There's a few tropes that have been bothering me lately. I don't believe in Manic Pixie Dream Girls, the plight of Nice Guys or the Friendzone. They simply don't exist. Now, I have never been one to hate on the beliefs of others, and if it stopped there, I wouldn't mind those who do believe in these things. The problem with these ideas and concepts, however, is that it never stops there. And so, ladies and gentlemen of the Internet, I am now going to put my two cents in and try to help put a stop to this nonsense.
Ye denizens of the internet might have heard about at least two of my exes, as I have posted about them here before, but there are many more where they came from. Specifically, I have 10. Six of them left me just as the honeymoon phase wore off, and I left four of them when I noticed some disturbing trends I should've seen in the other six. When asked why they wanted to be with me, any of these men could've given you the same answer: "She surprises me and takes me on adventures and excites me, because she's shown me a whole new world. I'm a different person with her." Sound familiar? Yep. I've become a real-life Manic Pixie Dream Girl. There's one crucial difference between me and that mythical creature, though - I'm a real human being, and it is not. I do, in fact, have my own life, and do not exist solely for the purpose of fulfilling the dreams of some man (or woman, or gender-fluid being, or anyone else) who's too stuck in a rut to find his own way to reach them himself. I have goals for myself, and I have needs and desires that deserve filling too. I knew all of this, of course, but nobody thought it wise to tell any of the men who've fallen for me to any degree about this personality quirk of mine (specifically that I have one that operates independently from theirs).
Now I want to make one thing clear: I bear no resentment against any of these young men. I have learned a lot from these relationships, and I still bear genuine affection towards all of them. They were young, and probably had no idea what their brain was making them do as they were doing it; in fact, they'll probably grow out of this soon, and thank goodness for that. Rather, my resentment is directed against the industries that popularize this trope, and have taught us that this behavior is okay.
Hollywood has made a great deal of money telling young people that relationships like the ones I've had are normal. They're quick and adventurous; they treat one partner as a commodity, like a pill to be taken to cure the doldrums of normalcy; and most importantly, the other, non-commodified partner is the only one that needs to reach any level of growth, fulfillment or satisfaction in the relationship. Likewise, I blame Hollywood for at least turning Nice Guy Syndrome into a contagion that can't be contained. It seems to me that movies like 500 Days of Summer, Garden State and Some Like It Hot have only fed those who are predisposed to blaming things that are nobody's fault on something to ease their frustration. And those people are no fun when fed.
These people are the Nice Guys that Nice Guy Syndrome is named for. The capitalization should give you a hint as to a key flaw in their character: they're not nice guys at all. These Guys Who Are Not Really Nice believe that if you put enough kindness coins into a machine somewhere and pull a lever, a girlfriend (or boyfriend, or partner) should magically pop out of the slot at the bottom. These are also the people who believe in the Friendzone, where evil, cruel objects of their affection throw them when they simply don't feel like being fair. All this bunk is built on a simple principle: that love is a thing to be bartered for or earned, not grown, and that people are computers waiting for some magic code - and that everything revolves around whoever's sitting in the chair of the "I."
But we're not. We're all flesh bags full of water and feelings, and we don't follow romantic algorithms, and we aren't easily fooled by false kindness in those who pursue us. We have complicated thoughts, and we choose romantic partners on a larger basis than how many points others have racked up. Sometimes, that basis doesn't even make sense to us, consciously, but it exists as it is for a reason, and that reason, for all intents and purposes, is to spice things up a bit, and to increase the potential of producing healthy babies. And your closed-minded, selfish worldview isn't gonna cut it in the real world anymore, Mr. Not-So-Nice Guy. Do you know why?
Because there's one less Manic Pixie Dream Girl in this world.
Yep.
I quit.
Go find your adventure or tag along with mine, but don't expect me to live to make you happy.
Because, quite frankly, I have met too many of you, and I'm done.
*Drops microphone, flips table, walks away...*
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Friday, December 28, 2012
Art Post #13: Showing Off
It's that time of the week again! So tell me, what is this guy doing? Where's he from? Why is he a cyborg? And what's coming out of his arm appendage?
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Russian Babies and Life Plans
When I was 15, I planned out the next 65-90 years of my life. I would work in theaters all over the world, and go on adventures, free from binding ties of obligation to anyone besides friends and family, until I turned 40. Then, I'd settle in one city and adopt twin baby boys from Russia. I'd name them Kyrill and Peter, and we'd live in a big apartment, probably in Chicago, and we'd all live happily ever after. I was set on this for the longest time, but now that'll have to change. Russia is in the middle of banning American adoption of Russian children. So there goes my plans.
This brings up two interesting points in my mind. It's remarkable how geopolitical tension can affect the lives of individuals, in ways I wish nobody ever had to consider. The supposed reasoning here, at least according to Russian officials, is that there are reports of abuse of Russian kids by their adoptive American parents. Something tells me this isn't the only thing going on, and that by saying this, I'm stating the obvious. If this was their real reasoning for any action, you'd think the action they'd be taking would be something smaller, less objectionable and more practical, like more rigorous screening of prospective adopters. It's not like Americans are all abusive, and the only abusive parents in the world. This dramatic action seems, rather, to be motivated by ill feeling between our countries, left over from the Cold War. What this means for you average citizen, of course, is that our lives can be changed easily in ways you'd never think. I certainly never expected the Kremlin to change the trajectory of my life, but here they have. They've also changed the trajectory of the lives of 46 little Russian children and the American families who were in the process of adopting them. All this, over a little geopolitical tension. Those affected have become pawns in a massive game of chess, it seems, and I'm not so sure I'm a fan of that.
Another thing I've taken from this is that planning your life isn't the best of ideas. Dreams and goals are great, of course, but falling in love with plans and getting your heart set on them can be risky business. Here I was, ready to commit myself to this scheme, and with one signature by Putin, my plan will go down the drain. Flexibility is key, because when the world gets in your way, you need to be able to bend to accommodate and get around what it throws at you.
So on that note, I have a few questions for you:
1. Has the tensions and relations between nations forced you to change your plans and goals in some way? Or have you ever noticed things like this go on? How do you feel about this new Russian ban?
2. Do you have long-term plans? Have you ever had to change them? And what works better for you - perseverance through rough times or compromising to maximize short-term happiness?
Leave your answers in the comments and tell me about your lives!
This brings up two interesting points in my mind. It's remarkable how geopolitical tension can affect the lives of individuals, in ways I wish nobody ever had to consider. The supposed reasoning here, at least according to Russian officials, is that there are reports of abuse of Russian kids by their adoptive American parents. Something tells me this isn't the only thing going on, and that by saying this, I'm stating the obvious. If this was their real reasoning for any action, you'd think the action they'd be taking would be something smaller, less objectionable and more practical, like more rigorous screening of prospective adopters. It's not like Americans are all abusive, and the only abusive parents in the world. This dramatic action seems, rather, to be motivated by ill feeling between our countries, left over from the Cold War. What this means for you average citizen, of course, is that our lives can be changed easily in ways you'd never think. I certainly never expected the Kremlin to change the trajectory of my life, but here they have. They've also changed the trajectory of the lives of 46 little Russian children and the American families who were in the process of adopting them. All this, over a little geopolitical tension. Those affected have become pawns in a massive game of chess, it seems, and I'm not so sure I'm a fan of that.
Another thing I've taken from this is that planning your life isn't the best of ideas. Dreams and goals are great, of course, but falling in love with plans and getting your heart set on them can be risky business. Here I was, ready to commit myself to this scheme, and with one signature by Putin, my plan will go down the drain. Flexibility is key, because when the world gets in your way, you need to be able to bend to accommodate and get around what it throws at you.
So on that note, I have a few questions for you:
1. Has the tensions and relations between nations forced you to change your plans and goals in some way? Or have you ever noticed things like this go on? How do you feel about this new Russian ban?
2. Do you have long-term plans? Have you ever had to change them? And what works better for you - perseverance through rough times or compromising to maximize short-term happiness?
Leave your answers in the comments and tell me about your lives!
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Warrior
Hey again! I wrote another poem about something I realized in the shower, and I figured I'd like to share it, and ask a question that's been bugging me for a while. Firstly, here's the poem.
Now that that's out there, I want to know: Am I alone? Have you ever had to have this talk with yourself? Would you ever want to? And is this "battle" the be-all, end-all of human existence? I know suffering and trials are sometimes necessary for growth, but is that growth always necessary? And is it necessary that these lessons and this maturity come from pain? Leave a comment below!
Warrior
Love is a battlefield.
Or at least that’s what Pat Benatar taught us.
Love is a battlefield, and we are the warriors.
We fight, we love, we make love,
we shed our tears, the blood of our being,
we die, we live.
Love is a battlefield, and life is a war,
But there’s little to distinguish this battle from the last.
I may be young, but my hands are old and wizened
From holding my gun, shooting off rounds,
Carrying the sick and wounded when medical vans couldn’t break into No Man’s Land.
My feet are weary and water-logged from walking the trenches,
Making my rounds, standing guard.
I see with eyes that have images of the gore burned onto them,
Because I dared to look the fires in the eyes.
Love is a battlefield and I am a warrior.
You wonder how I’ve made it through this long,
Why the blasts of late haven’t sent me reeling with the rest,
Because the radio wires are cut -
Chatter from headquarters has been replaced by bursts of gunfire,
And we’re left in the crosshairs, waiting for the trigger pulls.
But this is nothing.
I’ve seen gore and destruction nobody should have to see.
A bullet in your foot is nothing compared to being riddled with metal,
Spending your first war in a hospital wing
And fighting your way past your greatest enemy,
Your own body,
So you can earn the right to fight again.
The front slowly approaching is nothing compared to the hands of your enemy
Around your neck, your chest, your thighs,
Holding you down on a foreign bed,
With no clear exit strategy except holding your breath and closing your eyes.
The wailing of these bullets is nothing compared to the wailing of women
Seeing our fallen, lined up in front of us,
The ground too hard to bury them,
Their silent faces screaming for even a second more than they had.
The silent nights here are nothing compared to the tension of a blackout
In the forest where your brothers-in-arms “accidentally” left you,
Paralyzingly alone,
With nobody to keep watch, or keep watch for, but yourself.
Love is a battlefield,
But it was never my final place of rest.
So no, I am not shaking in my waterlogged boots,
Nor do you need to be.
This soon shall pass, the war will be lost and won,
And we’ll all get through this.
After all, I’m still here.
I am a warrior.
Love is a battlefield.
Or at least that’s what Pat Benatar taught us.
Love is a battlefield, and we are the warriors.
We fight, we love, we make love,
we shed our tears, the blood of our being,
we die, we live.
Love is a battlefield, and life is a war,
But there’s little to distinguish this battle from the last.
I may be young, but my hands are old and wizened
From holding my gun, shooting off rounds,
Carrying the sick and wounded when medical vans couldn’t break into No Man’s Land.
My feet are weary and water-logged from walking the trenches,
Making my rounds, standing guard.
I see with eyes that have images of the gore burned onto them,
Because I dared to look the fires in the eyes.
Love is a battlefield and I am a warrior.
You wonder how I’ve made it through this long,
Why the blasts of late haven’t sent me reeling with the rest,
Because the radio wires are cut -
Chatter from headquarters has been replaced by bursts of gunfire,
And we’re left in the crosshairs, waiting for the trigger pulls.
But this is nothing.
I’ve seen gore and destruction nobody should have to see.
A bullet in your foot is nothing compared to being riddled with metal,
Spending your first war in a hospital wing
And fighting your way past your greatest enemy,
Your own body,
So you can earn the right to fight again.
The front slowly approaching is nothing compared to the hands of your enemy
Around your neck, your chest, your thighs,
Holding you down on a foreign bed,
With no clear exit strategy except holding your breath and closing your eyes.
The wailing of these bullets is nothing compared to the wailing of women
Seeing our fallen, lined up in front of us,
The ground too hard to bury them,
Their silent faces screaming for even a second more than they had.
The silent nights here are nothing compared to the tension of a blackout
In the forest where your brothers-in-arms “accidentally” left you,
Paralyzingly alone,
With nobody to keep watch, or keep watch for, but yourself.
Love is a battlefield,
But it was never my final place of rest.
So no, I am not shaking in my waterlogged boots,
Nor do you need to be.
This soon shall pass, the war will be lost and won,
And we’ll all get through this.
After all, I’m still here.
I am a warrior.
Now that that's out there, I want to know: Am I alone? Have you ever had to have this talk with yourself? Would you ever want to? And is this "battle" the be-all, end-all of human existence? I know suffering and trials are sometimes necessary for growth, but is that growth always necessary? And is it necessary that these lessons and this maturity come from pain? Leave a comment below!
Friday, December 21, 2012
Art Post #12: Schoolyard Games
This week, I want to post something. This actually has a story already, but this new representation needs a new life of its own. The original sculpture was in amongst rubble in Russia during the Cold War. But what do you really think those kids are doing with that croc-igator?
Thanks again for your creativity, and I'll see you with another one of these next week!
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Mackers!; or How I Danced with Fear
It's funny how things work out. A lot of things have happened to me since I started this blog, especially in the break between the initial postings and now. I'm sure stories of the past few years will come up, but the one I want to tell you is fairly fresh. This semester, I was involved in a production of Macbeth at my school, where we set the show in the Middle East during Arab Spring. We changed some things around, dedistributed lines to combine roles, and cut some scenes that didn't make sense in our context, but these pale in comparison to the change I love the most...
We cut the roles of the witches.
The witches were still there, mind you. We would never dream of cutting them from existence, we have no show without them. But we didn't cast witches, and the witches weren't ever consistent, nor were they people. Our witches were ideas that possessed people when they felt the burning need to speak, using humans as mouthpieces. They were corruption, power-hunger, pride and evil, but most importanly they were fear.
Now, in order to find our inner witches, we had to do a great deal of exploration, by ourselves and in groupwork. It was a strange experience, to let yourself be vulnerable to that and to expose others to what has inhabited you. I can't say it was entirely unpleasant either for many of us, at least not all of the time, which speaks to a strange quality of the human condition, and leads me to what I want to talk about today.
When we were doign workshopping, 17 of the 18 people in the cast voluntarily became witches. They felt an impulse to be taken over by evil, and they allowed it. None of us are inherently evil, but we all were susceptible to it. Needless to say, Rebecca, the ghost who chills out in our theatre, wasn't entirely pleased with us. So what does that say about life? Are we constantly at odds with ourselves, our primal vulnerability pitted against our Judeo-Christian guilt? And after this life, could we be free of that, or are we just more aware of the crisis facing humanity from the inside? I have no doubts that the afterlife is real in some form, but hwo far "after" does it stretch? I know that's a lot of questions compared to not much content, but I'm at a point where I don't know how much I can really say to this end, besides vocalizing a need for conversation. So tell me in the comments section what you think! Talk to me! Just because this production is over doesn't mean the ideas are gone, and I feel like I need to explore them still with the world.
We cut the roles of the witches.
The witches were still there, mind you. We would never dream of cutting them from existence, we have no show without them. But we didn't cast witches, and the witches weren't ever consistent, nor were they people. Our witches were ideas that possessed people when they felt the burning need to speak, using humans as mouthpieces. They were corruption, power-hunger, pride and evil, but most importanly they were fear.
Now, in order to find our inner witches, we had to do a great deal of exploration, by ourselves and in groupwork. It was a strange experience, to let yourself be vulnerable to that and to expose others to what has inhabited you. I can't say it was entirely unpleasant either for many of us, at least not all of the time, which speaks to a strange quality of the human condition, and leads me to what I want to talk about today.
When we were doign workshopping, 17 of the 18 people in the cast voluntarily became witches. They felt an impulse to be taken over by evil, and they allowed it. None of us are inherently evil, but we all were susceptible to it. Needless to say, Rebecca, the ghost who chills out in our theatre, wasn't entirely pleased with us. So what does that say about life? Are we constantly at odds with ourselves, our primal vulnerability pitted against our Judeo-Christian guilt? And after this life, could we be free of that, or are we just more aware of the crisis facing humanity from the inside? I have no doubts that the afterlife is real in some form, but hwo far "after" does it stretch? I know that's a lot of questions compared to not much content, but I'm at a point where I don't know how much I can really say to this end, besides vocalizing a need for conversation. So tell me in the comments section what you think! Talk to me! Just because this production is over doesn't mean the ideas are gone, and I feel like I need to explore them still with the world.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Art Post #11: Dapper Raptor
Hey everyone! So now that I'm able and willing, we're making art posts a regularly-scheduled thing, every Friday/Saturday at midnight. This week, let's see, hmm...
Oh, I know!
Where's this guy going? And why is he so fancy?
Oh, I know!
Where's this guy going? And why is he so fancy?
Friday, December 7, 2012
Art Post 10: 'Nam (and a link to YouTube because why not)
Give me a story to go with this guy, I want to know what his eyes are trying to tell you...
Also, I've been working on some things since 2010, two of which are on YouTube...
So... yeah! Tell me a story, and help me figure out what new videos should go up!
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Passing By...
So in case you haven't noticed, I'm writing love poetry and stream of consciousness things again. It's just been that kind of month... year?... I have no idea. But just in case you didn't get enough from the last post, here's something else I've written recently! It's inspired by a recent encounter where someone walked past who I'd wished had turned around to say hello. So without further ado, here goes nothing!
Passing By
You pass by me and I feel my heart beat past the sound barrier,
through the jungle and across the desert
and into that rift in time, at the bottom of an ocean trench,
to a place where we’re in our late 30s,
maybe early 40s,
living in a little Victorian house on a hill.
It rained yesterday just enough to put a mist in the air overnight
and to make the ground squish under your feet.
Our son has mud on his knees from playing in the yard
and our daughter is running up the front walkway
with her backpack on one shoulder and a clarinet case in her hand,
talking up a storm about what Carissa did at band practice today,
Oh-My-Gosh, you wouldn’t even believe.
You open the front door for her and patiently listen
as she vents her preteen angst to you in full confidence,
knowing the only people who will know
how much the behavior of the first chair saxaphone player really bothers her
are you and I.
I sit on the front steps, brushing the dirt off of our son’s pants and shoes
while we discuss the movement of worms -
he has a wandering mind and tongue like me,
but his eyes and ability to watch the world around him
and understand its questions
definitely came from you.
When the dirt is gone off his blue jeans,
we follow you both into the dining room,
where the meal we made together is waiting for us on the table
(you made the marinara sauce from scratch,
I made my father’s garlic bread).
You and I count our blessings:
that our children don’t hit each other (especially during dinner),
that we're all sitting down to dinner together,
that you’re holding my hand under the table
where the kids won’t see it and get grossed out at our "sharing cooties."
When the meal is done and the dishes are cleared
and the night sky is filled with stars,
and the kids are tucked away in bed,
the two of us lie down on a blanket in the grass in the yard.
We hardly even notice the fresh-forming dew
as you wrap your strong, soft arms around me,
our bodies conforming to each other’s shapes
in a love embrace.
I sigh with happiness and marvel at the fact that
we are here, in this moment,
and very much in love...
as I look up into the abyss above...
and then out of the water,
back across the desert and through the jungle
as you pass by me, and hardly throw me a second glance.
Please, tell me what you think! Have you ever had an experience like this, or thoughts like these? Have you ever been in a relationship like this with a friend or acquaintance? Let me know in the comments, I would love to hear your stories!
Passing By
You pass by me and I feel my heart beat past the sound barrier,
through the jungle and across the desert
and into that rift in time, at the bottom of an ocean trench,
to a place where we’re in our late 30s,
maybe early 40s,
living in a little Victorian house on a hill.
It rained yesterday just enough to put a mist in the air overnight
and to make the ground squish under your feet.
Our son has mud on his knees from playing in the yard
and our daughter is running up the front walkway
with her backpack on one shoulder and a clarinet case in her hand,
talking up a storm about what Carissa did at band practice today,
Oh-My-Gosh, you wouldn’t even believe.
You open the front door for her and patiently listen
as she vents her preteen angst to you in full confidence,
knowing the only people who will know
how much the behavior of the first chair saxaphone player really bothers her
are you and I.
I sit on the front steps, brushing the dirt off of our son’s pants and shoes
while we discuss the movement of worms -
he has a wandering mind and tongue like me,
but his eyes and ability to watch the world around him
and understand its questions
definitely came from you.
When the dirt is gone off his blue jeans,
we follow you both into the dining room,
where the meal we made together is waiting for us on the table
(you made the marinara sauce from scratch,
I made my father’s garlic bread).
You and I count our blessings:
that our children don’t hit each other (especially during dinner),
that we're all sitting down to dinner together,
that you’re holding my hand under the table
where the kids won’t see it and get grossed out at our "sharing cooties."
When the meal is done and the dishes are cleared
and the night sky is filled with stars,
and the kids are tucked away in bed,
the two of us lie down on a blanket in the grass in the yard.
We hardly even notice the fresh-forming dew
as you wrap your strong, soft arms around me,
our bodies conforming to each other’s shapes
in a love embrace.
I sigh with happiness and marvel at the fact that
we are here, in this moment,
and very much in love...
as I look up into the abyss above...
and then out of the water,
back across the desert and through the jungle
as you pass by me, and hardly throw me a second glance.
Please, tell me what you think! Have you ever had an experience like this, or thoughts like these? Have you ever been in a relationship like this with a friend or acquaintance? Let me know in the comments, I would love to hear your stories!
Monday, December 3, 2012
The Ribbon, or How Sara Got Her Groove Back
Hello again everyone! I have started writing poetry again, and soon I will be doing other writing, so here goes my first new post of this new phase in my blogging life:
The Ribbon
through closed eyes i see the sunlight streaming through the shades
throwing a golden haze over the room
my hair lies across your chest my hand holds your heart and i feel its beat
pulsing all the way through my whole body,
filling my arm, my chest, my legs, my mind
as mine begins to dance
a viennese waltz to the rhythm of yours, matching up time
pulling me into your trance
perfectly still and totally alive, our bodies feel as one,
the warmth of day on our skin
the cool rush of the bedsheets as our ankles brush against them,
this wholeness
the colors of your thoughts, the taste of your emotion
flow through my brain and slip away, just as i reach out to grab them
so i sit back and watch the beautiful, swirling parade go by,
catching longing here and joy there,
until i see a ribbon of blue swirl by, making heart shapes in the sky with every bounding leap.
i chase it to no avail, and,
having lost it,
i open my eyes to see the mind’s construction in the face,
to understand,
to be free of wondering what such a thing might mean -
And it’s 2am, and I lie, in dark solitude, on my extra-long twin bed, facing the wall, hugging air and clinging to the story of a memory of a dream.
The Ribbon
through closed eyes i see the sunlight streaming through the shades
throwing a golden haze over the room
my hair lies across your chest my hand holds your heart and i feel its beat
pulsing all the way through my whole body,
filling my arm, my chest, my legs, my mind
as mine begins to dance
a viennese waltz to the rhythm of yours, matching up time
pulling me into your trance
perfectly still and totally alive, our bodies feel as one,
the warmth of day on our skin
the cool rush of the bedsheets as our ankles brush against them,
this wholeness
the colors of your thoughts, the taste of your emotion
flow through my brain and slip away, just as i reach out to grab them
so i sit back and watch the beautiful, swirling parade go by,
catching longing here and joy there,
until i see a ribbon of blue swirl by, making heart shapes in the sky with every bounding leap.
i chase it to no avail, and,
having lost it,
i open my eyes to see the mind’s construction in the face,
to understand,
to be free of wondering what such a thing might mean -
And it’s 2am, and I lie, in dark solitude, on my extra-long twin bed, facing the wall, hugging air and clinging to the story of a memory of a dream.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
