inbetween his two lips. I threw him a book a matches, and once he had it lit he started up.
"Well me and Patrick Stevens had just got dropped off in Kingman, by some guy who picked us up in Boulder City. We were high on meth and needed a ride down to Bullhead City because that’s where Pat’s sister lived, and he figured she could help us out with some money. Well we started hitchhikin down the 68. Then after about 20 minutes, Fuck I don’t know. I was fucking high. It was some fucking time, we came across this long dirt driveway that led to a trailer about a quarter mile back from the highway. Eventually we got to the trailer and saw a truck parked out front and decided that we needed it, so we was gunna fuckin steal it. Kill the people. Whatever. We just wanted that truck. Then I knocked on the door and some guy, I’m guessing it’s that guy you callin Jeff Putin, answered the door. Well right when he answered I hit him in the face with a fucking cinder block that I found in front of his trailer. I didn’t think he died right away, so I kept beating his head with the cinder block till he was dead. Well as I was going to town this guy, Pat found that some kid was livin with him. I don’t really now what happened, but Pat had abutter knife and slit his throat from ear to ear, then stabbed him with it in the ear. Then I came over beat his head in with the cinder block, which was what finally killed him."
He then took a long puff of the cigarette, and then gradually exhaled it, looking me up and down, stubbornly waiting for me to respond.
"The body?" I asked queasily, nearly causing my voice to crack.
"I can show you it. We dumped it in the desert somewhere." He said, gradually exhaling the smoke he had just inhaled, and had now moved his head upward to observe the ceiling.
As I watched him, I realized that I had never met anyone so morally hollow and heinous in my entire twenty-one year career at Mojave Sheriffs Department.
"So can I do some sort of plea bargain?"
"God I hope not" I said staring him down, restraining every single muscle in my body that was so readily about spring up and put three gunshots in his head. "There aren’t any plea bargains in heaven."
"Where I’m going," he sneered, sitting back in his chair "The devil’s gunna let me sit in a cell with a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of whiskey."
Monday, September 21, 2009
smoke and mirrors rough
Obama’s savvy economic, domestic, and foreign affairs agendas that were hyped during his eloquent campaign speeches have kept a population on their toes, anxiously waiting for this promised "change" to take effect. Now, nine months later, and with dismal approval ratings, Obama’s reliance on his charismatic, saves-the-day veneer is beginning to look as if he was using it to compensate for lack of executive leadership skills. This in turn has resulted in a budget, so large that it has already eclipsed Bush’s staggering budget numbers. But the worst has yet to come. As congress is struggling to produce a coherent health care reform bill, numbers aren’t adding up, and Obama’s deception is slowly, but surely beginning to unravel.
By now most Americans are aware of Joe Wilson, the man who was crucified for (disrespectfully) catching Obama in a lie over whether the "public option" would cover illegal immigrants. Throughout the recent bull rush for health care reform, Obama has consistently reminded Americans of the 47 million other Americans struggling to survive without health insurance. However, when this number is broken down, this 47 million struggling Americans can be reduced to about 8 million struggling Americans. About 25 million are illegal immigrants, and the remaining 14 million people are either those who can afford insurance, but opt not to buy it, or are people who are poor enough to qualify for the already available government health insurance plan. So, although Wilson’s remark may not have been made in the most orthodox manner, it seems as if he did in fact catch Obama in a lie; but not quite.
About two or three days ago, Obama announced that he has plans on legalizing all of the illegal immigrants in this country so that they can be covered by the public health option. Therefore, the public health option would not cover any illegal immigrants, because there would not be any. Here, instead of lying, Obama used political rhetoric, and manipulated laws in order to evade opposition to his political Swan song. In other words, he deceived the public by not mentioning his plans to legalize illegal immigrants.
The repercussions of this health care structure are severe. As of now, Obama is insisting that health care overall will only cost one trillion dollars over a period of ten years, without any tax hikes. However, many experts project that cost to be upwards around 9 trillion dollars after only 8 years. Add in the unknown myriad of illegal immigrants, no tax increases, and America’s exorbitant deficit, leaving the means for America to pay for this overhaul to be non-existent. In short, nine trillion dollars does not appear out of no where.
By now most Americans are aware of Joe Wilson, the man who was crucified for (disrespectfully) catching Obama in a lie over whether the "public option" would cover illegal immigrants. Throughout the recent bull rush for health care reform, Obama has consistently reminded Americans of the 47 million other Americans struggling to survive without health insurance. However, when this number is broken down, this 47 million struggling Americans can be reduced to about 8 million struggling Americans. About 25 million are illegal immigrants, and the remaining 14 million people are either those who can afford insurance, but opt not to buy it, or are people who are poor enough to qualify for the already available government health insurance plan. So, although Wilson’s remark may not have been made in the most orthodox manner, it seems as if he did in fact catch Obama in a lie; but not quite.
About two or three days ago, Obama announced that he has plans on legalizing all of the illegal immigrants in this country so that they can be covered by the public health option. Therefore, the public health option would not cover any illegal immigrants, because there would not be any. Here, instead of lying, Obama used political rhetoric, and manipulated laws in order to evade opposition to his political Swan song. In other words, he deceived the public by not mentioning his plans to legalize illegal immigrants.
The repercussions of this health care structure are severe. As of now, Obama is insisting that health care overall will only cost one trillion dollars over a period of ten years, without any tax hikes. However, many experts project that cost to be upwards around 9 trillion dollars after only 8 years. Add in the unknown myriad of illegal immigrants, no tax increases, and America’s exorbitant deficit, leaving the means for America to pay for this overhaul to be non-existent. In short, nine trillion dollars does not appear out of no where.
Friday, September 18, 2009
letter to co worker who got mad at me ha ha
Billy,
First off, I apologize if I uttered any falsehoods about your work ethic or performance that may have insulted you. Those were not my intentions. I was under the impression that our correspondence was a mutual heckling, absent of any malice, serving only to comically point out minor departmental issues. But apparently I was mistaken. However, after reading your letter, I feel my misconceptions are justifiable.
In your letter to me, you claim that your previous notes were "attempts to resolve departmental errors", in which you included your own barrage of slander, which were often tinted with a brash, and sarcastic tone. It was through this tone where I formed the perception that you were writing your notes with humor in mind. Moreover, you then state that I took your attempts as a "personal attack", which then drove me to maliciously lash out, writing slandered notes to you as my outlet for my anger. This is where I find an inconsistency in your letter.
Throughout your letter to me, you portray yourself as the victim, writing with an indignant tone as if I was constantly maligning you. However, when you mention that I "misconstrued" the reality behind our correspondence, there suddenly becomes two victims. But how am I a victim? Surely someone doesn’t feel "attacked" for no reason (since that’s what you claim I misconstrued your letters to be). This indicates to me that you are as guilty as I am for attacking character and uttering falsehoods, otherwise if you were not attacking my work ethic and character, I would have no reason to feel "attacked", as you claim I was.
I would love to talk to you in person to sort out any grudges that may have formed between you and I. But again, this whole time I had the understanding that you regarded our correspondence as harmless, harassment’s. If you would like to end our notes to each other, that’s fine, just say the word and I’ll cease writing immediately.
Sincerely,
Kyle Kennedy
P.S. I spoke with Jeff about this issue. He said that he never C.C.’d your letter to me, yet alone even talk to you….
First off, I apologize if I uttered any falsehoods about your work ethic or performance that may have insulted you. Those were not my intentions. I was under the impression that our correspondence was a mutual heckling, absent of any malice, serving only to comically point out minor departmental issues. But apparently I was mistaken. However, after reading your letter, I feel my misconceptions are justifiable.
In your letter to me, you claim that your previous notes were "attempts to resolve departmental errors", in which you included your own barrage of slander, which were often tinted with a brash, and sarcastic tone. It was through this tone where I formed the perception that you were writing your notes with humor in mind. Moreover, you then state that I took your attempts as a "personal attack", which then drove me to maliciously lash out, writing slandered notes to you as my outlet for my anger. This is where I find an inconsistency in your letter.
Throughout your letter to me, you portray yourself as the victim, writing with an indignant tone as if I was constantly maligning you. However, when you mention that I "misconstrued" the reality behind our correspondence, there suddenly becomes two victims. But how am I a victim? Surely someone doesn’t feel "attacked" for no reason (since that’s what you claim I misconstrued your letters to be). This indicates to me that you are as guilty as I am for attacking character and uttering falsehoods, otherwise if you were not attacking my work ethic and character, I would have no reason to feel "attacked", as you claim I was.
I would love to talk to you in person to sort out any grudges that may have formed between you and I. But again, this whole time I had the understanding that you regarded our correspondence as harmless, harassment’s. If you would like to end our notes to each other, that’s fine, just say the word and I’ll cease writing immediately.
Sincerely,
Kyle Kennedy
P.S. I spoke with Jeff about this issue. He said that he never C.C.’d your letter to me, yet alone even talk to you….
Thursday, September 17, 2009
scary story!!!!!!!
About twenty years ago I used to rent a house in an older part of Pasadena up against the San Gabriel Mountains. I was living by myself at the time, and was working as a part-time prep cook in some restaurant while I was trying to get onto the Sheriffs Department. The job didn’t pay much, but the neighborhood I lived in had a reputation, so the rent was relatively cheap. Soon after I moved in, some neighbors had told me that house across the street from mine was rumored to be ‘haunted’. They said the last people who lived there left abruptly after only living there about six months and had experienced noises and selective loss of electricity. It was a large dark brown house, that was situated back from the road a bit on a slope, so it looked down upon the houses on my side of the street. The house didn’t match the styles of the other houses, being similar to a style you’d find back east like Connecticut, which indicated to me that it was probably the first house on the street. Other than that, the house seemed normal. I had even talked to the man who had lived there, and he told me that he hadn’t noticed anything unusual since he and his family had lived there.
Well one night, I was awoken by a flurry of panicked, heavy knocks, on my front door. After I got to my senses, I went to the door out looked the window and saw that it was the kid, about eleven or twelve, who lived in that house across the street from me. I opened the door and asked him what was going on. He told me that his parents were out, and he was home alone, and said some weird things had been happening all night. The kid was in a panic, trembling, and could hardly even articulate a sentence. From what I got out of him though, the phone was ringing off the hook and when he would answer, it would be to a dial tone. Ane He said he finally ran over to my house as soon as he heard some heavy footsteps upstairs, followed by a slamming door.
I went to my fridge, got him a can of Dr. Pepper, then got my shotgun that I kept in my closet and a flashlight, and told him to follow me.
As I approached the house, I and could see through the open front door—the kid had presumably left open in a panic—that all the lights were off, but the front room was illuminated by an eerie blue hue from the TV. When I got inside, with my shotgun in firing position, I hit the light switch, but nothing came on. Then I looked back at the kid, who was standing a few steps back from the front door on the porch, and said that the lights had stopped working. I turned my head back to the house, strengthening my grip on the gun, and did a quick panoramic assessment of the house then told the kid to hand me the flashlight.
Maybe I was just psyched out by the fear, but that house was eerie. There was nothing good about it. The air was cold and heavy, as if someone was staring, unblinkingly at you from about two inches away from your face at all times. Still to this day I get shivers when I think about the house. I first scanned the bottom story, checking as through as I could, but found nothing. Then as I was going up the stairs, I saw four rooms, each of them had their doors wide open, revealing only precarious darkness, except the second closest to me, where in between the door and the floor you could see a bluish light from a TV. I yelled down to the kid, asking if he had been watching TV in that room. He said no. I then went downstairs through the front door and closed it. Then the kid and I shared, for a split second, an expression of sheer terror. We then both turned around and started walking back to my place where we watched Tv until his parents got home
Now I live in Tucson, having moved out here shortly after I found out that I didn’t make the sheriffs department. I don’t know whatever happened to that kid or his family, because they had left about two weeks after that night, and I followed, leaving two weeks after they did.
Well one night, I was awoken by a flurry of panicked, heavy knocks, on my front door. After I got to my senses, I went to the door out looked the window and saw that it was the kid, about eleven or twelve, who lived in that house across the street from me. I opened the door and asked him what was going on. He told me that his parents were out, and he was home alone, and said some weird things had been happening all night. The kid was in a panic, trembling, and could hardly even articulate a sentence. From what I got out of him though, the phone was ringing off the hook and when he would answer, it would be to a dial tone. Ane He said he finally ran over to my house as soon as he heard some heavy footsteps upstairs, followed by a slamming door.
I went to my fridge, got him a can of Dr. Pepper, then got my shotgun that I kept in my closet and a flashlight, and told him to follow me.
As I approached the house, I and could see through the open front door—the kid had presumably left open in a panic—that all the lights were off, but the front room was illuminated by an eerie blue hue from the TV. When I got inside, with my shotgun in firing position, I hit the light switch, but nothing came on. Then I looked back at the kid, who was standing a few steps back from the front door on the porch, and said that the lights had stopped working. I turned my head back to the house, strengthening my grip on the gun, and did a quick panoramic assessment of the house then told the kid to hand me the flashlight.
Maybe I was just psyched out by the fear, but that house was eerie. There was nothing good about it. The air was cold and heavy, as if someone was staring, unblinkingly at you from about two inches away from your face at all times. Still to this day I get shivers when I think about the house. I first scanned the bottom story, checking as through as I could, but found nothing. Then as I was going up the stairs, I saw four rooms, each of them had their doors wide open, revealing only precarious darkness, except the second closest to me, where in between the door and the floor you could see a bluish light from a TV. I yelled down to the kid, asking if he had been watching TV in that room. He said no. I then went downstairs through the front door and closed it. Then the kid and I shared, for a split second, an expression of sheer terror. We then both turned around and started walking back to my place where we watched Tv until his parents got home
Now I live in Tucson, having moved out here shortly after I found out that I didn’t make the sheriffs department. I don’t know whatever happened to that kid or his family, because they had left about two weeks after that night, and I followed, leaving two weeks after they did.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
really rough true stroy
I have to do community service because my friend ratted me out.
Sometime shortly after the forth of July, I was hanging out with my friend Justin and Nick at Justin’s dad’s house in Oro Valley. Justin and Matt were drinking, but I had to drive home, and don’t really like beer in anyway, so I wasn’t drinking. We had been sitting on his patio most of the night, admiring the transparency of the night sky allowed by the absence of a moon. After a while Justin—who had been texting throughout the night—told us that his friend, whose name was also Nick was going to come over soon. To avoid any confusion, I’ll call the first mentioned Nick, Nick M. and the latter Nick, Nick O. Nick O came over about five minutes after Justin had told us he was coming over. We greeted each other (I had met him once before) and introduced him to the other Nick. We told him we weren’t doing anything and were somewhat bored. Then he casually told us that he had some fireworks left over from the fourth of July and suggested to go shoot some off. Instinctively, being young men offered to mess around with explosives, we were all for it. We then walked over to Nick O’s house where he had a huge stack of fireworks ranging from mortars to roman candles.
At first we were just lighting off the roman candles in front of his house. Justin and Nick M. who were drunk by this time were being oblivious and careless, thus having the most fun among the four of us. Then we decided we wanted to shoot of a mortar in the neighborhood next to Matt’s. Once we got there we found a nice, quiet coul de sac and put the mortar in the center of it. Or those of you who aren’t familiar with mortars, they are those fireworks that are shot up in the air at fourth of July, only, we didn’t have a tube, so that explosive that is usually in the air was going to happen on the ground. In between two of the houses was a rock arroyo (natural drainage) that led to a wash, which then led back to Justin’s house (all three of these neighborhoods were in close proximity of each other). So we were all waiting in the arroyo while Matt ignited the wick of the mortar. When he lit it, he started sprinting towards us, stopped, and turned around just in time for the explosive to go off. It was as if lightning had struck dead center of the coul de sac, with embers reaching its perimeter, and producing a sound loud enough to be mistaken for a grenade. Immediately, fueled by our adrenaline, we started sprinting, running or jumping over anything that came in our path…… To be continued, and improved :)
Sometime shortly after the forth of July, I was hanging out with my friend Justin and Nick at Justin’s dad’s house in Oro Valley. Justin and Matt were drinking, but I had to drive home, and don’t really like beer in anyway, so I wasn’t drinking. We had been sitting on his patio most of the night, admiring the transparency of the night sky allowed by the absence of a moon. After a while Justin—who had been texting throughout the night—told us that his friend, whose name was also Nick was going to come over soon. To avoid any confusion, I’ll call the first mentioned Nick, Nick M. and the latter Nick, Nick O. Nick O came over about five minutes after Justin had told us he was coming over. We greeted each other (I had met him once before) and introduced him to the other Nick. We told him we weren’t doing anything and were somewhat bored. Then he casually told us that he had some fireworks left over from the fourth of July and suggested to go shoot some off. Instinctively, being young men offered to mess around with explosives, we were all for it. We then walked over to Nick O’s house where he had a huge stack of fireworks ranging from mortars to roman candles.
At first we were just lighting off the roman candles in front of his house. Justin and Nick M. who were drunk by this time were being oblivious and careless, thus having the most fun among the four of us. Then we decided we wanted to shoot of a mortar in the neighborhood next to Matt’s. Once we got there we found a nice, quiet coul de sac and put the mortar in the center of it. Or those of you who aren’t familiar with mortars, they are those fireworks that are shot up in the air at fourth of July, only, we didn’t have a tube, so that explosive that is usually in the air was going to happen on the ground. In between two of the houses was a rock arroyo (natural drainage) that led to a wash, which then led back to Justin’s house (all three of these neighborhoods were in close proximity of each other). So we were all waiting in the arroyo while Matt ignited the wick of the mortar. When he lit it, he started sprinting towards us, stopped, and turned around just in time for the explosive to go off. It was as if lightning had struck dead center of the coul de sac, with embers reaching its perimeter, and producing a sound loud enough to be mistaken for a grenade. Immediately, fueled by our adrenaline, we started sprinting, running or jumping over anything that came in our path…… To be continued, and improved :)
Monday, September 14, 2009
short story on interchanability of gender roles
Cathy was still sitting by the fire when her brothers had gone to bed. They offered to stay out with her, but she insisted that they get some sleep and assured them that she would join them in a little while. Besides, she needed some time alone. Since her and her brothers started out on the backpacking trip two days ago she’d been with them non-stop. She figured that this was probably going to be one of, if not the only time she’d get to be alone, and she wanted to take advantage of it. Throughout the trip, she had to juggle conversations with her brothers and the thoughts she was having about Michael and what had gone wrong with their marriage. Her brothers knew about the separation (they invited her on the trip as a way of getting her away from the turmoil back home) and tried to console her by conversing with random small talk, and reminiscing about their childhood/ adolescence. Cathy appreciated their intentions, and was grateful that she had brothers that cared enough about her to take her along with them on their annual camping trip, but what she needed was time recover and reflect. The trip was a distraction from this, not a means of liberation as her brothers had intended. But her brothers were right about one thing, the Alaskan wilderness was sobering. And as she stared at the fired, her thoughts about Michael seemed to assimilate with the rising smoke, rising until it was yielded by the altitude and was no longer smoke anymore, but was transformed into an atmospheric molecule. The fire mesmerized her, and she couldn’t explain why either. It was as if the fire had triggered a prehistoric instinct within her that caused her to sit in simple rapture, unblinkingly absorbing the fire’s slow choreography.
After an indiscernible period of time, Cathy noticed that their wood supply was beginning to run low. Without hesitation, she got up and ventured off into the forest. After her first round, she only managed to scrape up some kindling and mid-sized wood, but each time after that she would progressively come back with better and better wood. She would navigate by moonlight, her eyes on a swivel, rapidly scaling different areas for prospective wood. Once she found the wood, she would gather it, and haul it back to camp, always aware of her position, never for a second doubting her sense of direction. It was as if she was functioning on the same instinct that female salmon rely on when they swim upstream every spring to the spot where they were born, in order to give birth to their young. Once she finished gathering the firewood, she made a fire that lasted until morning.
Her brothers woke up before Cathy and were had already started cooking breakfast by the time she woke up. When they first came out of the tent they were stunned at the size of the fire and also at the size of the firewood pile beside the tent.
"It’s a good thing Cathy collected wood last night" Jack the older brother said, flipping pancakes on a portable skillet with a spatula. "I didn’t realize the wood we collected would burn up so quickly."
"Yeah really. If she didn’t keep it alive, who knows what could have wondered into our camp" responded William the younger brother, washing mud off his pants with a wet rag.
"Man what a good woman she is. I can’t believe Mike did that to her"
"Well Cathy got him back pretty good", chuckled William.
"Yeah" replied Jack returning the chuckle "Is he still in the hospital?"
After an indiscernible period of time, Cathy noticed that their wood supply was beginning to run low. Without hesitation, she got up and ventured off into the forest. After her first round, she only managed to scrape up some kindling and mid-sized wood, but each time after that she would progressively come back with better and better wood. She would navigate by moonlight, her eyes on a swivel, rapidly scaling different areas for prospective wood. Once she found the wood, she would gather it, and haul it back to camp, always aware of her position, never for a second doubting her sense of direction. It was as if she was functioning on the same instinct that female salmon rely on when they swim upstream every spring to the spot where they were born, in order to give birth to their young. Once she finished gathering the firewood, she made a fire that lasted until morning.
Her brothers woke up before Cathy and were had already started cooking breakfast by the time she woke up. When they first came out of the tent they were stunned at the size of the fire and also at the size of the firewood pile beside the tent.
"It’s a good thing Cathy collected wood last night" Jack the older brother said, flipping pancakes on a portable skillet with a spatula. "I didn’t realize the wood we collected would burn up so quickly."
"Yeah really. If she didn’t keep it alive, who knows what could have wondered into our camp" responded William the younger brother, washing mud off his pants with a wet rag.
"Man what a good woman she is. I can’t believe Mike did that to her"
"Well Cathy got him back pretty good", chuckled William.
"Yeah" replied Jack returning the chuckle "Is he still in the hospital?"
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Free write: opinion on transexualism
Note: This is not a condemnation on those who are suffering a gender identity crisis. This is purely an opinion on what transexualism (having undergone sex change) is.
Most people who are struggling with gender identity, often invoke that sex change operations serve as a means of transforming one’s body to its natural state, which, according to them, is determined by mental identity, in order to establish a natural balance between the mind and body. In plain, making a "what should have been" scenario, reality. However, I believe transexualism to be a form of self-mutilation.
When one undergoes surgery in order to synchronize mental sexual identity with physical sexual identity, they are not transforming into the opposite gender in which they sense they are, but rather they become a mutilated version of their natural, innate gender. Here, surgically dismembering natural sexual organs and replacing them with artificial organs yields a product that is just that, artificial. In other words, surgery is a means of altering the appearance of one’s sexual organs, and does nothing to alter their natural genetic makeup. Moreover, there are other distinguishing aspects about being male or female aside from reproductive organs such as, bone structure, hormonal balances, voice frequency, and facial features. Although many transsexuals have taken this into consideration, and have undergone various cosmetic remedies in order to blend their polarized mental and physical identities, it is still apparent (in most cases) that a person is a transsexual/transgender individual. Nothing is wrong with this if that person is happy with themselves and is "comfortable in their own skin", but if a person is seeking a natural transformation, unfortunately transsexualism is not the answer. No matter how well the surgeon was or how well the surgery went nothing could change the natural gender of a person; surgery can only change the appearance of the reproductive organs.
What is innate is natural; this includes body as well as mind. Just as nothing can change the gender of a person, nothing can change the phenomena of gender identity crisis. In essence, a person who is struggling with gender identity is just as natural as a person who is not struggling is. (since most people who suffer from GIC obtain it at birth or shortly thereafter). So, when a person who is struggling with gender identity decides to undergo a sex change, they are essentially mutilating their natural body, just as a person who is not suffering from gender identity would have mutilated natural body after having had a sex change operation.
In conclusion, there is nothing that can change innateness, only mutilate it.
Most people who are struggling with gender identity, often invoke that sex change operations serve as a means of transforming one’s body to its natural state, which, according to them, is determined by mental identity, in order to establish a natural balance between the mind and body. In plain, making a "what should have been" scenario, reality. However, I believe transexualism to be a form of self-mutilation.
When one undergoes surgery in order to synchronize mental sexual identity with physical sexual identity, they are not transforming into the opposite gender in which they sense they are, but rather they become a mutilated version of their natural, innate gender. Here, surgically dismembering natural sexual organs and replacing them with artificial organs yields a product that is just that, artificial. In other words, surgery is a means of altering the appearance of one’s sexual organs, and does nothing to alter their natural genetic makeup. Moreover, there are other distinguishing aspects about being male or female aside from reproductive organs such as, bone structure, hormonal balances, voice frequency, and facial features. Although many transsexuals have taken this into consideration, and have undergone various cosmetic remedies in order to blend their polarized mental and physical identities, it is still apparent (in most cases) that a person is a transsexual/transgender individual. Nothing is wrong with this if that person is happy with themselves and is "comfortable in their own skin", but if a person is seeking a natural transformation, unfortunately transsexualism is not the answer. No matter how well the surgeon was or how well the surgery went nothing could change the natural gender of a person; surgery can only change the appearance of the reproductive organs.
What is innate is natural; this includes body as well as mind. Just as nothing can change the gender of a person, nothing can change the phenomena of gender identity crisis. In essence, a person who is struggling with gender identity is just as natural as a person who is not struggling is. (since most people who suffer from GIC obtain it at birth or shortly thereafter). So, when a person who is struggling with gender identity decides to undergo a sex change, they are essentially mutilating their natural body, just as a person who is not suffering from gender identity would have mutilated natural body after having had a sex change operation.
In conclusion, there is nothing that can change innateness, only mutilate it.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
critique of suspended
Joy Harjo’s essay "suspended" is about her discovery of Jazz and how she believes it to be a form of communication that transposes linguistic and cultural borders. Despite the essay’s brevity, I was able to recognize both positive and negative aspects about her writing. I really enjoyed the middle portion of her essay where Harjo gives a vivid, sensory description of the car’s interior that ranged from her dad’s cologne to the cool breeze rushing inwards via the crack in the window. I feel this portion of her essay was fluent, appropriate, and also easy for the audience to read.
However, I felt most of her essay was confusing to read, and was too short for such a deep and broad topic. At the beginning of her essay, especially the first three or four sentences, I found myself having to go back and read what Harjo was trying to convey. When Harjo first explains her discovery of jazz, she states that it occurred before she acquired language. The subsequent sentence goes on to state that her concept of language changed because of this particular moment of discovery. This is confusing to me in that I don’t understand how one’s concept of language can change without having even acquired the ability to comprehend language. It could be that jazz was the catalyst between Harjo and her concept of language, however, I am not sure. To clear up any confusion, Harjo could have developed this idea further and conveyed it with more clarity. Another example of confusion I had with this essay is when Harjo credits Jazz to changing "the way she looked at the sun", then goes on to state how her parents overlooked things she observed but that they were still "omnipresent gods." Possibly I am being too literal, but I don’t see the relationship between the sun, her parents, and what she initially stated with jazz and language. Here, I feel Harjo could better organize her essay by keeping paragraphs focused. I feel if she worked more on focusing her ideas and practiced better organization, Harjo could possibly elborate, thus better conveying her relationship with jazz.
However, I felt most of her essay was confusing to read, and was too short for such a deep and broad topic. At the beginning of her essay, especially the first three or four sentences, I found myself having to go back and read what Harjo was trying to convey. When Harjo first explains her discovery of jazz, she states that it occurred before she acquired language. The subsequent sentence goes on to state that her concept of language changed because of this particular moment of discovery. This is confusing to me in that I don’t understand how one’s concept of language can change without having even acquired the ability to comprehend language. It could be that jazz was the catalyst between Harjo and her concept of language, however, I am not sure. To clear up any confusion, Harjo could have developed this idea further and conveyed it with more clarity. Another example of confusion I had with this essay is when Harjo credits Jazz to changing "the way she looked at the sun", then goes on to state how her parents overlooked things she observed but that they were still "omnipresent gods." Possibly I am being too literal, but I don’t see the relationship between the sun, her parents, and what she initially stated with jazz and language. Here, I feel Harjo could better organize her essay by keeping paragraphs focused. I feel if she worked more on focusing her ideas and practiced better organization, Harjo could possibly elborate, thus better conveying her relationship with jazz.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
incomplete first draft again
"Yeah, you boys don’t know how good you got it" Ralph Sanchez leered mockingly to the boys huddled by the tailgate, not quite looking at them, but rather blankly observing the area behind them. They watched him stern-faced and cross-armed, all consciously and strenuously making an effort to repress anything that would reveal their puerile nature. Observe, imitate gestures, be quiet; that was there place in the group. And they knew it. They knew that it was necessary to restrain their juvenility not because the men would condemn them for being boyish, but instead because they would be ignored, causing their presence among the men to be regarded as trivial, ultimately ostracizing them from the group. Nothing oppressive, just the fundamental behavior men of different generations and experience face when interacting with one another -- in essence, a natural hierarchy. Eventually however, all of the boys would blurt out some platitude that would cause the men to look over callously at the boy who made the remark and then resume the story they were engaged in, leaving the boys no choice but to leave the group. But when Ralph Sanchez started to tell his story, the group meeting was still developing and the boys’ concentration on retaining acceptance in the group was at its peak.
"Yeah life was war back then for us. Every day was a goddamn battle. I was the type of fucker who would just hit you without warning. I would say nothing at all. You don’t need to. If some punk comes around talkin’ shit to me I’m gunna respond by fucking punching that motherfucker in the throat." Ralph continued, amused at what he was saying, this time looking at the men leaned up against the side of the truck bed across from him. They all had beers in their hands and were all gathered around a white truck, which was then surrounded by three other trucks on a slope over looking a baseball field.
Most of the stories started off the same way; the men would acknowledge the boys’ generation and (inaccurately) reduce their life to simply an existence of ease as if it was an insult to live without struggle. Once they had established this, they would tap into this nirvana and would boast stories of their pasts, filtering out bad or mundane events, leaving only the fond, humorous events that glamorized growing up as a bold troublemaker or hoodlum. The men knew better but the boys were captivated, even envious and once they--after having interrupted the men’s stories with some trivial remark -- would leave the group, they would venture off into the dark fields to practice their new learned words and find a way to produce stories of their own.
"Growing up my dad liked to go to bars after work" this time Kennedy spoke. He was a man with a soft voice, but had angular and rigid features, paradoxical to his voice, which seemed to throw off people who were just hearing him talk for the first time. "We could always hear him come stumbling in around two in the morning, muttering about god knows what. Well that shit got old fast. Then this one night, around 2 in the morning, we got a phone call home. It was the bartender telling us to come pick him up cuz he and his drinking buddy were too drunk to drive each other home. My mom and I got in my car and drove down there so she could pick up his car and I could drive him home. Well when I got there, I left the car running, stormed into the bar, grabbed my dad by the back of the shirt collar, and said ‘Dad, were leaving’. I led him to the car, grabbed him by the back of the pants and threw him in the backseat head first." Then Kennedy and the men who had been quietly listening, started chuckling, repositioning their bodies and seizing the opportunity to sip their beer.
"Grandpa was an alcoholic?" a voice asked abruptly from the tailgate. The group got silent, glanced over at him for a second, then let their heads return back to listen to the stories. "Yeah."
On the slope that overlooked the fields, you could hear the boys yelling obscenities to one another, and you could observe the boys --sipping beer with the other men, not saying a word – play smear the queer in complete darkness. You could sit up that slope until three in the morning, drinking down the sorrows and regrets of your youth, watching in silence until a voice booms from the hill "Yo guys, Let’s go. We’re leaving."
"Kyle, you need to call your mom, I don’t want your dad driving you and you brother home like this." I took Mr. Vega’s phone and called home and explained to my mom that we were still at the fields and that she needed to come get us
"Yeah life was war back then for us. Every day was a goddamn battle. I was the type of fucker who would just hit you without warning. I would say nothing at all. You don’t need to. If some punk comes around talkin’ shit to me I’m gunna respond by fucking punching that motherfucker in the throat." Ralph continued, amused at what he was saying, this time looking at the men leaned up against the side of the truck bed across from him. They all had beers in their hands and were all gathered around a white truck, which was then surrounded by three other trucks on a slope over looking a baseball field.
Most of the stories started off the same way; the men would acknowledge the boys’ generation and (inaccurately) reduce their life to simply an existence of ease as if it was an insult to live without struggle. Once they had established this, they would tap into this nirvana and would boast stories of their pasts, filtering out bad or mundane events, leaving only the fond, humorous events that glamorized growing up as a bold troublemaker or hoodlum. The men knew better but the boys were captivated, even envious and once they--after having interrupted the men’s stories with some trivial remark -- would leave the group, they would venture off into the dark fields to practice their new learned words and find a way to produce stories of their own.
"Growing up my dad liked to go to bars after work" this time Kennedy spoke. He was a man with a soft voice, but had angular and rigid features, paradoxical to his voice, which seemed to throw off people who were just hearing him talk for the first time. "We could always hear him come stumbling in around two in the morning, muttering about god knows what. Well that shit got old fast. Then this one night, around 2 in the morning, we got a phone call home. It was the bartender telling us to come pick him up cuz he and his drinking buddy were too drunk to drive each other home. My mom and I got in my car and drove down there so she could pick up his car and I could drive him home. Well when I got there, I left the car running, stormed into the bar, grabbed my dad by the back of the shirt collar, and said ‘Dad, were leaving’. I led him to the car, grabbed him by the back of the pants and threw him in the backseat head first." Then Kennedy and the men who had been quietly listening, started chuckling, repositioning their bodies and seizing the opportunity to sip their beer.
"Grandpa was an alcoholic?" a voice asked abruptly from the tailgate. The group got silent, glanced over at him for a second, then let their heads return back to listen to the stories. "Yeah."
On the slope that overlooked the fields, you could hear the boys yelling obscenities to one another, and you could observe the boys --sipping beer with the other men, not saying a word – play smear the queer in complete darkness. You could sit up that slope until three in the morning, drinking down the sorrows and regrets of your youth, watching in silence until a voice booms from the hill "Yo guys, Let’s go. We’re leaving."
"Kyle, you need to call your mom, I don’t want your dad driving you and you brother home like this." I took Mr. Vega’s phone and called home and explained to my mom that we were still at the fields and that she needed to come get us
Monday, September 7, 2009
mansion on the hill; rough
The living room was decorated with pictures in dark brown iron frames hanging on the walls. Above his couch, was the only picture that was not of Keith. Instead, it was of a glass mansion on the California coast somewhere. Half its foundation was grounded on a hill, the other half was supported by long narrow beams extending past beyond the edges of the picture. The photographer must have been somewhere on the hill, not quite ground level, but midway up, so that he still had to angle his camera upwards.
His apartment was small, a 500 square foot rectangle with delicate drywall barriers that protruded from the perimeter walls, dividing the apartment into one bedroom, one bathroom, a tiny kitchen, and a living room. The apartment was on the bottom level of a three-story, cheaply made frame-and-stucco building consisting of 50 identical rooms, which was then part of a complex consisting of over 10 identical buildings. Next door, I can hear an irritated voice competing with a muffled T.V, yelling something indiscernible, to a despondent, vapid husband. I picture him, sprawled out on the couch, with a pillow in between his head and the armrest, absorbing the hues of a midday infomercial about free money.
In between the couch and the wall was just enough space for Keith to barely wedge in an end table, on top of which sat a photographic book covering an expedition to the peak of Mount Everest. I open the book to a picture of a man with prosthetic legs, triumphantly poised on the peak of Everest, stooping over everything that he had strenuously conquered. At the bottom of the page there is an excerpt of an interview with the man. "It wasn’t easy, but nothing worth obtaining is" the man said. "My next feat is to complete a triathlon"
"I see you hold high regard for physical fitness" said the interviewer.
"My body is my temple."
I make my way back to Keith’s bedroom to let the dog out of the kennel so I can take him for a walk. His room is blank, occupied by only a twin bed, and a desk littered with papers and books. I hover over the desk to grap the dog’s leash and glance at a book on constitutional law stacked on top of five other textbooks. I bend down to pet the dog and envision Keith with prosthetic legs walking up the stairs to a courtroom where he will represent a man that he has spent months arduously building a case for.
Next door I can hear the woman yelling to the complacent, idle husband on the couch. But this time her yells are more audible: "What about that mansion on the hill you promised me?"
His apartment was small, a 500 square foot rectangle with delicate drywall barriers that protruded from the perimeter walls, dividing the apartment into one bedroom, one bathroom, a tiny kitchen, and a living room. The apartment was on the bottom level of a three-story, cheaply made frame-and-stucco building consisting of 50 identical rooms, which was then part of a complex consisting of over 10 identical buildings. Next door, I can hear an irritated voice competing with a muffled T.V, yelling something indiscernible, to a despondent, vapid husband. I picture him, sprawled out on the couch, with a pillow in between his head and the armrest, absorbing the hues of a midday infomercial about free money.
In between the couch and the wall was just enough space for Keith to barely wedge in an end table, on top of which sat a photographic book covering an expedition to the peak of Mount Everest. I open the book to a picture of a man with prosthetic legs, triumphantly poised on the peak of Everest, stooping over everything that he had strenuously conquered. At the bottom of the page there is an excerpt of an interview with the man. "It wasn’t easy, but nothing worth obtaining is" the man said. "My next feat is to complete a triathlon"
"I see you hold high regard for physical fitness" said the interviewer.
"My body is my temple."
I make my way back to Keith’s bedroom to let the dog out of the kennel so I can take him for a walk. His room is blank, occupied by only a twin bed, and a desk littered with papers and books. I hover over the desk to grap the dog’s leash and glance at a book on constitutional law stacked on top of five other textbooks. I bend down to pet the dog and envision Keith with prosthetic legs walking up the stairs to a courtroom where he will represent a man that he has spent months arduously building a case for.
Next door I can hear the woman yelling to the complacent, idle husband on the couch. But this time her yells are more audible: "What about that mansion on the hill you promised me?"
Sunday, September 6, 2009
memoir, draft
"Yeah, you boys don’t know how good you got it" Ralph Sanchez leered mockingly to the boys huddled by the tailgate, not quite looking at them, but rather blankly observing the area behind them. They watched him stern-faced and cross-armed, all consciously and strenuously making an effort to repress anything that would reveal their puerile nature. Observe, imitate gestures, be quiet; They practiced this restraint not because the men would condemn them for being boyish, but instead because they would be ignored, causing their presence among the men to be regarded as trivial, which ultimately would leave them ostracized from the group. Eventually however, all of the boys would blurt out some platitude that would cause the men to look over callously at the boy who made the remark and then resume the story they were engaged in, leaving the boys no choice but to leave the group. But when Ralph Sanchez started to tell his story, the group meeting was still developing and the boys’ concentration on retaining acceptance in the group was at its peak.
"Yeah life was war back then. Every day was a battle. I was the type of fu**er who would just hit you without warning. I would say nothing at all. You don’t need to. If some punk comes around talkin’ shi* to me I’m gunna respond by fu**ing punching that fu**er in the throat." Ralph continued, amused at what he was saying, this time looking at the men leaned up against the side of the truck bed across from him. They had beers in their hands and were all gathered around a white truck, which was then surrounded by three other trucks on a slope over looking a baseball field.
Each of the stories started off the same way; the men would acknowledge the boys’ generation and (inaccurately) reduce their life to simply an existence of ease as if it was an insult to live without struggle. Once they had established this, they would tap into this sort of nirvana and would orate stories of their pasts, filtering out bad or mundane events, leaving only the fond, humorous events that glamorized growing up as a bold troublemaker or hoodlum. The men knew better but the boys were captivated, even envious and once they--after having interrupted the men’s stories with some trivial remark -- would leave the group, they would venture off into the dark fields and find a way to produce stories of their own.
"Growing up my dad liked to go to bars after work" this time Kennedy spoke a man with a soft voice, but angular and rigid features. "We would get phone calls late at night from the bartender telling us to come pick him up, cuz he was too drunk to drive. So me and my mom would get in the car and drive over to the bar so she could pick his car up. Well this one time, my dad was belligerent drunk……………….
"Yeah life was war back then. Every day was a battle. I was the type of fu**er who would just hit you without warning. I would say nothing at all. You don’t need to. If some punk comes around talkin’ shi* to me I’m gunna respond by fu**ing punching that fu**er in the throat." Ralph continued, amused at what he was saying, this time looking at the men leaned up against the side of the truck bed across from him. They had beers in their hands and were all gathered around a white truck, which was then surrounded by three other trucks on a slope over looking a baseball field.
Each of the stories started off the same way; the men would acknowledge the boys’ generation and (inaccurately) reduce their life to simply an existence of ease as if it was an insult to live without struggle. Once they had established this, they would tap into this sort of nirvana and would orate stories of their pasts, filtering out bad or mundane events, leaving only the fond, humorous events that glamorized growing up as a bold troublemaker or hoodlum. The men knew better but the boys were captivated, even envious and once they--after having interrupted the men’s stories with some trivial remark -- would leave the group, they would venture off into the dark fields and find a way to produce stories of their own.
"Growing up my dad liked to go to bars after work" this time Kennedy spoke a man with a soft voice, but angular and rigid features. "We would get phone calls late at night from the bartender telling us to come pick him up, cuz he was too drunk to drive. So me and my mom would get in the car and drive over to the bar so she could pick his car up. Well this one time, my dad was belligerent drunk……………….
Friday, September 4, 2009
Short story?? voyeur
"Christ Carey, you should see it. Yeah, the door splintered from where he kicked it in and there’s muddy footprints leading straight to our bedroom. He must have come from across the street."
Nick squinted from his front doorway at the field, as if trying to catch a glimpse of the guy crouching in the dead brush watching him. The cop came up to him, "this guy’s probably not out there, Mr. Olear. They don’t tend to stick around after something like this. "
"Yeah. I suppose."
"Besides considering what the guy stole, he was probably just a tweeker looking for drug money. He must have scampered out of here long ago."
Nick continued to scan the muddy field that was overgrown with dead grass and tumble weeds, his eyes getting smaller as his focus got farther and farther. He knew the officer was probably right (who in their right mind would stay at a house they burglarized just to spy on the owners?), but his intuitions, or paranoia rather, were drawing him to that field.
"Honey, I’m gunna go, I’ll see you when you get home."
The burglar hadn’t stolen much, just some knock-off jewelry, and Carey reminded him this every time he would gaze out the front door window towards the field. It had been a month since the burglary, and Nick’s paranoia hadn’t eased. He felt he had been exploited, and that the person had done it so effortlessly. He was obsessed with the idea that he was the victim of some perverted, sadistic voyeur that was lurking the fields watching, invariably, until the right moment came when he could exploit him one more time. Who knows, maybe this time he was going to rape Carey? So he bought a camera and installed it in a light fixture on his front porch. It had a panoramic view of the field. His neighbor’s house, which was kitty corner from his, was also in the shot. He hadn't intended on filming their house, but it was positioned as such that he couldn’t help but get a portion of it in if he wanted to get the whole field.
Nick was able to access the live footage on his computer; and the footage he didn’t watch, he just let download to his computer. The first couple days Nick focused on the field and much to his disappointment, the camera yielded no evidence of a lurking stalker. "This is what I needed" Nick thought, consoling himself. "Although it was a bit extravagant, it helped reinforce what my wife was telling me the whole time. It was a traumatic experience and you were feeling exposed. That’s all. You’re fine now Nick. No need to worry."
TO BE CONTINUED.......
Thursday, September 3, 2009
"Pass" critque
Boyer Rickel’s memoir, "Pass" depicts the author’s childhood and adolescence in a small suburb in the 1950’s. Throughout the essay, Ricker reminisces on his observations of three separate male interactions and how he coped with his struggle to adapt to social norms. The first and third interactions portray him struggling with adulthood and masculinity, while the second interaction portrays him struggling with sexuality. With each struggle, Ricker is able to cope with his maladapted self by becoming passive and by repressing his individualism. Ricker seems to use this memoir as a means of liberating his repressed homosexuality and true self.
Ricker’s voice throughout his memoir is simultaneously casual and academic however is done without being condescending. The fluency of sentences and the clarity in which the author described or explained people, feelings, and places, mixed with his voice enabled a quick, pleasant read.
Though one aspect, somewhat peculiar about this piece, was how the memories were placed out of chronological order. After I read the first two memories and began to read the third, I was confused; I thought I had misread the second memory, so I went back and reread it. Upon doing this, I then realized that the author had purposely arranged the interactions out of chronological order. Ricker placed the second memory before the third memory as a means of introducing his homosexuality and to also emphasize the awkwardness and anxiety he felt growing up as a homosexual in a predominately heterosexual environment. Although this is clear now, Ricker could have avoided confusion among his writers and still accomplished this effect (depicting homosexuality as the source of his struggle to fit in with masculine interactions).
The author could have avoided confusion by making the opening sentences of each memory more time relevant. Ricker starts off the second memory by saying "Some years later…" while the third is started off by saying "By age twelve…". Without trying to rewrite the author’s piece (just provide suggestions), Ricker could have put for the second memory "By the time I was in high school" and put for the third memory " Several years beforehand…". In doing this, I feel the transition between memories would have been more smooth, clearing up any possible confusion.
Overall, I enjoyed the piece and had fun interpreting what the author was trying to express. I am a sucker for the genre, dirty realism, so the second memory really sparked my interest.
The event that I am considering writing about for my personal memoir is a coming of age story where I depict an incident that has helped with my transition into manhood. Like Ricker’s "Pass", I also plan on writing about my observations of masculine interaction (although mine will be of prior to a significant event rather than of a simultaneous struggle with homosexuality), so I can use this piece as influence on my own.
Ricker’s voice throughout his memoir is simultaneously casual and academic however is done without being condescending. The fluency of sentences and the clarity in which the author described or explained people, feelings, and places, mixed with his voice enabled a quick, pleasant read.
Though one aspect, somewhat peculiar about this piece, was how the memories were placed out of chronological order. After I read the first two memories and began to read the third, I was confused; I thought I had misread the second memory, so I went back and reread it. Upon doing this, I then realized that the author had purposely arranged the interactions out of chronological order. Ricker placed the second memory before the third memory as a means of introducing his homosexuality and to also emphasize the awkwardness and anxiety he felt growing up as a homosexual in a predominately heterosexual environment. Although this is clear now, Ricker could have avoided confusion among his writers and still accomplished this effect (depicting homosexuality as the source of his struggle to fit in with masculine interactions).
The author could have avoided confusion by making the opening sentences of each memory more time relevant. Ricker starts off the second memory by saying "Some years later…" while the third is started off by saying "By age twelve…". Without trying to rewrite the author’s piece (just provide suggestions), Ricker could have put for the second memory "By the time I was in high school" and put for the third memory " Several years beforehand…". In doing this, I feel the transition between memories would have been more smooth, clearing up any possible confusion.
Overall, I enjoyed the piece and had fun interpreting what the author was trying to express. I am a sucker for the genre, dirty realism, so the second memory really sparked my interest.
The event that I am considering writing about for my personal memoir is a coming of age story where I depict an incident that has helped with my transition into manhood. Like Ricker’s "Pass", I also plan on writing about my observations of masculine interaction (although mine will be of prior to a significant event rather than of a simultaneous struggle with homosexuality), so I can use this piece as influence on my own.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Rough free write of essay #1 (informal)
The second thing that happened to me that contributed to my transformation into manhood was seeing my dad cry for the first and only time. The first thing was puberty and the third thing hasn’t happened yet because I haven’t placed responsibilities over narcissistic wants.
Growing up, my dad was a man. He never complained about work or marriage and always knew how to yell without compromising his integrity as a male role model –(but could still yell with enough force and reverberation to get my brother and I back in line.)
About seven or eight years ago, my dad was helping coach my brother’s baseball team and had become good friends with the other coaches and some of the dads on the team. After games they would park their trucks behind the fields and have "coaches meetings", which were just another name for 'drink beers and tell stories', sometimes until three in the morning. Us kids, about five or six of us, would go up to the meetings after the games and listen to our dads talk. We would try to hold back smiles and imitate gestures, in a trance of half amazement and half envy. We heard stories about how one dad, Ralph, closed the front door on his sister’s now-husband when he came to pick her up on their first date and how another dad, Juan, had to smash a rock in some guy’s face who had him backed up against a wall. There were scar stories and fight stories and a sense of urgency among us kids to live up to these stories
Eventually this urgency would cause us to get restless and we would leave the meetings to go wander the dark fields and pick fights with each other, not out of anger, but for fun, and mostly out of imitation. The night that it happened, we didn’t go up to the coaches meeting after the game; because by this time, word got out among some other team’s dads that our dads were having "coaches meetings" after the games. I guess they thought it was a good idea and started to stay late too. But our dad’s didn’t like these other dads. They said they were "pompous sonsofbitches" who "would run the score up even if they were winning 13-0". This attitude was transmitted over to us kids, so naturally we didn’t like the other dads’ kids.
Growing up, my dad was a man. He never complained about work or marriage and always knew how to yell without compromising his integrity as a male role model –(but could still yell with enough force and reverberation to get my brother and I back in line.)
About seven or eight years ago, my dad was helping coach my brother’s baseball team and had become good friends with the other coaches and some of the dads on the team. After games they would park their trucks behind the fields and have "coaches meetings", which were just another name for 'drink beers and tell stories', sometimes until three in the morning. Us kids, about five or six of us, would go up to the meetings after the games and listen to our dads talk. We would try to hold back smiles and imitate gestures, in a trance of half amazement and half envy. We heard stories about how one dad, Ralph, closed the front door on his sister’s now-husband when he came to pick her up on their first date and how another dad, Juan, had to smash a rock in some guy’s face who had him backed up against a wall. There were scar stories and fight stories and a sense of urgency among us kids to live up to these stories
Eventually this urgency would cause us to get restless and we would leave the meetings to go wander the dark fields and pick fights with each other, not out of anger, but for fun, and mostly out of imitation. The night that it happened, we didn’t go up to the coaches meeting after the game; because by this time, word got out among some other team’s dads that our dads were having "coaches meetings" after the games. I guess they thought it was a good idea and started to stay late too. But our dad’s didn’t like these other dads. They said they were "pompous sonsofbitches" who "would run the score up even if they were winning 13-0". This attitude was transmitted over to us kids, so naturally we didn’t like the other dads’ kids.
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