through fields of joy...
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
some deep poems
Sometimes as the sun sets on the south Cypresses
Behind Bob Butla’s bayou backhouse,
Smells of Sista Stella’s sweet savories
Bite Billy Bird in the butt.
Sista Stella styles her Salivating Snickerdoodles special
Because Billy Bird’s boat barely
Sets sideways on the swings
Before his big blue eyes come bobbin’ in the winda.
Sealing her sinfully seductive snacks with a smooch,
The big bootied baker begs Billy to
Stay south Sunday, since
Bob Butla would be by Beatrice in Beauregard
Same ol, same ol; somethin’ swarthy swimmin’ on Sunday, so
Billy’s boat gon’ be battlin’ the broad boughs of Bayou Baton.
Stella smiles silly as six seven-year-olds, simply snowed
By Billy’s bold-face lie; his butt gon’ be in Betty Brown’s Buick.
that Son of a Bitch
Behind Bob Butla’s bayou backhouse,
Smells of Sista Stella’s sweet savories
Bite Billy Bird in the butt.
Sista Stella styles her Salivating Snickerdoodles special
Because Billy Bird’s boat barely
Sets sideways on the swings
Before his big blue eyes come bobbin’ in the winda.
Sealing her sinfully seductive snacks with a smooch,
The big bootied baker begs Billy to
Stay south Sunday, since
Bob Butla would be by Beatrice in Beauregard
Same ol, same ol; somethin’ swarthy swimmin’ on Sunday, so
Billy’s boat gon’ be battlin’ the broad boughs of Bayou Baton.
Stella smiles silly as six seven-year-olds, simply snowed
By Billy’s bold-face lie; his butt gon’ be in Betty Brown’s Buick.
that Son of a Bitch
some deep poems
Perched in a convenient place,
It is used each morning and evening –
Sometimes in vain,
Often out of necessity.
It stares and it glares
While he sucks and tucks
And plucks those pesky nose hairs –
Never telling him what he doesn’t already know.
Never will it file a claim or seek revenge,
For it provides far better penance:
To remain honest and to remain the same
In the eyes of a changed man lying about
What really happened to his friend’s good name.
~A Murderer's Mirror - inspired by American Psycho
It is used each morning and evening –
Sometimes in vain,
Often out of necessity.
It stares and it glares
While he sucks and tucks
And plucks those pesky nose hairs –
Never telling him what he doesn’t already know.
Never will it file a claim or seek revenge,
For it provides far better penance:
To remain honest and to remain the same
In the eyes of a changed man lying about
What really happened to his friend’s good name.
~A Murderer's Mirror - inspired by American Psycho
Sense-making out of pure hating
9/13/10
They say you learn something new every single day. For some, this is a refreshing sentiment. For others of lesser brain capacity, this is kind of frightening. (One wonders what the kid obsessed with gaming at age twenty-two learns each day.) The fact of the matter is we are constantly churning our brains to make sense of things. When we hear of a new concept in class, our minds quickly search around for the easiest way to explain it. When we see a social abnormality waltzing down University sans shoes in forty degree weather, our brains make assumptions to draw conclusions. Our brains are working towards making sense of everything around us, including everyone else around us. Our text explains that people use three certain ideologies to make sense, as well as generalizations and stereotypes. Does that make sense?
There are three main ideologies dear to sense-makers, according to our text. The values people should pursue in various relationships, what communicative acts count as being reasonable or fair, and what appropriate communicative practices for persons of different master and intellectual identities. Each of these contributes to the art of sense-making, and each are embedded in our everyday lives, as well as in my life…and the lives of the strange creatures who flock to me on a daily basis. (This will make a lot more sense if you watch anything Larry David.)
A fellow in my poetry class detests me. His looks in my direction are dripping with disdain, he condescendingly speaks to me only when he needs to, and anything I say can and will be disputed. I do not necessarily consider myself a largely sensitive person, as I am pretty good about assessing the credibility of those who try to see me cry. BUT this boy made me think. And when I thought about it, he and I are not as different and I…thought.
A close reflection of every outfit I’ve ever worn to my poetry class on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 3:30 reveals that I actually have worn some form of Greek letters to every single one. (I frequent long walks with a friend of mine post-class, hence the ultra-srat over-sized t-shirt and, gasp, Nike running shorts.) With the benefit of the doubt on my side, I’ll go ahead and say that I am not actually the most grotesque female on this campus, and I hate poetry.
By contrast, this specific fellow in my poetry class is unkempt, dirty to the extent of stench surrounding up to a five-foot radius, rarely wears shoes, and is deeper and far more brilliant than you or anyone you know will ever be. Obviously. His t-shirts are ripped and dirty, the beginnings of his dreadlocks look more like the foundations for corn rows, and his demeanor is rugged. And by rugged I mean he comes in ten minutes late and sprawls out his things and is very animated, but not funny or sweet. He and I share one thing in common, however: we have both stereotyped one another, and our conclusions remain spiteful.
Over the past month, I have gone through the three main ideologies for making sense with him. First I assessed what could possibly come of a relationship with this person, as in which values should be pursued. After he wore a Tea Leaf Green t-shirt three classes in a row, I figured we could be friends on a music foundation. This was quickly shot down when he honestly did not believe that I had in fact seen said band five times in high school and met the keyboardist/lead vocalist. Speculatively, this individual never saw the “opportunity” in being a friend of mine. This speculation is based on the fact that he has ignored my meek greetings the two times I have seen him outside of class, and even once rolled his eyes at the sight of me accompanying my boyfriend to a popular student watering hole.
As for reasonable, fair, and/or friendly communicative acts, this student has been scolded several times by our professor for interrupting me, scoffing at me, and pretending to be asleep during the reading of one of my wildly entertaining poems. (I hate poetry.) As well, I find myself doodling or even text messaging while he saunters through his mundane stream-of-consciousness-style poems. In one instance, his poem clearly restated the exact same thought three times in a row, each masked within different fluffy upper crust, arrogant verbiage. Simply because he rips my poems to shreds, I said, “Aren’t these three lines kind of redundant?” Later that evening a picture frame fell off my wall with zero explanation. I’ll leave the assumptions up to you.
The appropriate communicative practices for people of different master identities is by far the loudest quality of the relationship I have with this…person. Where he is brilliant, I am a simpleton; where he is deep, I am the puddle of water accumulated from splashes of a child’s repetitive “watch this Mom!” cannonball spree. Anything I say is disputed, and anything he says I dismiss as an attempt to be wise. The key factor playing the largest role in this is not, however, the disdain we share for one another, but rather our assumptions.
Generalizations, according to Everyday Talk, are necessary reasonable tools for sense-making. This student sees only a few things when he looks at me: Greek letters, blonde hair, jewelry (though very modest compared to the thousand-dollar David Yurman which girls wear to the Rec…) a less than hideous face, and most terrifyingly, a seat in the ultra-exclusive club that is poetry class. He sees my poems as silly homework that I consider, according to him, just another ticket to my MRS degree. I plead guilty as well. I look at him and see a confused, sad person who is at all times trying to project power, knowledge, and arrogance at all times. I see someone so driven to non-conform that his actions do exactly that: conform. My generalizations of him are just as strong, if not stronger, as his for me. Because it makes sense to each of us.
They say you learn something new every single day. For some, this is a refreshing sentiment. For others of lesser brain capacity, this is kind of frightening. (One wonders what the kid obsessed with gaming at age twenty-two learns each day.) The fact of the matter is we are constantly churning our brains to make sense of things. When we hear of a new concept in class, our minds quickly search around for the easiest way to explain it. When we see a social abnormality waltzing down University sans shoes in forty degree weather, our brains make assumptions to draw conclusions. Our brains are working towards making sense of everything around us, including everyone else around us. Our text explains that people use three certain ideologies to make sense, as well as generalizations and stereotypes. Does that make sense?
There are three main ideologies dear to sense-makers, according to our text. The values people should pursue in various relationships, what communicative acts count as being reasonable or fair, and what appropriate communicative practices for persons of different master and intellectual identities. Each of these contributes to the art of sense-making, and each are embedded in our everyday lives, as well as in my life…and the lives of the strange creatures who flock to me on a daily basis. (This will make a lot more sense if you watch anything Larry David.)
A fellow in my poetry class detests me. His looks in my direction are dripping with disdain, he condescendingly speaks to me only when he needs to, and anything I say can and will be disputed. I do not necessarily consider myself a largely sensitive person, as I am pretty good about assessing the credibility of those who try to see me cry. BUT this boy made me think. And when I thought about it, he and I are not as different and I…thought.
A close reflection of every outfit I’ve ever worn to my poetry class on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 3:30 reveals that I actually have worn some form of Greek letters to every single one. (I frequent long walks with a friend of mine post-class, hence the ultra-srat over-sized t-shirt and, gasp, Nike running shorts.) With the benefit of the doubt on my side, I’ll go ahead and say that I am not actually the most grotesque female on this campus, and I hate poetry.
By contrast, this specific fellow in my poetry class is unkempt, dirty to the extent of stench surrounding up to a five-foot radius, rarely wears shoes, and is deeper and far more brilliant than you or anyone you know will ever be. Obviously. His t-shirts are ripped and dirty, the beginnings of his dreadlocks look more like the foundations for corn rows, and his demeanor is rugged. And by rugged I mean he comes in ten minutes late and sprawls out his things and is very animated, but not funny or sweet. He and I share one thing in common, however: we have both stereotyped one another, and our conclusions remain spiteful.
Over the past month, I have gone through the three main ideologies for making sense with him. First I assessed what could possibly come of a relationship with this person, as in which values should be pursued. After he wore a Tea Leaf Green t-shirt three classes in a row, I figured we could be friends on a music foundation. This was quickly shot down when he honestly did not believe that I had in fact seen said band five times in high school and met the keyboardist/lead vocalist. Speculatively, this individual never saw the “opportunity” in being a friend of mine. This speculation is based on the fact that he has ignored my meek greetings the two times I have seen him outside of class, and even once rolled his eyes at the sight of me accompanying my boyfriend to a popular student watering hole.
As for reasonable, fair, and/or friendly communicative acts, this student has been scolded several times by our professor for interrupting me, scoffing at me, and pretending to be asleep during the reading of one of my wildly entertaining poems. (I hate poetry.) As well, I find myself doodling or even text messaging while he saunters through his mundane stream-of-consciousness-style poems. In one instance, his poem clearly restated the exact same thought three times in a row, each masked within different fluffy upper crust, arrogant verbiage. Simply because he rips my poems to shreds, I said, “Aren’t these three lines kind of redundant?” Later that evening a picture frame fell off my wall with zero explanation. I’ll leave the assumptions up to you.
The appropriate communicative practices for people of different master identities is by far the loudest quality of the relationship I have with this…person. Where he is brilliant, I am a simpleton; where he is deep, I am the puddle of water accumulated from splashes of a child’s repetitive “watch this Mom!” cannonball spree. Anything I say is disputed, and anything he says I dismiss as an attempt to be wise. The key factor playing the largest role in this is not, however, the disdain we share for one another, but rather our assumptions.
Generalizations, according to Everyday Talk, are necessary reasonable tools for sense-making. This student sees only a few things when he looks at me: Greek letters, blonde hair, jewelry (though very modest compared to the thousand-dollar David Yurman which girls wear to the Rec…) a less than hideous face, and most terrifyingly, a seat in the ultra-exclusive club that is poetry class. He sees my poems as silly homework that I consider, according to him, just another ticket to my MRS degree. I plead guilty as well. I look at him and see a confused, sad person who is at all times trying to project power, knowledge, and arrogance at all times. I see someone so driven to non-conform that his actions do exactly that: conform. My generalizations of him are just as strong, if not stronger, as his for me. Because it makes sense to each of us.
Man in the wheelchair wearing dirty shoes
I am very cynical. I know this. I own this. I judge and stereotype and I know it is awful, but I do it. I do not do it out of meanness, but rather out of creativity. For example, I saw a man the other day in Publix, in a wheelchair, with dirty shoes. The man remained fixated on the cereals. Was it granola or something sugary? As he reached for the Kelloggs of his choice, he felt eyes on his shoes. His shoes, dirty and worn-out, were being mentally interrogated by a young blonde woman, obtaining the very same cereal box.
I imagined that just before his journey to the grocery, this man had wheeled into his living room, banging his elbows on the doorframe and losing his patience over the fresh black marks on his wooden floor. The remote was just out of reach, and sat mocking him from the mantel. He was going to ring his grandson’s neck the next time he saw him.
Just three weeks before that night, the man was fully functioning physically, and got into the truck like he did every night on his way home. Tonight was the night he and his grandson sat down and made the grocery list for the rest of the week, and he was trying not to forget about the cereal he had tried earlier from a friend. He never even felt the cab of the eighteen-wheeler hit him, and he never felt the pain of the ground slamming his body. As he tried to stand, the mud enthralled him, and his shoes were completely submerged in a lake of motor oil and wet earth. His legs, he could not feel, but the fear and the shots, he would never forget.
This is why Publix is always a pleasure.
I imagined that just before his journey to the grocery, this man had wheeled into his living room, banging his elbows on the doorframe and losing his patience over the fresh black marks on his wooden floor. The remote was just out of reach, and sat mocking him from the mantel. He was going to ring his grandson’s neck the next time he saw him.
Just three weeks before that night, the man was fully functioning physically, and got into the truck like he did every night on his way home. Tonight was the night he and his grandson sat down and made the grocery list for the rest of the week, and he was trying not to forget about the cereal he had tried earlier from a friend. He never even felt the cab of the eighteen-wheeler hit him, and he never felt the pain of the ground slamming his body. As he tried to stand, the mud enthralled him, and his shoes were completely submerged in a lake of motor oil and wet earth. His legs, he could not feel, but the fear and the shots, he would never forget.
This is why Publix is always a pleasure.
Hegemonic Masculinity in Disney Movies
The ever-evolving concept of hegemony has been stretched to uniform a wide range of historical facets. At its onset, the term was applied to the political dominance in ancient Greece. Most notably, however, hegemony’s most widespread definition came from Antonio Gramsci, a Marxist philosopher who emphasized the aspect of culture, saying that “A culturally diverse society can be ruled or dominated by one of its social classes.” Henceforth, the idea of hegemonic masculinity is not a far stretch from the initial ideologies Gramsci first outlined. The concept, though worded unfamiliarly, lies within something generation X was reared on: the magical world of Disney.
According to the online encyclopedia, hegemonic masculinity is “the dominant form of masculinity within the gender hierarchy." The term is typically associated with whiteness, heterosexuality, marriage, authority, and physical toughness. The term was first coined by RW Connell, a transsexual Australian sociologist decorated in the contemporary world of intellectuals. She states that three elements comprise hegemonic masculinity: “the connecting of masculinity to toughness and competitiveness, the subordination of women, and the marginalization of gay men." The concept becomes hegemonic, in layman’s terms, when a culture accepts it and allows it to resonate in its gender ideologies.
According to Nick Trujillo, author of “Hegemonic Masculinity on the Mound,” in which he analyzes the concept within the American sports culture, there are five particular dimensions. That the stereotypical male exercise physical force and control is first and foremost. Occupational achievement is followed by familial patriarchy. Frontiersmanship is the fourth, meaning the outdoorsy daredevil who can survive for a week with just a cane and some chicken wire. Heterosexuality completes the list, and dually serves to eliminate any progressive room for change. Basically, it sounds like Connell had a bad experience with Paul Bunyan.
Paul isn’t the only one fitting the profile for hegemonic masculinity, however. Consider the roles men play in such Disney classics as Snow White, The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, and The Lion King. After establishing that Mom is somehow tragically out of the picture, each irresistibly beautiful princess (yes, even Nala) is saved by a swarthy man/lion dripping with testosterone. Additionally, the other male characters in these films share the same qualities. Arial’s father in The Little Mermaid is depicted as the almighty king of the sea, Doc is the more subtle father figure in Snow White, Scar is the cleverly evil, though nonetheless powerful, dictator in The Lion King, and who forgets Gaston in The Beauty and the Beast?
Gaston embodies all that is honorable and highest in the ways of hegemonic masculinity. His character traits align with those pinpointed by Connell: aggressiveness, strength, drive, ambition, lack of emotion, and (an abundance of) self-reliance. Disney artists crafted him to be larger than many of his fellow characters, with the exception of the beast. His muscles bulged from his shirt, his feet were the length of Belle’s left leg, and his protruding jaw line complimented his dominating grimace in the “anything you can do, I can do better” way.
Let it be known that each male Disney character underwent some sort of strength training on the path to save the day. Though the focus typically remains on the submissive picture of a “real woman,” any memory of a final scene ending with “If only he’d won the fight…” is lacking in me. Each protagonist is drawn to hold the same bodily strength as a character from 300. If Walt Disney liked one thing, it was definitely not sissies.
Occupational achievement is hazy in regard of Disney, as putting “Prince” on a resume will shoot someone straight back to Mom’s basement to play World of Warcraft nowadays. How times have changed. By the same token, it can be assumed that Aladdin achieved the American dream by going from “street rat” to marrying into money. (This was probably a calculated move by his monkey companion.) As well, the end credits of The Lion King left Simba as king of the jungle, so that’s big.
As previously mentioned, a rampant theme in Disney movies is a strong sense of family, or as Connell identifies it as familial patriarchy. Such element is practically required in the bylaws of Walt’s masterpiece formula. Belle acts dually as homemaker and daughter in The Beauty and the Beast, and traces of paternal assimilations can be seen in the beast. He saves her from the wolves, makes sure she has food to eat, reprimands her for snooping (the trippy rose in the glass) and even surprises her with an entire library of books. Additionally, the whole purpose of Simba’s journey to the throne, better known as Pride Rock, is to continue the dynasty his father left behind and frequently discusses with him via the sky.
Frontiersmanship narrows down the archetype of hegemonic masculinity. Connell defines this role as “the daring, romantic frontiersman of yester-year, and the present day outdoorsman” (Trujillo 1991). While maintaining that tough guy image, the frontiersman is synonymous with the cowboy, “a white male with working-class values” (Trujillo 1991). Although these macho Disney characters project their tough guy, devoid-of-any-sensitivity images, they each seem to know a thing or two about the element of surprise and sweet talking the women who keep them going. Ironically, each time a prince experiences love at first sight, he is in the midst of doing some mundane manly-man chore. In Sleeping Beauty, the prince is simply doing his daily gallop through the treacherous backwoods when he spots Aurora, and without losing his masculine air, becomes captivated by her voice. Aladdin is no exception as he becomes mystically entranced by Jasmine while doing street rat things with his friend, the monkey wearing a monkey-sized Aladdin outfit.
The loudest and most pungent element of the hegemonic masculine figure is heterosexuality. One may conclude that at the various release dates of said Disney classics were surrounding the release of RW Connell’s thesis. Although the 90s saw somewhat of an advance for the homosexual community, present day children’s cinema still lacks any suggestion of same-sex romance. The men of Disney maintain a strictly heterosexual taste, perhaps, based on social convention, but also based on tradition. Most of the movies touched on are derived from folk tales originating in many different countries, so maybe it really isn’t Disney’s fault that the beast turned into a man, and not a hot husky girlfriend for Belle to ride away with on the white horse.
The concept of hegemonic masculinity proves to be a conceivable ideology easily grasped by adults and children alike. Though its long journey from Greek city-states to Marxist communism led to the small-scale analysis of cartoons, it remains a dominating force in virtually every aspect of human life today.
I really suck at blogging
College Dating Relationships: A Walk-Through
Escalating relationships are so much fun, really. You meet someone, or better yet you are referred to meet someone and the anticipation is so great. You guys hit it off and establish a few commonalities, perhaps a sacred inside joke or six. This coincides with the first step in increasing intimacy, involvement and immediacy. He (ok we are obviously operating from a girl’s point-of-view) somehow attains your phone number and you receive the oh so holiest of holy texts from an unknown number, wherein you find the familiar unfamiliarity of a casual introduction and also how to spell his name, as he has listed his first and last. (Oh, you thought it was "Stephen,” but there’s a v…tricky.)
After you send the ceremonial mass text message to your disciples exclaiming that he FINALLY texted you after probably thirteen hours of anxiousness, you respond coolly and you pray. Before you know it, rubbing elbows on a crammed couch in order to make room for everyone to watch a movie you don’t want to see becomes a norm, and the collision of elbows and thighs is apparent (because you can realistically only fit two people comfortably on a porch swing). This is achieved through the second clause of intimacy, of depth and of similarity. The book states that friends “gaze more, smile more, show more positive facial affect, sit closer, and touch more” (Burgoon, Buller, and Woodall, 254).
Moving through the chain comes affection, attraction, liking, and love. Suddenly you find yourself engaging in long bouts of daydreaming about the next time he will see you, what he will think, how it will go, and how you should stop wearing sweatpants and find those earrings you leant to Madelyn because they really make your eyes “pop.” This consumes you. (WTF does Mom mean by "pop" anyway?!) You fantasize about his flawless face, the kind worthy of a Taylor Swift song, and his lovable chuckle. You feel as though the passenger seat of his car is not such, but rather the queen’s thrown next to a king’s, and you are suddenly enthralled by that song playing only because he gave the volume dial a volume spin.
After a few weeks, a few misread texts (you used an ellipsis; clearly letting him know your “that’s fine, have fun” really meant “come over or I’ll be really mad”), and a few nights of losing him after paying his cover charge, you find yourself in the passenger seat of his car, waiting for this stupid song to end because you hate it and you have no idea why you told him you loved it. You find yourself thinking that he is not that great after all, and that perhaps your friend was right about him maybe having a lisp… You imagine him meeting your parents, and you imagine the awkwardness between him and your brother. You imagine what your kids will look like, and if they would have his bad skin or that annoying laugh. Alas, the car you’ve grown so sick of reaches your driveway and he drops you off.
These are all factors of declination in intimacy. Such breakdowns in communication, loss of shared interests, diminishing fun, as well as the money thing (he always conveniently forgets his wallet!) really way on you, and you begin to develop the far away eyes you always listened to Mick Jagger sing about. You just can’t wait to rid yourself of this burden of a person, and you find refuge on your porch while he waves goodbye.
Hopefully he will text you soon, fingers crossed!
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