Tonight I watched The General's Daughter. It raises a slew of very interesting questions and moral dilemmas for further research. (Warning: Spoilers ahead.)
1. The film attempts to portray a victim of gang rape reclaiming her sense of self and self confidence through engaging in the dominant role of BDSM-type relationships. She also becomes very promiscuous. Is this accurate to some responses of rape victims or not? (My assumption without researching is most likely not)
2. The film includes the victim of gang rape choosing to replay her rape, this time hoping for a different response and reaction from her father, who betrayed her. Is this (rape replay) actually therapeutically helpful? If yes, when is it used? If not, why isn't it used?
3. The film attempts to claim that an individual's pain takes precedence over all the consequences that might occur due to a public announcement of that pain. The General is denounced for covering up the gang rape and telling his daughter 'It never happened.' However, in his mind he was preserving the reputation of West Point. He assumed her rapists would never be found (this was before the days of DNA) and that in light of this, 1000 graduates of West Point did not deserve to have their reputations tarnished (as they would be considered potential rapists in the eyes of the world). Also, the presence of women in the military would be set back by decades as women would be afraid to sign up. So: is an individual's pain worth these far-reaching consequences or not?
Given the famous Duke lacrosse team case, where all the members of the team were found guilty in the court of public opinion- while later it was proven that the stripper simply made up the entire scenario- one must wonder about this last.
What I figure is that the matter should have been discreetly investigated and they should have attempted to have found the rapists. They should have tried to keep it quiet so that the media would not find out and hence the consequences they worried over would not have occurred. The general should not have denied that the rape ever happened. At the very least he should have told his daughter that the rape DID happen but that she should consider the potential consequences for the army and West Point as a whole before pressing charges, thus leaving the decision up to her.
I was thinking that to some extent the scenario was similar to allegations of incest or abuse. Sometimes a parent can be the abuser and the other parent can be aware of the abuse but denies it to himself/ herself and to the child, if confronted. So the child is not protected by the parent and their pain is considered non-existent and is denied outright. The film claims that this 'betrayal' is what is worse than rape. But I don't think betrayal is the right word. I would argue 'denial' is.
Denial is a powerful form of demoralizing, degrading and demeaning victims. Denial is saying their pain is not real or valid, the episodes they report never occurred and that they have no excuse for being victims at all. It was not the father's betrayal of his daughter that hurt her. It was his denial that the rape had even occurred at all, and that her subsequent psychological problems were real.
Denial invalidates one's feelings and also casts doubt upon their mental state. If it didn't happen, perhaps you made it up. And if you made it up for no reason, that suggests you are troubled. It's a form of psychological warfare to deny that trauma occurred. It is in fact a more extreme form of gaslighting. What the general's daughter couldn't forgive is that her father told her what she had been through didn't exist, that the pain wasn't real, and that her subsequent behavior was not connected to it. She wanted acknowledgment of the truth and she didn't get it.
The sad thing is, too many victims don't.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Genesis Party
I am now holding a special review copy (that means I got it for free) of Rabbi Ari Kahn's 'Echoes of Eden: Sefer Bereishit!'
I'm super excited to read it!
I'm super excited to read it!
Thursday, July 21, 2011
All the Children
All the souls are precious.
Children are hurt every day. They're molested, abused, possibly even murdered.
So are women. A woman is raped every 2 minutes according to the Department of Justice.
That's the one thing I don't understand: why is everyone so saddened by this tragedy in particular?
Is it because of the gruesome way that the man carved him up?
Or the fact that he was so little and innocent?
All the children are little or innocent.
One should be sad for each one of them.
Children are hurt every day. They're molested, abused, possibly even murdered.
So are women. A woman is raped every 2 minutes according to the Department of Justice.
That's the one thing I don't understand: why is everyone so saddened by this tragedy in particular?
Is it because of the gruesome way that the man carved him up?
Or the fact that he was so little and innocent?
All the children are little or innocent.
One should be sad for each one of them.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
globes of light may shatter underfoot
Hi God,
It's been a while since the last time we chatted.
I feel sometimes like my life is a dance to the tune of the Moonlight Sonata. The revved up version by Jason Yang, specifically. There's so much beauty and so much misery in it, so many shades and twists, so many times that you throw all the scarves up in the air and have them come down to earth as a sparkling multicolored rubber band ball. My life is a dance performed by reckless trapeze artists, tightrope walkers who jumprope on the wires without nets. I see their bodies as they curve, their necks as they strain and then tighten with anticipation, waiting for the jump. Then they fall, gracefully, climbing through air, extending their limbs and they contort and twirl and make the leap. And there they are, their legs coiled around the wooden bar.
Ballerinas on wooden slats. I find myself caught within it, this curious dance full of melancholy and empathy and a unique, vivid sheen, like that of teardrops just glazing the eye. It disappears in a blink. And then there's the rain, so purifying. I see these women stretch their bodies, their long limber legs; I see them black-in-white in leotards that are elegant in their simplicity. These nameless women perform in the rain and the water mats their hair and slicks it back and glitters on their hands like so many diamonds.
I cried a lot today. I wanted that little boy to live again.
I wished we had an Elijah or Elisha to bring him back to life.
I wished there was a Valley of Dry Bones so the flesh could knit back together, the hands and feet rejoin the torso, the little child rise from the dead.
I wonder sometimes what the Resurrection of the Dead will be like. Perhaps it will be that wondrous, with the bodies coming together, the spirit then resting within once more. And all who see it will be dazed, amazed, shocked by the power that is Yours.
I don't think I'd much like to be resurrected if the choice were to be with You or to be back on earth. Why would a soul want to walk the earth again? There's so much darkness here and there's so much beauty with You. I suppose the only consolation to those of us who do walk the earth is that You have given us the tools to make a difference, that somehow we can do something here that will make our lives worthwhile and even meaningful.
I love life and I love the world you created. I love the green hue of the leaves on the trees, the birds that sing and cluck, the chipmunks that dart through the underbrush, the neon lights and glittering sidewalks of Times Square. I love the pretty things here. But how would any of that compare to the opportunity to be with You? I imagine it's much harder to be on earth than it is to walk in heaven.
I wonder about the little boy's soul. Where is it now? Have you placed him beside You? Why did You choose him to serve as our atonement?
ח וַיֹּאמֶר, אַבְרָהָם, אֱלֹהִים יִרְאֶה-לּוֹ הַשֶּׂה לְעֹלָה, בְּנִי; וַיֵּלְכוּ שְׁנֵיהֶם, יַחְדָּו. 8 And Abraham said: 'God will provide Himself the lamb for a burnt-offering, my son.' So they went both of them together.
Why this child?
What made him Your Chosen?
What quality set him aside?
How lucky he is to be with You now, but how sad Your taking him has made his family and all of us. It's the agent You employed that horrifies us all. When You send the serpent or the animal, we learn to understand. But when it is a man with free will who exercises it to harm another, we are hurt.
I wonder what soul this child had. It must have been a very special one to be accompanied to God in such a way. Thousands upon thousands of people attended the funeral, just as occurs by the most righteous ones. I wonder what kind of conversation he had with You before he was sent to this earth. What did this soul ask of You?
I wonder sometimes: what did my soul ask of You? Why did I ask it? I feel rather often that my life is just like "Paycheck." I talked to You and prepared the envelope that would let me destroy the machine back before I was born, when I was just a soul. But once back on earth, I forgot everything. Now my life consists of following the train of events that occur due to the envelope items, but I don't know why I have them or where they lead. I just know that I have to follow them.
Maid Marion.
It's been a while since the last time we chatted.
I feel sometimes like my life is a dance to the tune of the Moonlight Sonata. The revved up version by Jason Yang, specifically. There's so much beauty and so much misery in it, so many shades and twists, so many times that you throw all the scarves up in the air and have them come down to earth as a sparkling multicolored rubber band ball. My life is a dance performed by reckless trapeze artists, tightrope walkers who jumprope on the wires without nets. I see their bodies as they curve, their necks as they strain and then tighten with anticipation, waiting for the jump. Then they fall, gracefully, climbing through air, extending their limbs and they contort and twirl and make the leap. And there they are, their legs coiled around the wooden bar.
Ballerinas on wooden slats. I find myself caught within it, this curious dance full of melancholy and empathy and a unique, vivid sheen, like that of teardrops just glazing the eye. It disappears in a blink. And then there's the rain, so purifying. I see these women stretch their bodies, their long limber legs; I see them black-in-white in leotards that are elegant in their simplicity. These nameless women perform in the rain and the water mats their hair and slicks it back and glitters on their hands like so many diamonds.
I cried a lot today. I wanted that little boy to live again.
I wished we had an Elijah or Elisha to bring him back to life.
I wished there was a Valley of Dry Bones so the flesh could knit back together, the hands and feet rejoin the torso, the little child rise from the dead.
I wonder sometimes what the Resurrection of the Dead will be like. Perhaps it will be that wondrous, with the bodies coming together, the spirit then resting within once more. And all who see it will be dazed, amazed, shocked by the power that is Yours.
I don't think I'd much like to be resurrected if the choice were to be with You or to be back on earth. Why would a soul want to walk the earth again? There's so much darkness here and there's so much beauty with You. I suppose the only consolation to those of us who do walk the earth is that You have given us the tools to make a difference, that somehow we can do something here that will make our lives worthwhile and even meaningful.
I love life and I love the world you created. I love the green hue of the leaves on the trees, the birds that sing and cluck, the chipmunks that dart through the underbrush, the neon lights and glittering sidewalks of Times Square. I love the pretty things here. But how would any of that compare to the opportunity to be with You? I imagine it's much harder to be on earth than it is to walk in heaven.
I wonder about the little boy's soul. Where is it now? Have you placed him beside You? Why did You choose him to serve as our atonement?
ח וַיֹּאמֶר, אַבְרָהָם, אֱלֹהִים יִרְאֶה-לּוֹ הַשֶּׂה לְעֹלָה, בְּנִי; וַיֵּלְכוּ שְׁנֵיהֶם, יַחְדָּו. 8 And Abraham said: 'God will provide Himself the lamb for a burnt-offering, my son.' So they went both of them together.
Why this child?
What made him Your Chosen?
What quality set him aside?
How lucky he is to be with You now, but how sad Your taking him has made his family and all of us. It's the agent You employed that horrifies us all. When You send the serpent or the animal, we learn to understand. But when it is a man with free will who exercises it to harm another, we are hurt.
I wonder what soul this child had. It must have been a very special one to be accompanied to God in such a way. Thousands upon thousands of people attended the funeral, just as occurs by the most righteous ones. I wonder what kind of conversation he had with You before he was sent to this earth. What did this soul ask of You?
I wonder sometimes: what did my soul ask of You? Why did I ask it? I feel rather often that my life is just like "Paycheck." I talked to You and prepared the envelope that would let me destroy the machine back before I was born, when I was just a soul. But once back on earth, I forgot everything. Now my life consists of following the train of events that occur due to the envelope items, but I don't know why I have them or where they lead. I just know that I have to follow them.
Maid Marion.
Leiby Kletzky
They say in Boro Park that the little boy begged his mother to walk home from camp by himself. She agreed, allowing him to walk six blocks. The problem was, he walked six blocks in the opposite direction. He was lost.
So he approached a man and said, "Help please, I'm lost." And the man said he would buy him ice cream and take him home. So he bought the boy ice cream and the boy sat in the car for seven minutes. Seven minutes during which he could have escaped had he known what that man intended.
Then the man made a stop by his dentist's office and paid his bill. The dentist remembered the boy. It was through this dentist that the police were able to identify the man who took Leiby as Levi Aron. This man had taken Leiby to his home. There, he suffocated the boy (thank God for small mercies) and later dismembered him.
Boro Park as a whole did not know this. Shomrim, the NYPD and the FBI went searching for the child. Thousands of people, including Heshy's family, volunteered to search for the child. There were sirens and huge speakers calling Leiby's name. Everyone searched for the little boy. And those who were not searching prayed and updated their Facebook statuses and emailed his name to the world.
Once the police were at Aron's house, they discovered pieces of the child's body in the freezer/ refrigerator and Aron led them to the other parts of the body in a red suitcase in the dumpster.
I found out today that in fact Leiby is the cousin of a classmate of mine from high school. Already upset, I had not expected that.
The last time I remember us all praying for a different outcome with a tremendous outpouring of love and good will like this was by Koby Mandell and Yosef Ishran. But God said no. I remember being devastated by this news. I was touched later on to find that Koby's mother had written a book, The Blessing of a Broken Heart. I remember it comforted me somewhat.
I also remember an excerpt from the book:
Tonight is the funeral. The rabbis will cry. The laypeople will cry. We will all cry. But we will also be part of something bigger, which will be remembering Leiby, learning from him and his life, trying to emulate whatever it was in him that made God desire him and choose him to be with Him.
There was a song I learned in Camp Agudah about death and loss that went as follows:
A rose among the flowers
A treasure for the king
Dodi halach b'gano
Lilkot Shoshanim
The analogy, of course, was that the precious, singular unique roses of the world were the ones God chose for His garden.
I like to imagine that Aviva Miretzky, Koby Mandell, Yosef Ishran, Leiby Kletzky and the other little ones who die or are murdered are part of God's inner court. That their souls were so special and pure that God desired them to come back to Him early, where He could surround Himself with their fragrance and hear their beautiful words. That Leiby sees a world that the rest of us cannot imagine, replete with glittering castles that sparkle and sparkling Hebrew letters that float, and that he is content and even joyful there.
Of course this does not excuse the actions of those who kill. But as God is just and in the end so are all things, I believe that these flowers were plucked by him and form a part of his eternal garden. This idea is expressed in "Gathering Flowers for the Master's Bouquet." (Listen here).
Loved ones are passing each day & each hour,
Passing away as the life of a flower.
But every bud and each blossom some day,
Will bloom as a flower in the Master's Bouquet.
Gathering flowers for the Master's Bouquet,
Beautiful flowers that will never decay.
Gathered by angels and carried away,
Forever to bloom in the Master's Bouquet.
So he approached a man and said, "Help please, I'm lost." And the man said he would buy him ice cream and take him home. So he bought the boy ice cream and the boy sat in the car for seven minutes. Seven minutes during which he could have escaped had he known what that man intended.
Then the man made a stop by his dentist's office and paid his bill. The dentist remembered the boy. It was through this dentist that the police were able to identify the man who took Leiby as Levi Aron. This man had taken Leiby to his home. There, he suffocated the boy (thank God for small mercies) and later dismembered him.
Boro Park as a whole did not know this. Shomrim, the NYPD and the FBI went searching for the child. Thousands of people, including Heshy's family, volunteered to search for the child. There were sirens and huge speakers calling Leiby's name. Everyone searched for the little boy. And those who were not searching prayed and updated their Facebook statuses and emailed his name to the world.
Once the police were at Aron's house, they discovered pieces of the child's body in the freezer/ refrigerator and Aron led them to the other parts of the body in a red suitcase in the dumpster.
I found out today that in fact Leiby is the cousin of a classmate of mine from high school. Already upset, I had not expected that.
The last time I remember us all praying for a different outcome with a tremendous outpouring of love and good will like this was by Koby Mandell and Yosef Ishran. But God said no. I remember being devastated by this news. I was touched later on to find that Koby's mother had written a book, The Blessing of a Broken Heart. I remember it comforted me somewhat.
I also remember an excerpt from the book:
- "What do we do with the pain?" my husband asks a rabbi who, years ago, lost his eleven-year-old child in a bus accident. The rabbi answers: "You must use it to grow."
Another rabbi says that ours is a heartbreaking test, but we need to turn to God, that only God can give us comfort. Outside of the house, my friend Valerie tells me, the rabbis cry like babies.
Because no matter how much we try to intellectualize or interpret the pain, to will it away, the pain crouches on our heart like a beast who is waiting to crush us, to chew us to bits until we are nothing, dust that the wind can blow away.
Tonight is the funeral. The rabbis will cry. The laypeople will cry. We will all cry. But we will also be part of something bigger, which will be remembering Leiby, learning from him and his life, trying to emulate whatever it was in him that made God desire him and choose him to be with Him.
There was a song I learned in Camp Agudah about death and loss that went as follows:
A rose among the flowers
A treasure for the king
Dodi halach b'gano
Lilkot Shoshanim
The analogy, of course, was that the precious, singular unique roses of the world were the ones God chose for His garden.
I like to imagine that Aviva Miretzky, Koby Mandell, Yosef Ishran, Leiby Kletzky and the other little ones who die or are murdered are part of God's inner court. That their souls were so special and pure that God desired them to come back to Him early, where He could surround Himself with their fragrance and hear their beautiful words. That Leiby sees a world that the rest of us cannot imagine, replete with glittering castles that sparkle and sparkling Hebrew letters that float, and that he is content and even joyful there.
Of course this does not excuse the actions of those who kill. But as God is just and in the end so are all things, I believe that these flowers were plucked by him and form a part of his eternal garden. This idea is expressed in "Gathering Flowers for the Master's Bouquet." (Listen here).
Loved ones are passing each day & each hour,
Passing away as the life of a flower.
But every bud and each blossom some day,
Will bloom as a flower in the Master's Bouquet.
Gathering flowers for the Master's Bouquet,
Beautiful flowers that will never decay.
Gathered by angels and carried away,
Forever to bloom in the Master's Bouquet.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Women
I love women with soul.
Women with appetite.
Women who are ambitious, who love to strive.
Women who are fierce.
Women who are just.
Women who are physically slight, small, delicate or feminine but who nonetheless manage to be surprisingly strong and surprisingly resilient.
Women who are vulnerable.
Women who, like Wesley, declare "To the pain!" and then smile.
Women who consistently prove that their broken hearts are worth more than whole ones, because they break their own hearts in order to give the pieces away.
Women who are survivors and who survive tragedies.
Women who have the courage to try- again.
To love-again.
To give- wholeheartedly.
To hold nothing back.
Women who are ferocious.
Women who embody contradictions.
Women who make their lives about a driving force or idea.
Lisbeth Salander.
Renee Walker.
Olivia Benson.
Daenerys Targaryen.
Women of valor.
Women with appetite.
Women who are ambitious, who love to strive.
Women who are fierce.
Women who are just.
Women who are physically slight, small, delicate or feminine but who nonetheless manage to be surprisingly strong and surprisingly resilient.
Women who are vulnerable.
Women who, like Wesley, declare "To the pain!" and then smile.
Women who consistently prove that their broken hearts are worth more than whole ones, because they break their own hearts in order to give the pieces away.
Women who are survivors and who survive tragedies.
Women who have the courage to try- again.
To love-again.
To give- wholeheartedly.
To hold nothing back.
Women who are ferocious.
Women who embody contradictions.
Women who make their lives about a driving force or idea.
Lisbeth Salander.
Renee Walker.
Olivia Benson.
Daenerys Targaryen.
Women of valor.
Life Is The Road
Snatches of this song were playing through my head all day- I realized I was thinking about me and Heshy. Yay Heshy.
(As an aside, Anastasia is one of my favorite cartoon movies. It bears lots of similarities to 'Beauty and the Beast' including the yellow gown and the weeping beauty with hero-revival scene. Also, I love Dmitri.)
"Life is the Road" in Anastasia
(girl)
We were strangers, startin out on a journey
Never dreamin' what we'd have to go through
Now here we are, and I'm suddenly standin'
At the beginning with you
(Man)
No one told me, I was going to find you
Unexpected what you did to my heart
(both)When I lost hope, you were there to remind me
This is the start
And life is the road
And I wanna keep going
Love is a river and
I wanna keep flowing
Life is a road now and forever a
Wonderful journey.
I'll be there when the world stops turning
I'll be there when the storys through
In the end I wanna be standin'
At the beginning with you.
(girl)
We were strangers on a crazy adventure
(man)
Never dreamin' how our dreams would come true
(both)Now here we stand unafraid of the futeure
At the beginning with you
And life is the road
And I wanna keep going
Love is a river and
I wanna keep flowing
Life is a road now and forever a
Wonderful journey.
I'll be there when the world stops turning
I'll be there when the storys through
In the end I wanna be standin'
At the beginning with you.
(man)
New there was somebody somewhere
Help me alone in the dark
(both)
Now I know my dreams will live on
Ive been waiting too long
Nothings gonna tear us apart.
And life is the road
And I wanna keep going
Love is a river and
I wanna keep flowing
Life is a road now and forever a
Wonderful journey.
I'll be there when the world stops turning
I'll be there when the story's through
In the end I wanna be standin'
At the beginning with you.
Life is the road and
I wanna keep going
Love is a river
I wanna keep going on
Starting out on a journey
And life is the road
And I wanna keep going
Love is a river
I wanna keep flowing
In the end I wanna be standin'
At the beginning with you.
(As an aside, Anastasia is one of my favorite cartoon movies. It bears lots of similarities to 'Beauty and the Beast' including the yellow gown and the weeping beauty with hero-revival scene. Also, I love Dmitri.)
"Life is the Road" in Anastasia
(girl)
We were strangers, startin out on a journey
Never dreamin' what we'd have to go through
Now here we are, and I'm suddenly standin'
At the beginning with you
(Man)
No one told me, I was going to find you
Unexpected what you did to my heart
(both)When I lost hope, you were there to remind me
This is the start
And life is the road
And I wanna keep going
Love is a river and
I wanna keep flowing
Life is a road now and forever a
Wonderful journey.
I'll be there when the world stops turning
I'll be there when the storys through
In the end I wanna be standin'
At the beginning with you.
(girl)
We were strangers on a crazy adventure
(man)
Never dreamin' how our dreams would come true
(both)Now here we stand unafraid of the futeure
At the beginning with you
And life is the road
And I wanna keep going
Love is a river and
I wanna keep flowing
Life is a road now and forever a
Wonderful journey.
I'll be there when the world stops turning
I'll be there when the storys through
In the end I wanna be standin'
At the beginning with you.
(man)
New there was somebody somewhere
Help me alone in the dark
(both)
Now I know my dreams will live on
Ive been waiting too long
Nothings gonna tear us apart.
And life is the road
And I wanna keep going
Love is a river and
I wanna keep flowing
Life is a road now and forever a
Wonderful journey.
I'll be there when the world stops turning
I'll be there when the story's through
In the end I wanna be standin'
At the beginning with you.
Life is the road and
I wanna keep going
Love is a river
I wanna keep going on
Starting out on a journey
And life is the road
And I wanna keep going
Love is a river
I wanna keep flowing
In the end I wanna be standin'
At the beginning with you.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Back in Time
ט מַה-שֶּׁהָיָה, הוּא שֶׁיִּהְיֶה, וּמַה-שֶּׁנַּעֲשָׂה, הוּא שֶׁיֵּעָשֶׂה; וְאֵין כָּל-חָדָשׁ, תַּחַת הַשָּׁמֶשׁ. 9 That which hath been is that which shall be, and that which hath been done is that which shall be done; and there is nothing new under the sun. (Ecclesiastes 1:9)
~
1. Gay marriage is now legal in New York-
רבי הונא בשם רבי אמר דור המבול לא נימוחו מן העולם עד שכתבו גמומסיות לזכר ולבהמה
Rabbi Huna said in the name of Rebbe that the Generation of the Flood was not wiped out of the world until they wrote marriage contracts between a man and a man and between a man and an animal. (Midrash Rabbah 26:5 in Genesis)
2. Shechita is under attack in Holland (Link)
3. San Francisco plans to vote on banning Brit Milah
~
I find it amusing that despite having progressed in so many areas (especially that of technology), our society is still banning or promoting the same old things. One could make the argument that modernization itself will create the same effects as the anti-semitism of old.
~
1. Gay marriage is now legal in New York-
רבי הונא בשם רבי אמר דור המבול לא נימוחו מן העולם עד שכתבו גמומסיות לזכר ולבהמה
Rabbi Huna said in the name of Rebbe that the Generation of the Flood was not wiped out of the world until they wrote marriage contracts between a man and a man and between a man and an animal. (Midrash Rabbah 26:5 in Genesis)
2. Shechita is under attack in Holland (Link)
3. San Francisco plans to vote on banning Brit Milah
~
I find it amusing that despite having progressed in so many areas (especially that of technology), our society is still banning or promoting the same old things. One could make the argument that modernization itself will create the same effects as the anti-semitism of old.
Salander
Lisbeth, who incidentally Cymbaline says would be a lot closer to my guardian angel, is one of the stars of the 'Dark Dramas with a Female Lead' that Netflix tells me I like."Salander's greatest fear, which was so huge and so black that it was of phobic proportions, was that people would laugh at her feelings." - The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo
Shmoop explains this as follows: "She's confident in her role as an avenger, but not in her role as a plain old human being, and not as someone beloved."
Salander is a visible depiction of nearly anyone. People may be confident in their roles at work, as avengers, as justice-dispensers and so on but it's their inner world that is the most precious and the most fragile. I love to watch characters deal with their insecurities and the issues that lurk beneath the surface, because those are at once what makes them who they are but also where their darkest struggles take place. These private worlds are where all the action transpires; what the public world sees is only the overflow.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Friday, June 24, 2011
Angel
They say every blade of grass has an Angel who whispers to it to "Grow, grow!" And if every blade of grass has an angel, surely every human has one too.
I wonder what my angel looks like. I picture her as very beautiful, with a delicacy of features similar to Emilia Clarke, especially when she plays Daenerys. I love silver-haired people. My angel would be a cross between Lady Amalthea from The Last Unicorn and Daenerys from Game of Thrones. She'd wear very whispy, gauzy fabrics that would shiver around her and she would have a very sweet, light voice. And she would watch me very sorrowfully because she'd be sad when I'm sad.
I wonder what she would say if I could hear her. Probably something very soft and pretty and kind. She's a kind angel.
I like the song "Angel" by Broken Door.
Cause you are my angel;
You saved me from danger.
With you I'm no stranger;
I won't suffer any more
I wonder what my angel looks like. I picture her as very beautiful, with a delicacy of features similar to Emilia Clarke, especially when she plays Daenerys. I love silver-haired people. My angel would be a cross between Lady Amalthea from The Last Unicorn and Daenerys from Game of Thrones. She'd wear very whispy, gauzy fabrics that would shiver around her and she would have a very sweet, light voice. And she would watch me very sorrowfully because she'd be sad when I'm sad.
I wonder what she would say if I could hear her. Probably something very soft and pretty and kind. She's a kind angel.
I like the song "Angel" by Broken Door.
Cause you are my angel;
You saved me from danger.
With you I'm no stranger;
I won't suffer any more
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Exciting
I got my official notice that I passed my Masters examination. So hurrah- welcome to Chana, Masters for real.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Daenerys
I am Daenerys Stormborn. Hear me roar. (Warning: Nudity in clip.)
I've loved 'Game of Thrones' for a long time now. I really enjoy the portrayal of Daenerys, lady of fire, blood and dragons.
I've loved 'Game of Thrones' for a long time now. I really enjoy the portrayal of Daenerys, lady of fire, blood and dragons.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
A Sense of Mystery
The very best fantasy is the one that is in touch with the sense of mystery. It is that sense of melancholic mystery tinged with an old knowledge that is the hardest to create and the most satisfying to read. The reader recognizes it in the pang of sadness he feels as he closes the last pages of the book. It's a sadness that stems from a recognition of the old magic.
The old Russian fairy tales capture this sense of mystery very well. "Vasilisa the Beautiful" is an excellent representation of this type of writing, as is Finist the Falcon. It's the eeriness of the beautiful maiden carrying a lamp lit in the head of a skull while being set these apparently insurmountable tasks that haunts and excites the mind.
Jean Cocteau's "La Belle Et La Bete" is another perfect example. Who will ever forget the anguished Beast's smoking hands, the music of extraordinary timbre, the sadness of an elegant Belle?
Oscar Wilde's "The Nightingale and the Rose" provides yet another example of this sort of prose.
Green Rider (but none of its sequels) has a touch of it, too.
Several of Peter S. Beagle's stories in 'We Never Talk About My Brother' have this quality and his book 'The Last Unicorn' epitomizes it.
But I have yet to see anyone capture it as well as Barbara Leonie Picard does in her 'Selected Fairy Tales.' Such an unassuming title and yet every story bears such deep knowledge, commiseration with and sympathy for the human condition.
The mystery lies in that which is inexplicable but true; the story could not have been told in any way other than what the author described it to be. It operates on older principles, the values of an age where magic was free and roamed the earth, where sacrifices had meaning and each creature went to meet his destiny with an open heart.
The old Russian fairy tales capture this sense of mystery very well. "Vasilisa the Beautiful" is an excellent representation of this type of writing, as is Finist the Falcon. It's the eeriness of the beautiful maiden carrying a lamp lit in the head of a skull while being set these apparently insurmountable tasks that haunts and excites the mind.
Jean Cocteau's "La Belle Et La Bete" is another perfect example. Who will ever forget the anguished Beast's smoking hands, the music of extraordinary timbre, the sadness of an elegant Belle?
Oscar Wilde's "The Nightingale and the Rose" provides yet another example of this sort of prose.
Green Rider (but none of its sequels) has a touch of it, too.
Several of Peter S. Beagle's stories in 'We Never Talk About My Brother' have this quality and his book 'The Last Unicorn' epitomizes it.
But I have yet to see anyone capture it as well as Barbara Leonie Picard does in her 'Selected Fairy Tales.' Such an unassuming title and yet every story bears such deep knowledge, commiseration with and sympathy for the human condition.
The mystery lies in that which is inexplicable but true; the story could not have been told in any way other than what the author described it to be. It operates on older principles, the values of an age where magic was free and roamed the earth, where sacrifices had meaning and each creature went to meet his destiny with an open heart.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Athena
I had a roommate who would hum, sing, warble and perform a certain song all the time. She had no way of knowing this song brought back painful memories and it made me unhappy to hear it. When she'd sing it, I would go to my own room or would leave the apartment completely.
I decided against politely asking her not to sing the song anymore. I felt that that would require explanation and I didn't wish to share my private memories with her. Of course, I could have lied, but I don't like giving people power over me. I felt that by admitting to her that the song troubled me, she would then know something about me which I couldn't take back.
So I didn't tell her. I just tried to avoid the song. But, insidious, it would slither up in places I didn't expect. I would walk into department stores and hear it playing. It would find me in half-sleep.
And this morning, it appeared in an instrumental version on my Pandora radio.
People say that nothing has power over you unless you give it that power. According to this philosophy, I should be able to control my emotional reaction to this song. It shouldn't sadden me. It shouldn't make me catch the scent of a bittersweet bouquet of faded flowers. It shouldn't cause me to reflect on a bygone past and wonder pointlessly. I, the all-powerful human, should be able to master my mood.
Mastery of one's moods is not a particularly honest pasttime, however. If the song is a kick in the gut, there's a reason that's the case.
Stormy tempest, maelstrom of moods, wash over and confound me; I am Poseidon's daughter and I'll greet you with a smile.
I decided against politely asking her not to sing the song anymore. I felt that that would require explanation and I didn't wish to share my private memories with her. Of course, I could have lied, but I don't like giving people power over me. I felt that by admitting to her that the song troubled me, she would then know something about me which I couldn't take back.
So I didn't tell her. I just tried to avoid the song. But, insidious, it would slither up in places I didn't expect. I would walk into department stores and hear it playing. It would find me in half-sleep.
And this morning, it appeared in an instrumental version on my Pandora radio.
People say that nothing has power over you unless you give it that power. According to this philosophy, I should be able to control my emotional reaction to this song. It shouldn't sadden me. It shouldn't make me catch the scent of a bittersweet bouquet of faded flowers. It shouldn't cause me to reflect on a bygone past and wonder pointlessly. I, the all-powerful human, should be able to master my mood.
Mastery of one's moods is not a particularly honest pasttime, however. If the song is a kick in the gut, there's a reason that's the case.
Stormy tempest, maelstrom of moods, wash over and confound me; I am Poseidon's daughter and I'll greet you with a smile.
Friday, June 03, 2011
Death's Mistress
The hound is yapping at my door,
a cry to enter nevermore,
where nothing is and nothing was,
and Death's dark deeds exist because.
Death beckons me and bids me come;
His gesture's followed by a hum.
His scepter's topped with a large crystal;
it has the severity of a pistol.
Shut up, you infernal dog.
I'm not frightened by Death's fog.
You can yelp and you can cry;
You shan't make me spare a single sigh.
Death's my master but I'm his mistress.
It causes him untold conniptions.
Still, it's me he must please come night,
or else I'll banish him from my sight.
Tonight he's killed. I can't bear the reek.
A bloodbath was it? Or drowned-at-a-creek?
Blood drips from his designer clothes;
A gory death it seems he chose.
No, no, dear lad. You can't come in.
I'm perfumed, pressed and ripe as sin.
Go wash yourself and once cleaned up,
I'll see if there's something for you to sup.
What's that you say? You'll go away?
Leave me for a sweeter maid?
Go travel past the seven seas-
I know you will come home to me.
I'm your one vice. Your one delight.
I cause your passion to ignite.
Possess whatever you may wish;
In the end you'll trade it for my kiss.
Behold! You see, I am Death's Mistress
and cannot be frightened by his grimness.
I know every sunken inch of skull
by which he frightens the lost gull.
And in the end, he's mine, my love;
my sweet Death. My gentle dove.
a cry to enter nevermore,
where nothing is and nothing was,
and Death's dark deeds exist because.
Death beckons me and bids me come;
His gesture's followed by a hum.
His scepter's topped with a large crystal;
it has the severity of a pistol.
Shut up, you infernal dog.
I'm not frightened by Death's fog.
You can yelp and you can cry;
You shan't make me spare a single sigh.
Death's my master but I'm his mistress.
It causes him untold conniptions.
Still, it's me he must please come night,
or else I'll banish him from my sight.
Tonight he's killed. I can't bear the reek.
A bloodbath was it? Or drowned-at-a-creek?
Blood drips from his designer clothes;
A gory death it seems he chose.
No, no, dear lad. You can't come in.
I'm perfumed, pressed and ripe as sin.
Go wash yourself and once cleaned up,
I'll see if there's something for you to sup.
What's that you say? You'll go away?
Leave me for a sweeter maid?
Go travel past the seven seas-
I know you will come home to me.
I'm your one vice. Your one delight.
I cause your passion to ignite.
Possess whatever you may wish;
In the end you'll trade it for my kiss.
Behold! You see, I am Death's Mistress
and cannot be frightened by his grimness.
I know every sunken inch of skull
by which he frightens the lost gull.
And in the end, he's mine, my love;
my sweet Death. My gentle dove.
Saturday
I take my coffee black;
I take my darkness chilled;
I take my illusions sweetened,
and hope not to get killed.
I take my whiskey straight;
I take my sadness quiet;
I take my friendship savory,
and hope to survive the riot.
In the end it won't matter if she loved him-
or whether he loved her.
It will only matter if he acted
like a man or like a cur.
I take my darkness chilled;
I take my illusions sweetened,
and hope not to get killed.
I take my whiskey straight;
I take my sadness quiet;
I take my friendship savory,
and hope to survive the riot.
In the end it won't matter if she loved him-
or whether he loved her.
It will only matter if he acted
like a man or like a cur.
Thursday, June 02, 2011
Prom
Yesterday I came home and saw a long white limo outside of our apartment.
Given that I live in Washington Heights amidst bodegas, clothing stores and fruit stores, that was an odd sight.
My neighbor Marguerita and my other neighbor who always hangs out outside our building were sitting on the stoop and standing on the sidewalk respectively.
"What's that about?" I gestured.
"It's Diego's son," they informed me.
"Oh!" I exclaimed. "It must be the prom!"
Sure enough, Diego and his wife came outside looking extremely happy. They snapped a bunch of pictures of their son and then sent him off in the white limo, likely going off to pick up his date, enjoy a delicious dinner at a restaurant and then party the night away.
Their son was all spiffed up in a white suit with a snazzy tie and was carrying a shopping bag from a designer company (containing a corsage, perhaps?)
I was just thinking that to me, this emblemized the American Dream at its best. You can come from the Dominican Republic and work as a super, but your son can succeed in high school, college and beyond and one day have an easy life and a white collar profession (if that's his aspiration). And you can see all those things when you look at him, standing there, glowing with life, about to get into his limo in the middle of stifling hot, dirty, teeming Washington Heights- you can see your dream.
I found it moving.
Given that I live in Washington Heights amidst bodegas, clothing stores and fruit stores, that was an odd sight.
My neighbor Marguerita and my other neighbor who always hangs out outside our building were sitting on the stoop and standing on the sidewalk respectively.
"What's that about?" I gestured.
"It's Diego's son," they informed me.
"Oh!" I exclaimed. "It must be the prom!"
Sure enough, Diego and his wife came outside looking extremely happy. They snapped a bunch of pictures of their son and then sent him off in the white limo, likely going off to pick up his date, enjoy a delicious dinner at a restaurant and then party the night away.
Their son was all spiffed up in a white suit with a snazzy tie and was carrying a shopping bag from a designer company (containing a corsage, perhaps?)
I was just thinking that to me, this emblemized the American Dream at its best. You can come from the Dominican Republic and work as a super, but your son can succeed in high school, college and beyond and one day have an easy life and a white collar profession (if that's his aspiration). And you can see all those things when you look at him, standing there, glowing with life, about to get into his limo in the middle of stifling hot, dirty, teeming Washington Heights- you can see your dream.
I found it moving.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Corti's Meme
I wish I could…solve people's problems and decrease the amount of pain there is in this world. Or in the words of the immortal Edgar Allan Poe, I wish I could save every grain of sand.
My biggest fear is…pain. I hate pain, and the idea of dying in an especially painful way worries me. I'm also afraid of losing control of my mental faculties, like in Alzheimers or early onset dementia.
I hate to…do chores. It depends on the chore, of course, and I'll still do them; it's just that there's not much imagination that goes into chores.
I love…my husband Heshy, my family, children (especially random ones that I meet on the subway who look at me adorably and wonder about me while licking their ice-cream pops), reading, writing and feeling alive.
Today I will…attend a party.
Yesterday I…was in Monsey for Shabbat and really enjoyed the rolling verdant greenery and hills.
My hair is…light brown, golden in sunlight.
I will never…sacrifice my morals, principles, values or integrity for the sake of getting ahead, please God.
My biggest fear is…pain. I hate pain, and the idea of dying in an especially painful way worries me. I'm also afraid of losing control of my mental faculties, like in Alzheimers or early onset dementia.
I hate to…do chores. It depends on the chore, of course, and I'll still do them; it's just that there's not much imagination that goes into chores.
I love…my husband Heshy, my family, children (especially random ones that I meet on the subway who look at me adorably and wonder about me while licking their ice-cream pops), reading, writing and feeling alive.
Today I will…attend a party.
Yesterday I…was in Monsey for Shabbat and really enjoyed the rolling verdant greenery and hills.
My hair is…light brown, golden in sunlight.
I will never…sacrifice my morals, principles, values or integrity for the sake of getting ahead, please God.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Masters 2011
Graduation: The one day we ALL look like we attend the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
~
I get to wear a hood! How cool is that! Robes and hoods rock my socks. Hurrah!
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