Monday, November 29, 2010

clear vision

Pretty much implied that I'm a drug addicted psychic cat lady in the intro of my comp:

"Whether it was the copious amounts of Mountain Dew I'd ingested, painkillers I'd popped like M&Ms, or the contented, soft purring of my kitty in my lap, I had a moment of clairvoyance where I decided that it doesn't have to be this way."

Goddammit.

Friday, November 26, 2010

Is it what we need, and will we ever succeed?



Omfgggg I drank too much Mountain Dew again. As in, I can actually hear the HFCS giving me diabeetus as I write this.

Meh.

So the whole reason I'm writing now is because I'm trying to comp and I'm all LALALALANOTCOMPING which is alarming since it's due on Monday, which means I will have to go to Staples on Sunday and get it bound so I can turn it in on time.

Coherent?

MOUNTAIN DEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

And I was just thinking today, or rather, have been thinking for quite some time now, that I don't have a future. Or not so much that I don't have a future, but that I have so many options for a future that Brain shuts down and says timeforanap. I shut down partially because I am overwhelmed by the amount of loans I have--pretty much every flavor under the sun. Could be that I'll pay $58,000 on a $9,000 private loan because the state of Ohio for some reason does not have their shit together. Unlikely, sure, but the fact that such an unfathomable sum is even in EXISTENCE freaks me the shit out--I live my life in fives and ones, so even twenty dollars makes me feel like I'm a fucken millionaire.

And then, I think, wow, it's really incredible that I even have an opportunity to be in this much debt. Because the truth is, I charge more money on a single cup of goddamn coffee to my credit card than some people in so called "third-world" countries make in a week.

This astounds me.

Frightens me.

Makes me want to crawl in a hole and die from all my goddamn privilege.

A good friend once told me (pretty recently, actually) that I can't and should not beat myself up for this, because it's totally counterproductive.

And she said a lot of other things that make sense, like usual.

It's nice to have friends that are so logical. Clear-headed, especially when I can't be.

Won't be.

I'm an atypical depressive, that's for damn sure, and I hate it, hate it so much sometimes, but in some ways--in a lot of ways--I'm really lucky and grateful for it.

Maybe the reason I feel like I don't have a future is because my future is other people. Other people like me, other people not like me, other people I love, hate, am ambivalent towards. Ghandi said to be the change you want to see in the world, but I think that's only half right. All well and good in theory, sure, but to really change the world, I think, you've got to realize that you can't change the world, that idealism is damaging, that monumental gains lead to inevitably monumental backlash. To "change the world," I would argue, would mean to leave an impression on someone's heart, however large or small, without expectations of "change" in return. Paradoxically, to change the world, we must stop trying to change the world.

Monday, November 22, 2010

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Subversion

Fall, 2008; I get signed into a class that will change the course of my life.

Spring, 2009; Things fall apart. Hard.

Fall, 2009; I find my voice. Things come together.

Spring, 2010; I learn the hard way that you can't run away from your problems, not even thousands of miles away.

Fall, 2010; I hit instuitutional brick wall after brick wall after brick wall, becoming increasingly disillusioned with higher education's ability to effect real change in the world.

Everything here is interrelated; I don't believe in God and I don't believe in fate, but it's funny how the universe aligns in ways to bring you to places of extreme clairvoyance as well as disillusionment. Subversion is a topic much discussed in my English classes, especially regarding women; it was not until recently that I realized that subversion as an intellectual construct means nothing if it can't be applied to real life. A newfound friend presented to me an opportunity to enact subversion rather than discuss it--what follows is an excerpt from a senior comprehensive project in English:

It’s a question I get asked often, by family members, friends, coworkers, acquaintances—just what exactly do I plan on doing with English if not teaching high school? (Women’s Studies? Women’s…Studies? What do you need to go studying women for, you are one.) Sometimes I simply respond with law or grad school, but more often than not, I extol the virtues of an English education—critical thinking! analytical writing! the ability to historically contextualize! mad research skills!—and yet, as I look back on my experience as an English major, I feel an incredible and inescapable sense of disillusionment. And it’s not to say I don’t see the value in critical thinking, analytical writing, and all things particularly English; it is in these skills that I was able to find my voice as a thinker and writer.
I believe it was in my junior year that the culmination of my life experience converged with my academic training and I found my true voice; a voice, it just so happens, of an irreverent smart-ass. Being an irreverent smart-ass is integral to my identity as a feminist, a thinker, and a writer—it is the way that I cope with a world that is increasingly inhospitable to the egalitarian values I try to live by.
Because it was my life experience that sparked an interest in learning from and engaging with other feminists and academics before me, I feel—I know, rather—that my social location informs every facet of my being—the way I speak, think, and write—how I resist and exist. Through the difficult times in my life, I have turned to memoirs because I sincerely believe in the ability of personal narratives to transform and change lives; it seemed only fitting that I culminate my college experience with the memoirs women who had, in many ways, saved my life. Yet in talking to other Women’s Studies and English students, I realized that what I envisioned my project being did not fit into the categories of "poised and learned"—rather, it would be visceral and experiential. Because of this, and despite the better judgment of those two-comp compers before me, I decided to comp separately in Women’s Studies and English. This separation between “high art” and personal narrative is, at best, superficial and at worst, dangerous; I believe this is the crux of my critique of the English comp requirements. We need to begin living our lives in a place beyond intellect and into new ways of thinking about the world and our place within it, because theory will only carry us so far; we must learn to embrace experience—real, messy, complicated experience—if English majors are truly going to transform the world.

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

It Could Be the Copious Amounts of Mountain Dew I've Ingested,



but I am freaking out. The recent gains (or losses, depending on how you look at it) of Republicans in the Senate & House have made me realize how tenuous my rights as a woman and human being are. Economic realities coupled with the fact that grad school wants me to have three years' relevant work experience suggest the very real possibility that I will be underemployed and uninsured in one year's time--an alarming prospect considering I already struggle with medical bills even though I'm "adequately" insured.

I think I might die, sometimes, and that frightens me.

I am heartened, though, that my response is fright and not passive acquiescence.

It means I still have a will to live, a will to fight.

Get ready, privileged bastards, because hell hath no fury like a woman denied healthcare because of a preexisting vagina.